4. Doolittle Doesn’t Care About This Case

Chapter four

Doolittle Doesn't Care About This Case

T he word that came into my mind was aggravated . This kid was making me nuts. He found something in the archives worth looking into, and at a minimum, we couldn't ignore. And in like three seconds. Who did that? It took agents days—weeks—to go through files and find something to work on. Hell, I knew that. I wasn't as stupid as I played. In fact, I was using that fact to get off to a slow start. Very slow start.

And now I had no choice. We were going to work this case and show the world how much I could fuck up yet another thing in my life. I huffed. "These aren't marked cold." I pointed out a couple of files that came up in the results. Yeah. Maybe that would slow K down.

"Mmm…" He clicked around. "Technically, no. But no one is actively working them, either. This is all weird. They don't make sense. We should dig into this."

I sat back and crossed my arms over my chest. "This may be nothing. You know. These aren't connected. Officially. Just because they're all in Florida."

"Along the I-75 corridor. But I think there could be more here. Uh…here." He tapped the keys again, then jumped up and ran across the room to a printer I hadn't noticed. To be fair, I hadn't noticed much beyond K's face and hands and the way he smelled like honey and pineapple. When he turned around with the paper, his hair flopped over his right eye. He pushed it back with one hand, exposing those green, ever-so-intelligent emeralds, and handed me the paper with the other. "Maybe go find a few of these? There might be more information in them."

My body felt like it was electrically charged. What the fuck was wrong with me? I growled under my breath and snatched the paper. Getting out of this little room sounded like a great idea.

I stomped off, my Timberlanes making a satisfying thunk against the vinyl flooring with each step and down the aisles of shelves as I went. Along the way, I studied the end caps, figuring out the filing system. Then glanced at the paper. They were all close in numbers. I mumbled and bitched under my breath as I searched. Eventually, I found the right row and started fingering the boxes until I hit what we sought.

A few files were in the same box, which helped. Then, I pulled a few more. And in a few minutes, I had a stack on the floor I couldn't carry. "Fuck my life." I searched around until I found some empty carts, grabbed one, and wheeled it over to my stack. It didn't take all that long before it was loaded, and I pushed it back to the office where Special K was still staring at the computer screen.

I shoved through the door. "Here."

"That's all of them?"

"Duh."

K scowled and pursed his lips again. I sure had something else he could do with that mouth. "We need to go through them."

"What are we looking for?"

"Right now, anything that connects. Whatever is similar."

I shrugged and grabbed the box with a few files in it. "Fine. Have at it." I gestured to the computer and then stalked out, not waiting for his answer. There was a more comfortable work area on the fourth floor. I wasn't going to hunch down in the freaking basement all close to him . That was a bad idea. Bad, bad, bad. I could focus on work. I sure as hell wasn't a detective. I didn't know what the fuck I was doing, but I could review files. Anyone could review files. Right?

I dropped the box on the empty desk in the hoteling area. This section of the floor was bright, lit by the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, and canned lighting was set in the high ceiling. And if that wasn't enough, there were nifty lamps on each desk. Yay! Not. At least it was close to the breakroom where I could get coffee.

This was all bullshit, anyway. More bullshit to fill my empty, worthless life. SPAM was the only place that would employ me. In fact, my recruitment was practically mandatory, but I wasn't working on archeological cases. "Oh, we don't have any of those. Sorry. Here's your assignment." The clerk had handed me a file and sent me to fucking Florida. Not to mention, entirely too close to my parents. Of all places. Duat-on-earth. I'd thought at first I could help with ancient Indian burial sites since they had those in Florida, and that would be close. Not Egyptian or Mesopotamia, but something. Right? No. SPAM didn't do that. They didn't give a fuck that my education was in archeology. They didn't give a fuck about anything except that I had a power and could survive their bullshit basic training. Not that I wanted to find out what the consequences of not working for them would be.

I knocked on the desk. Right.

Then I left. Walked out of the front door and across the street. Down to the corner and into the bar I'd noticed on my way in. I ordered a vodka soda, nursing it while I wallowed in my misery. Fuck SPAM, Fuck Special damned K, and his stupid case.

Eventually, that glass was empty, and I ordered another. I was starting to feel the relaxing effects of the alcohol when my phone dinged. Looking at it was completely out of habit. I shouldn't have. But there was a text message:

This is Special K. Where are you? I found something else.

A beat later, and another came through:

You might want to save this number .

Fuck. He sucked. He was smart and a smart ass. How the hell did he even get my number? But even with two vodka sodas, my dick was interested. I slammed what was left of the drink and paid the tab, tipping the bartender well. Why not? It was SPAM money burning a hole in my pocket, even though I had plenty of wealth of my own. That alone allowed me to spend my earnings however the fuck I wanted to. And who knows when a good tip would get them to remember you and serve a stronger drink.