At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(7)

She held out her net. Inside was a waterlogged wallet.

Addie snapped on latex gloves, fished out the wallet, and opened it. She listed the contents out loud to Patrick. “A Chicago driver’s license, an American Express card, and a Visa Platinum. A Costco card, ten identical but almost illegible business cards”—she squinted—“for a jewelry store on Michigan Avenue, and another card for Sugar Hill Ministries with the name James Talfour, Caring Ministries Associate and an address in Georgia. There’s also a plastic punch card for a cupcake shop. Sixty-two dollars in twenties and ones.” She studied the face staring back at her from the license. A Black man with a neat goatee and a confident expression. The resemblance to the corpse was not straightforward, given the positioning and condition of the body, but it was there nonetheless. “James Talfour, age forty-two. Address in the Gold Coast area. North State Parkway. The name on the DL matches the one on the business cards.”

“If we’re looking at Talfour, he didn’t get this way from a robbery,” Patrick said, stating the obvious because it was his job to do so—no theoretical stone unturned. “Why take the man’s wallet and then just toss it nearby?”

“You’re seriously wondering about the wallet? Why strangle a guy, then cut his throat and break his skull? Why make him a halo and scratch funny little lines into it?”

Patrick shot her a knowing grin. “Didn’t get any this morning, did you? Maybe your new guy doesn’t like any kind of ball sports.”

“If you want me in a good mood, next time bring me a doughnut.” She was still going through the waterlogged wallet. “Could be Talfour tossed his wallet into the river himself. Or maybe he dropped it when he was taking a walk. There’s also an access card for a health club. Lakeshore Sports and Fitness in Lincoln Park. This guy was doing well for himself.”

Patrick snorted. “A walk? Like maybe an evening stroll? You think that’s what brought a North Shore guy down here? More likely drugs. Or prostitution.”

“He was a minister,” Addie protested.

“And your point?”

“Right. I’ll check with vice.”

“This place looks pretty good for either a quick one up against the pier or a needle in the arm.”

Addie nodded. “Let’s say he meets someone down here. They do their business, then the hooker-slash-drug-dealer strikes while Talfour is floating in a post-injection or post-coitus state of bliss.”

“Like a praying mantis.”

“What?”

“The females eat the heads of the males after they copulate.” Patrick nodded wisely. “I saw it on a nature show.”

“You tell your wife that?”

He shrugged trucker’s shoulders under his leather jacket. “Why would I give her ideas?”

Patrick talked the talk. But Addie knew he and Mary were deeply in love. They’d met in a pub in West Clare when Patrick was reacquainting himself with his Irish roots. A lifelong bachelor, Patrick had fallen hard. He’d brought Mary back across the ocean with him, along with a tendency to talk Irish, as he put it.

After five years, the pair was as goofy as newlyweds around each other.

Addie sighed. True love. It was possible.

She placed the wallet and its contents into a bag and signed it back over to the tech. She was trying to ignore an uncomfortable tingling that had started in her gut and spread outward like an electrical storm. A wealthy, successful man brought down in the prime of life. It gave her a miserable thought: cases like this one—grisly, weird, important—could build a cop’s career.

She scowled. Maybe Clayton, lawyer to the rich and famous, was rubbing off on her.

A horn sounded on the road above them, and suddenly everyone around was standing a little taller, shoulders thrown back another inch.

Her scowl deepened. “The brass.”

“Maybe you shoulda held on to the snake,” Patrick said.

An officer raised his voice—“Good morning, sir”—and a moment later, Lieutenant Criver appeared at the top of the rise. Tall and fit, dark-haired and seamlessly tanned, Criver loomed on the horizon with his military-square shoulders and an imposing glint in his steel-blue eyes. Superman in a navy-blue suit.

The lieutenant had moved here from Texas, bringing with him Sergeant Billings, her and Patrick’s immediate boss. Billings stood at Criver’s right elbow, pale and hairless. Like a ghoul.

Addie hadn’t thought badly of Thomas Criver at first. Like everyone else, she’d been drawn to his charisma and his man-of-the-people persona. She liked the way he cursed like a street cop and downed doughnuts while going out with his men on patrol. He soothed the brass, swapped stories with his subordinates, and looked reassuringly manly and capable at press conferences. Addie had celebrated along with everyone else—it seemed they finally had a cop’s cop in charge of their unit, a man who would fight both with them and for them.

Then, slowly, she’d realized that this lieutenant who would fight for his men would only fight for his men. He wasn’t a misogynist, per se. Nor did he feel threatened by women. He simply believed women were not as capable. He no doubt found it sad. Regretful, even. But facts were facts.

Now Criver had a potentially big case, and Addie was his primary.

Things should get interesting.

On the windswept river shore, the lieutenant’s gaze slid past her and landed on the victim. He pressed a finger to his dimpled chin. “James Talfour. I know that name. Didn’t he serve on the board for some big charity? Something about helping Black kids?”