23. Maggie

Maggie

A fter Vanessa drops me off at my house, I quickly change into fresh clothes, sniffing my Grayson-scented shirt only twice—not enough to be creepy. Dabbing on a little makeup, I do a happy dance. This morning was fun—so much fun that I have a perma-smile on my lips. We didn't exactly make plans for another date, but the words "next time" linger in my mind.

There will be a repeat. Quite a few if I have it my way. If I need to show up naked on his doorstep repeatedly, I will. The thought makes my smile grow. He'd probably love that anyway. Once I'm more presentable, I text Harry for a ride, leaving my unreliable car in the garage to avoid breaking down on a Los Angeles freeway—a quick way to lose my mind, or my life. Fifteen minutes later, I get the text that Harry is here.

I strut out of the house with a pep in my step. When I slide into the passenger seat, Harry quirks a brow. "Walk of shame?" My late morning makes it clear I wasn't home last night. No sense in lying about it.

"Yep. Are those donuts?" I point to the brown bag in the back seat as Harry pulls away from the curb. I have an uncanny ability to sniff out food in any situation, so my focus narrowed in on it before I even got inside the Crown Vic.

"Bagels. Slightly healthier." I nod and reach back. While I dip pieces into the tiny pot of cream cheese and take a bite, I notice we're not driving toward the station.

"Where we headed?"

"Oh, you're going to love this. Guess word has gotten around that Axe is locked up."

"Oh yeah?" I can't help the excitement in my voice. This might be the break we need.

"Yep. Someone wants to talk to us, about him."

"Sounds fun," I say, ripping another piece of my breakfast off. We might need a break in the case, but I hate visiting CIs in jail. "Known associate?"

"Bingo. Charley Stough." I run the name through my internal memory but come up blank. Since I practically memorized the entire case, that means he's not in my file as a suspect, nor does he have any connection with our dead guys, Phillip Waters or Lucas Peterson.

While Harry battles forty minutes of congestion on the 405, I use my cell to gather what I can about Charley. Not much to go off of. He's in for violating parole when he was caught with a gun and some cocaine. Six years left on his sentence. By the time Harry pulls into the parking lot, I have a good handle on who we're talking to.

Getting out of the car, I have a spring in my step—sex does that to a person. "So, you gonna dish, or should I get out my lamp and phonebook?"

I bark out a laugh at his cliché version of an interrogation. "You got the notes?" He was the first person I called when we nabbed Axe. I also emailed Harry a summation of the time on the island and what Axe said late last night between interviews.

"On your work, yes. But I have yet to hear you admit that Grayson delivered the goods."

"Harry, gross!"

He shrugs. "I don't need the details, but I'd like to know if your relationship has become less cop/criminal and more step momma/daddy."

I hold up both hands as he opens the door to the facility. "Step momma? We hooked up, not eloped." A guard looks my way, but I stare him down. He works in a prison; my crass words should hardly shock him.

"Well okay then." Harry laughs as he says it. He certainly isn't put off by my brashness, which is part of why we work well together. "So, am I adding him to my Christmas party list?"

That's months away, and I roll my eyes. "Don't hold your breath."

"Buuuut?" he singsongs as he signs the guest log. I pull my badge out to do the same as soon as he's done.

"We're dating," I say, trying to hide my smile. He slowly bumps his fist against my shoulder. "Atta girl." I don't know why he's so excited. He knows Grayson's history. Part of me thought I would get a lecture. It's nice that he's being supportive.

The sex was fantastic, but more than that, Grayson just… fits. There's no strange silence between us, no timid awkward kisses. He allows me to feel free to be myself—singing in the car, using his toothbrush, even punching Axe for me, which was completely hot. And there was no talk about how I shouldn't risk my pretty little face. He didn't like the bruise on my cheek, that was clear. But he never chastised me for doing my job. In fact, I think he liked seeing me in action.

The door to the back buzzes, and Harry swings it open. A guard is waiting and checks the visitors' badges we received moments ago. With a nod, he leads us down the concrete hall where we're put into an interrogation room to wait for our snitch. Gray cinderblock walls with no adornments, so every sound seems to bounce around fifty times without anything to absorb it. The only furniture is a metal table and a set of chairs. Not exactly the peak of comfort.

While waiting, Harry hums a happy tune.

"Yes. Are you gloating?" I ask.

"I am, and I have no shame. You are positively glowing today."

I laugh loudly, hating how it echoes around us. This place gives me claustrophobia. "I doubt it. I got four hours of sleep after all that crap with the Navy."

There's a knock on the door, and a man covered in tattoos and a dark blue jumpsuit is led in. I lower my brow, ready to get to business. "Hello, Charley." The guard cuffs him to the table and leaves. The thud of the door shutting and being locked doesn't exactly help the feeling of being stuck.

"Chewy," the man corrects. I had read some of his file when we were on our way. The man is an up-and-comer in the gang—not exactly a leader, but someone who is quickly becoming important. He was busted with cocaine, intent to sell. His powerful frame is positively stuffed into the jumpsuit, and I would be lying if I said he didn't intimidate me. But his hands are cuffed, as well as his ankles, and I sink into the chair across from him.

"Chewy, then. We have secured the deal. Two-year sentence reduction if the information you provide leads to an arrest. What do you got?"

"A name." Both Harry and I wait. "Suze. Some street chick that came into money. She put $25,000 up front and the second half paid when the mob guy is dead. Axe has the cash." Suze. The name rings a bell, but I can't place it currently. I'll have to look through old case files to figure it out later.

"Any last name?" Chewy shakes his head.

"Description?"

"Skinny. Likes ketamine and meth. Thin, brown hair."

"Tattoos? Scars? Glasses?" These things can really narrow down a list. Every detail helps. I once found a perp just because they were left-handed and had a bottom gap tooth. Hell, just the left-handed thing was a catch. Narrowed down my suspects by 75%.

Chewy looks down at his hands. "Oh yeah," he laughs a little. "She's got a thigh tat. Footprints and a name in cursive. But I couldn't read it for shit; it was pretty bad."

I look at Harry, and he shrugs. "All right. We'll let you know, then." We're both already standing up, and Chewy looks at us in turn, panic in his eyes.

"Y'all gonna lock Suze up? I mean, I know you are, but can I add somethin' to my request or whatever?"

That intrigues me, and my brows lower. "Maybe. Why?"

"I might have an address, but… I wanna see her." An address would certainly speed things along. I sit back down, but Harry remains standing. He seems to know what Chewy wants, and I don't exactly appreciate the sniggers I keep hearing behind me.

I lean forward, sensing drama. "In what respect, Chewy?"

"She's a fuckin' babe, and we kinda had a thing for a while."

Looking over my shoulder, I see Harry's amused expression mirror my own. "We'll do our best." He gives us the address of a hotel on Skid Row. The infamous few blocks of downtown Los Angeles where over 100,000 homeless people live. I hate that section of town. Everyone does. For me, it's guilt. Seeing humans living that way, it's hard. Every time I want to complain about my garbage disposal acting up or the water pressure being low, I think about how much worse it could be. How much worse it almost was. When I got out of foster care, it was touch and go for a while. Took me time to find my footing in the real world, get an apartment, and gain custody of my younger sister.

"That's great, Chewy. Thanks, we'll let you know about your, erm, second request."

I can read between the lines; Chewy wants a conjugal visit, not something prisoners get often. Mostly it's for married spouses and only in lower-level prisons. Chewy isn't likely to have his request granted. But I'll put in a good word if we manage to find Suze.

He puffs his chest out a little as Harry goes to the door. Harry bangs on it twice, and a guard opens it up. We leave to let the guards get Chewy back to his cell. The man was surprisingly helpful. A last name would have been better, but I get it. Criminals don't share that information easily, even if Chewy and Suze were banging. But the description and address are enough to start. Though it does mean I'll probably need to work tomorrow, a day I had previously planned to spend with Grayson.

I pull out my phone as we walk down the hall.

Me: Hi, handsome. Sexy Jailbait: My Maggie. How are you, darling? I feel my smile grow. Me: Fine. Got a lead I need to look into. Sexy Jailbait: I see. Sexy Jailbait: Is this an excuse to not eat vegetables? I was hoping to cook for you tonight.

Oh, this man. He doesn't want to wait until tomorrow to see me? That's nearly enough to make me swoon completely. I keep it in check only because I feel Harry watching me.

Me: You do have my address… Sexy Jailbait: Then I'll see you tonight. Maybe use your toothbrush? I think he's asking if he can stay the night. Fine by me. Stay all the nights. Me: Feel free. See you at sevenish? Sexy Jailbait: Indeed.

His text makes me laugh aloud. It's so him—grammatical and short. The wolf doesn't stop his ways because he finds a she-wolf. His brooding just encompasses her. Like I'm a member of his pack now. I'm giggling as I tuck my phone away at the imagery. Harry shoots me a glare.

"I might regret my meddling if this is what it gets me," he says.

"Stop that and help me break down his description."

Harry nods. "Lives on Skid Row, has a drug problem, but suddenly has 50 g's to order a hit. I'd say she found herself a financier."

"What're we thinking? Pretty Woman situation?"

Harry shakes his head and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Too obvious. But we do know she's probably a mom, 'cause of the tattoo, and she caught the attention of a 35-year-old Chewy. So maybe age 20-40."

"I'd agree with that. I'd say we need to walk around, talk to people in her typical hangouts." He must be able to tell that I want to do that tonight. His brows knit together. "But getting downtown tonight is too dangerous. First thing tomorrow, we can go take a look," he says as we step outside. Though I want to argue, I nod along. He won't budge on this, and really, he shouldn't. "Hey! Chin up, lady. That means this won't interfere with what I'm guessing will be a date tonight?" Harry adds smugly.

I give him a glare over my shoulder. "My dates don't interfere with the job. Why do you think I was texting him?" We climb into the car, and Harry starts it up.

"Maybe you should let your dates interfere, Margaret. Might actually get one of them to stick around."

"It's not my fault men are so intimidated by a woman with a career and confidence."

Harry laughs as he pulls away from the prison. It's late afternoon by the time we get back to the station, and I need to update the case notes and submit my request for Chewy to the prison. Afterward, I put the description Chewy gave into the system and start clicking through photos. The thigh tattoo has narrowed things down significantly. With my chin in hand, I lazily go through the thousands of results. But as I half-review them and half-daydream about my night with Grayson, one mugshot in particular sticks out.

I've seen this woman before, but different. Younger and without the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Where? I open the woman's file and see her listed as homeless, with her name as Mariah Carey. I smile. Lots of homeless people give fake names. If their prints aren't in the system, well… not much they can do except charge them with vagrancy in addition to whatever else they had going on.

Mariah had done ninety days for ketamine possession and vagrancy. The courts had tried to figure out who she really was, but to no avail. No known associates, no previous jobs listed, no diseases she needed care for while locked up. Man, she really didn't sing when she was arrested. That goes a long way in terms of street cred, especially for a woman. Unfortunately, even in the gangs, men run the fucking world. But being able to say she kept everything close to the chest would help her out once she was back on the streets.

There's a list of homeless shelters she had frequented often, and that's it. I write them down right as my phone rings.

"Hey, you," I say after answering.

"How upset would you be if I was early?" Grayson asks, a hesitancy in his tone. I check the time; it's six-thirty. The day really got away from me once I started hitting the research.

I grin. Of course, Grayson would always be early. "There's a key under the hibiscus pot, and I'm headed out now."

"Okay, and don't forget I'm cooking. So don't stop for junk." And again, I'm not surprised he's mentioning that. He's a planner. If I showed up with a bag of tacos, his entire night would devolve into chaos. Though it might do him a little good. He does have a son, after all—unexpected things are bound to come up a lot when George comes back around.

"I'll hide my donuts, then."

He chuckles. "How's work?"

"Got a few leads. Maybe I'll tease you with them later."

"Sounds good. So I'll see you in a few then?" I confirm that it will take about twenty minutes, and after a quick goodbye, I hang up.

I lock my computer and yank my blazer from the back of my chair. With my purse slung over my shoulder, I go around the other mostly empty desks and find Harry slumped over his own computer.

"You headed out?" he asks without looking up.

"Yep, but look up the lady I sent to your email. Mariah Carey. I think she might be our perp."

"Clever name. I'll take a peek before I go," he says. I kiss his cheek and hurry out the front door. At the curb, I wait for my Uber. Usually, I would just ask Harry for a ride home, but I don't want to pull him away from whatever he's working on.

But my mind starts to wander back to the case as I wait. It's a cop thing, or maybe a workaholic thing. I can't exactly turn off the problem at hand just because I've punched out for the night. And right now, I'm stuck on Mariah. The woman's face felt so familiar, and I don't know why. When my ride finally pulls up, my eyes widen.

It hits me like a brick to the heart. Grayson's wife—there's a picture of her hanging in his hall by the bathroom. I saw it this morning. Mariah Carey must be Suze because Suze is Suzannah Cardenas. And who else would want Grayson dead more than a wife who ran away from him and his twisted family?