I rattle off Stan’s last known address for Fletch to enter into our car’s ancient GPS system. Then, sitting back, I watch as the city passes us by.
As office buildings fill, and more cars join us on the morning commute.
I think of Mrs. Boyd, and how it must feel to lose someone so closely related to her. To lose a child and a grandchild in one fell swoop. To wake up on a seemingly normal day and find your youngest daughter’s face on the news, and minutes later, to answer the door and find cops on the front step.
My mother is dead, so some could say I’ve experienced something akin to what Boyd is feeling, but the truth is, I don’t recall a single moment of my life with my mom in it. She was gone before I could truly open my eyes, and in her place was a nanny of sorts—and soon after that, my younger brother’s mother entered our world.
Timothy Malone the Second, my father, had five boys with five different women. He kept each away from the sons he’d already had, housing the current woman somewhere unseen on the compound, inside the twenty-foot-high walls surrounding the place I was raised, and after each baby was born, its mother would go on a long vacation and never return.
I don’t know my real mother’s identity but for her first name; Anastasia. And the fact is, my father told me that much only after I asked a million times to know more.
Fuck knows if he was telling the truth.
Five Malone brothers. Only one of them I consider trustworthy, while the other three remain in New York and enjoy their own slice of nepotism with Daddy Dearest.
To think Minka wasthisclose to being involved in a Malone murder, even if only in the role of medical examiner, makes my blood boil and my stomach drop with thewhat-ifs.
Timothy the Second is no stranger to paying off city officials in order to have answers lean the way he wants. And to know Minka is to know she would never accept a single dime if it meant lying about a body on her table and covering up a crime.
One time.Onebody provided by the Malones, and Minka would have found herself in danger and our worlds intertwined in a million ways different from how they are now.
“Here we are.” Pulling up out front of Mathouson’s apartment building, Fletch cuts the engine and checks his guns, then he snags the keys and pushes out as I do the same on my side. “Wanna be Good Cop or Bad Cop?”
I snort and bring a hand up to cover my mouth, lest a person of interest catches view of us fucking around just moments before a potential arrest. “You wanna roleplay, Fletch, you find yourself a willing female who doesn’t mind looking the simp. No gun ownership on record,” I recite other information I found in Stan’s file. “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one, but if he does, he didn’t tell anyone about it.”
“Murder didn’t include a gun.” He shoves through the front door of the building and holds the door for me to pass through. “In fact, all we’ve got on the murder at this point is that it wasn’t that fucking violent at all. Dumping her was bad. Stripping her and tossing her away sucks. But the actual kill,” he starts up the stairs and glances across at me. “Delicious can’t tell us fuck-all about it. No bruising but for what came from giving birth. No marks anywhere; neck, face, arms,nada. No skin under her nails. At this point, it might’ve been the ‘he loves her so much’ Anton. Dude who removed that baby and handled her body was gentle as fuck.”
“It’s an interesting take.”
We emerge onto the second floor, so I read the signs on the walls, seeking the direction of apartment twenty-three. Moving toward the correct door, I knock loud enough to make the surrounding neighbors turn down their televisions. “Stan Mathouson?”
I knock again. “Stan?”
“Excuse me?” A croaky, old voice brings me around before I knock a third time, but I have to lookdownto find the four-foot-something woman the voice belongs to.
She can’t be less than a hundred years old, with wrinkled skin and a pretty stretch of fabric pulled around her head to hide her hair—wispy and white, according to the strands that escape. “If you’re looking for Stanley, he’s not home.”
“He’s not?” Fletch oozes charm and moves closer to the woman. “Stanley Mathouson?”
“Not home,” she repeats. “I saw him go out about an hour ago.”
“Oh. And you are?” I ask.
Charmed by Fletch, angered by me, the woman shifts her weight to her back foot and scowls. “This is my building. Who are you?”
“Detectives Fletcher and Malone.” Fletch steps in and brings her adoring attention back to him. Taking out his badge, he shows it to the woman, who stares as though trying to memorize every detail. “We’re from Copeland PD, and we were hoping to speak to Mr. Mathouson. Do you know where he might’ve gone?”
“Probably to work.” The biddy looks to me and sniffs, like my very existence enrages her. “I saw him leave.”
“Where does he work?” I try. “Could you tell us—”
“I do not know,” she cuts out. “And I do not intend to land that sweet boy in trouble. If you wish to find him, I suggest you come back this afternoon. Until then, I have plans.” She looks to the stairs in a decidedly‘get the fuck out’fashion. Then peeking to Fletch, she grins. “Would you like coffee before you go, Detective?”
Chuckling, he turns back to Stan’s front door. Taking a card from his pocket, he crouches and slips it under. “If you could mention to Mr. Mathouson that we’re looking for him? We have a few questions, and we’d like to have our chance before he hears anything from somewhere else.” Pushing up to stand, Fletch gently places his hand on the woman’s bony shoulder. “We appreciate your help this morning.”
As we walk away from Stan’s apartment and skip into the sunlight outside, I stop on the driver’s side and flatten my lips as I wait for Fletch to meet my look. “Guess you chose Flirty Cop, huh?”
“What?” He throws his hands up and laughs. “The chicks like me. Instead of being jealous, you should consider my smile a tool in helping us achieve our ultimate goal of solving a crime.”