Touch of Red (Tracers #12)(21)

“We had a lot of those,” Ric said. “Okay, let’s circle back in the morning. And I just got word from the ME’s office. The official autopsy report is done. He emailed it over.”

“Anything new?”

“I haven’t read it yet. He sent some stuff over to Delphi, though. The bloody clothing, the nail clippings. If she’d had time to put up a fight, I might be hopeful for DNA.”

“What about the tox screen?”

“I asked. Said it should be a few weeks.”

Sean wanted it sooner. Reynolds was still pushing the drug angle, probably hoping the public would think the killing was gang related. Sean needed anything he could get—such as a tox-screen negative for drugs and alcohol—to bolster his case that the drugs were a plant.

“Maybe we can get a rush on it,” Ric said, following the same train of thought as Sean.

“I’ll contact the lab tomorrow. One of their techs owes me a favor.”

“Good. You on call tonight?”

“Yeah. You?”

“I’m off. See you in the morning.”

Sean hung up and wended his way home. He needed to hit the weights tonight and work on his leg, but what he really wanted to do was go to Brooke’s.

He thought about how she’d looked last night at the crime scene. The case was weighing on her. He could tell. He’d learned to read the signs.

Sean wasn’t sure when he’d become so tuned in to her. Sometime before the shooting that nearly ended his life.

Brooke had been the first person to visit him in the hospital. He’d been doped up on pain meds, in and out of consciousness after one of his surgeries. She’d been in his room, sitting silently in a chair while a TV droned in the background. He’d drifted out and the next time he’d come to, she was gone.

She’d never mentioned it. She probably didn’t think he’d been aware of her, but he definitely had. Sean had sensed her there before he even opened his eyes. It was one of the strangest moments of his life, and all these months later he still couldn’t get it out of his head.

He picked up his phone and called her.

“Hey, I was about to call you,” she said. “I found something. At least, I think I did.”

“What is it?”

“Our witness. The child. He’s a regular at Sunrise Donuts. You know the place over on Sycamore right by Dairy Queen? I talked to the kid who works there—”

“Wait, hold up. You interviewed people?”

She paused. “Yeah. So what?”

“So, you’re not a detective. You can’t go around interviewing witnesses.” She was doing his job for him. Worse, she was putting herself in a position to potentially cross paths with a murderer.

“Do you want this lead or not?”

“Damn it, Brooke.”

“Fine, I’ll give it to Callie.”

“I want it. Do you have a name?”

“No, but I have a description.”

Even a mere description was the best lead they’d had all day.

Information was only as good as the source, though. Sean had become an expert at reading people and sorting through their lies and evasions. Yet another reason it bothered him that Brooke had gone out and interviewed someone who should have been talked to by a trained detective.

“How reliable is the source? Scale of one to ten?”

“I’d say he’s, I don’t know, maybe an eight?”

“How’d you get him to talk to you? Tell me you didn’t pretend to be a cop.”

“I was just friendly. I chatted him up. Why are you pissed off?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Sean tried to tamp down his reaction. He wanted her involved, but in the laboratory, not out pounding the pavement.

“Have you had dinner?”

The question seemed to throw her, and she didn’t answer right away. “I ate something earlier.”

“Let’s meet for a drink, then. How about Schmitt’s?”

Silence.

Sean looked down at his phone. “Brooke?”

“Yes?”

She was on her guard again, and he didn’t know why. Damn it, one of these days he was going to convince her to have an actual meal with him. “It’s just a beer. You can catch me up on this lead you developed by impersonating a detective.”

“I told you, I did not—”

“Relax, I’m kidding. Will you please meet me at Schmitt’s?”

He waited. And waited. As the silence stretched out, he tried to figure out when, exactly, she’d gotten him so worked up he was holding his breath over whether she’d agree to have a beer with him.

“You know Flannigan’s?” she asked.

“The pub over on Oak Street.”

“I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

? ? ?

Brooke didn’t have time to go home and change out of her yoga clothes, and part of her was relieved, because going home would give her the chance to bail out. She was taking a break from dating. But this wasn’t a date, it was only a drink.

So why was she parked in the Flannigan’s lot, rummaging through her gym bag, desperate for something to wear?

She eyed the door of the bar. Then she glanced around the parking lot before stripping down to her sports bra and pulling on a clean T-shirt. She tucked some loose strands of hair into her ponytail and checked the mirror.