3. Margaret

Margaret

I take another sip of water and set the glass down. Though my hand is perfectly calm, my heart is racing. I hate being on the stand.

"Detective Parker, can you answer the question, please?"

I take a breath and steel my eyes on the criminal defense lawyer. The man looks like a cheap mob boss: hair slicked back, gold pinkie ring. Scumbag.

"I read him his Miranda rights prior to searching his person," I say, hoping the confidence I'm projecting isn't too much.

"I see. So the body camera just happened to cut out, and my client gets a black eye and is found with the heroin, then it turns back on."

The prosecution lawyer stands almost immediately. "Objection! Speculation. We've already proved that the malfunction was caused by a battery short. It is a known defect, and the Los Angeles PD is replacing all body camera batteries."

Without looking up, the judge says, "Sustained."

"Did you hit my client, Detective Parker?" Scumbag asks.

I want to bite my cheek, but I've been told it makes me look unsure. Keeping my eyes forward, I nod. "Yes. He threw an elbow when the taser missed."

"Do you make it a habit to use excessive force?"

Again, my lawyer is up, fist hitting the table dramatically. Lord, these lawyers are all the same. They love the theatrics. "Objection! Leading the witness. We've already shown the photo of bruising along Detective Parker's chest. Her history has been submitted and reviewed. There have been no records that show any uses of excessive force."

The judge sighs as someone in the back row snores loudly. "Sustained. Move it along, Mr. Gueston."

The criminal defense lawyer is pushing his luck. I'm about ready to use excessive force on him.

"Is it true you planted the heroin on my client?" The courtroom explodes into murmurs, and the judge pounds her gavel.

"Mr. Gueston, you have been warned. Do not make me call a mistrial because you continue to speculate wildly." I want to go up and drop the mic for the judge. She's a good egg, even if she hates cops on occasion.

The crowd calms down, and Mr. Gueston clears his skeevy throat. "No further questions, your honor."

"Does the state have any redirect?" The prosecution lawyer rises, buttoning his coat and shaking his head.

"You may step down, Detective Parker."

I get up and walk down from the stand. I don't stay in the courtroom. Instead, I go straight through the double wooden doors, smoothing my brown hair as I do.

Being a witness is the worst part of the job. All the attention and scrutiny. Everyone is so quick to believe in crooked cops. Not that I blame them. A few bad seeds have definitely made a name for our entire branch of government. But I'm proud of my ability to stay cool and follow the rules.

Outside the court, my partner, Harry, is waiting. The older man is a legend in the LAPD. His wispy white hair often fools criminals into thinking he can't keep up. It couldn't be further from the truth. Harry keeps himself in excellent shape and has been a huge resource in my own defense training. I've seen him take down giant men with both knives and guns, twisting their arms until they burst into tears. "How was it?" he asks.

"Don't ask."

Harry chuckles. "Figures. Gueston is a fucking creep."

"No argument here. Where are we headed?" I ask. Harry hands me my gun, and I check the safety to make sure it's engaged before slipping it into the holster at my waist.

"Pick up a parole violator for a check-in." I recoil my head, my face laced with surprise. Harry holds up a hand. "It's a favor to Vicki. She says if the guy smells bacon, he'll book it. He has major agoraphobia since being in prison. He just needs to show up for his check-in, or he'll get booked again."

I almost roll my eyes. Vicki is a local parole officer. She's always calling in favors to Harry. The pair go way back in a way I'm not sure I want to know about. "Fine. I'm driving, though."

Both of us climb into our undercover car. Anyone with half a brain would know that the brown Crown Vic is a cop car, but I guess it does the job. Far better than the piece of shit Jetta I have for myself. The thing barely makes it to the stop sign at the end of my street without the transmission skipping. We drive in silence as Harry listens intently to the police band. Los Angeles is a big city with lots of troubles. If we can stop along the way to help out, we will.

But there's nothing nearby that doesn't seem to be completely under control, and we roll up to the halfway house fifteen minutes later. To help keep our status as detectives a secret, I grab a gray sweater from my backseat and throw it on along with one of Harry's Dodgers hats.

"Stay out here in case he bolts," I say, pulling my ponytail through the back.

"You got it, boss," he says with a chuckle and hands me the folder. Harry is definitely the senior detective, a fact I give him shit for often, but he isn't opposed to me taking charge when the opportunity arises.

I get out and stride up to the front door, peeking at the few details as I go. Things like his picture, name, charges, etcetera. With it tucked back under my arm, I reach the porch, trying to look loose as I do. I knock once and hear footsteps inside. The door opens, but it isn't our parolee. An old woman with graying hair and an unlit cigarette in hand scans me up and down.

"Hi, I'm looking for Lucas Peterson?"

"No girlfriends," the older woman says, her voice raspy. The door is already being closed. I stick my foot out to stop it.

"I'm not his girlfriend. Sorry, I need to drive him to an appointment." I try to put on my most innocent smile.

She scrutinizes me with a narrowed gaze. My smile only widens. When in doubt, smile it out. She sighs and swings the door open all the way. "Fine, but I'm not going in there. The room smells like shit."

I follow behind the woman. The place is better than most. Nice furniture and clean. Another man is at the counter in the kitchen cooking what smells like a delicious grilled cheese.

He gives a quick wave as the woman leads me to Lucas's door. She knocks once. "Lucas, your girlfriend's here."

"Again, not his girlfriend." Or anybody's, for that matter. I haven't dated in months. My last relationship imploded all around me, and I'm not anxious for a repeat.

There's no answer. "Lucas!" the woman yells. Still nothing.

"He probably knows I'm a cop," I say. I step forward and understand why the woman is worried about the smell. It's nasty, seeping from under his door.

I rap my knuckles against the hollow wood. "Lucas, I'm just here to drive you to Vicki's. She's worried you'll miss your check-in." The room is deathly silent, and my skin prickles with goosebumps. Something is off.

"Go out to my car and get my partner," I demand, unclipping my holster.

"I'm not an errand girl," she snaps.

"I don't have my radio," I say.

The man in the kitchen doesn't say anything but starts jogging out the door. Harry and the man come back inside a few seconds later.

"Smell that?" I ask. Harry purses his lips. Being a cop means you see a lot of horrifying things. And that smell? It's death. Literally.

"Back up," he says. I do, and Harry raises his foot. His heel smashes into the door, and it swings open.

The smell overtakes us all. Both the lady and the man start coughing. "Out," I say over my shoulder. They don't argue. I step through first, over a rolled-up towel that was along the bottom of the door. As soon as I'm inside, I let my head fall back and sigh. Our parolee, Lucas, is slumped over his desk, clearly dead. If the massive puddle of blood dried on the ground isn't enough, the wide slash on his neck is. His pale white body lacks any signs of life, and his eyes are staring ahead lifeless.

Three monitors are on top, none activated, but I can already tell the tower is missing. Harry doesn't need to be told; he's already calling the medical examiner. Unfortunately, halfway houses are used to calamity.

"I'm gonna get their statements," I whisper to Harry. He gives me a thumbs up but stays focused on his radio.

Out front, the woman and man are standing together, grim looks on their faces. "You know the drill?" I ask. The woman nods.

"Overdose?"

Definitely not, but I can't tell her that. "No idea. M.E. will have to look. Can I ask you a few questions?"

They agree, and I run through the standards. When the last time they saw him was, does he have any enemies, ex-girlfriends, etc. They give their answers without a whole lot of feeling. Sad. No matter how long I'm a cop, I hate this part of the job. Helping people, that's fine. Dead people? Not my forte.

Thankfully, Harry knows and comes outside a few minutes later. "Why don't you go grab us some burgers? I can finish this up."

I don't need to be told twice. "Extra onions?"

He smiles. The man is allergic, or so he claims. "You know it. Thanks, boo." He adds a wink that makes me laugh. Such a charmer. Without another word, I cross the short distance from the porch to the car. Within seconds, I'm driving away.

***

An hour later, I come back with the food. The body has been removed, and Harry is giving the room the once-over while CSI takes photos.

As if he can sense me, he says without looking up, "What do you make of this?"

"Yeah, I saw that earlier. Weird, right? He was there like he was working but with no computer?"

"What's his background?" Harry asks. We've worked together long enough that he knows I reviewed his file while waiting for our food. I also spoke with Vicki, and she was extremely helpful. I'm starting to understand why Harry does favors for her. She was obviously upset to learn one of her parolees had died.

"IT, he was working from home supposedly, but Vicki hasn't seen any paystubs."

Harry nods along. "Probably had a good setup. You know anything about computers, nerd?"

I chuckle. Harry knows I'm a giant computer enthusiast. I lean down and check the brands. "Expensive monitors. No idea on the tower, though." I look behind the three screens. All three have DVI cords. A step up from HDMI. "Oh yeah, he had to have some serious graphics power to run three monitors."

"Seems like IT might be code for some shady shit."

Chuckling, I shake my head. "You have got to stop watching Law and Order, Har."

He shakes a finger at me. "The dark web is real, woman!"

"Okay, yes, it is." I roll my eyes. "But it's probably simpler than that. Occam's razor, Harry. He probably likes video games. I'll get his bank account info, see if I can get some serial numbers."

"Okay then. Detective Maggie is on the case. Where's my burger?"

I laugh. "In the car. Let's go." But as we start out, I feel a crunch under my shoe. I bend down and lift my foot. "Glove?" I ask over my shoulder.

Harry digs in his pocket. He always keeps a few latex gloves there. After he hands it to me, I slip one on and pick up the paper. "Oh shit."

It's a black-and-white printout with a small square photo and address. "What is it?"

I'm not sure. But I recognize the name and picture.

Grayson Cardenas. The memory surfaces immediately. I handled his confession about laundering money for the mob.

"Fuck," I say.

"This looks like a contract. Grayson flipped on the Chernobog Brotherhood."

"I know that," I say, feeling my cheeks heat up. "Last I heard, Grayson was in a federal prison." The picture on the page doesn't do Grayson justice. It's a headshot, maybe from an old license. I had minimal experience with the man, but one thing was clear; he was sexy. Dark, tall, broad shoulders, broody. My catnip.

"Doesn't mean he's safe. You know how these mobs work."

"True. We should call and get him in isolation until we know more."

Harry nods. "All right. Bag it, and we can go process. Probably should grab his router too." I nod and go behind the desk to unplug it. Both items go into a plastic bag. The department's IT team will try to pull some browser history from it.

As we walk out with our goodies, I remove my glove. Harry is on the phone, and I hear some of the conversation.

"All right, thanks for the heads up."

He hangs up and looks at me. "Grayson Cardenas was released seven days ago."

Fuck. That's not a good sign. Barely a week and people are already wanting his head. "Where's he at?"

"San Diego. Got a job with his sister according to a W4 that was filed under his social."

"Can San Diego handle a check-in for us?"

Harry shrugs. "Probably. But if this is related to your bust…" he lets the sentence linger. I could definitely stand to see Grayson again. A little eye candy to end my long Friday shift. Plus, the guy is far enough away that I'm in no danger of letting myself get carried away. Besides, criminals in general disgust me. Can't help it. I'm a cop. That's probably why my relationships fail. To my utter dismay, I like a bad boy. If they cross the line into criminal territory, I get the ick. But if they're clean-cut, I get bored within a few weeks. I'm probably destined to be single forever with those two things battling it out.

Yes, Grayson is a beautiful man, but I can keep myself in check. "I don't mind the drive."

"San Diego it is, then. I'll let the captain know."

I smile. There's nothing I love more than the thrill of investigating, and this one has a certain alluring man right in the center.