.45, so how long could it take to match the slug from Rouse’s head? Unless they were also waiting till they could tell her whether the soldier had killed himself or been taken out by his neighbor across the street?
Richards sighed and entered another report in her computer.
There were footsteps in the hall and she looked up through the glass wall to see a uniformed officer followed by what seemed like a large hanging basket covered in pink flowers.
“Someone to see you, Detective,” said the officer. He stepped aside and the plant entered the squad room.
The man carrying it set it on the floor and there was a faint jingle as he stood up. It was Miguel Diaz.
“Okay?” asked the officer.
“Fine,” she said faintly, and he returned to the front desk.
“Senorita Richards,” said Diaz. “They said you were hurt.
The man that shot my
“Yes.”
“Yet you are here, not at home?”
“Yes.” She gave herself a mental shake. Who was the interrogator here anyhow? “Why are
“Your friends came to ask if we had seen the soldier who shot you and J.D. I said I would speak to my men, and I did. Now I am here to say that none of them saw him.”
She looked at the plant, an extremely exuberant pink geranium. “And that?”
“When people are hurt or sick, it’s the custom to bring flowers,
His tone was innocent, but there was mischief in his dark eyes.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said formally. “But I cannot accept it.”
“It’s only a flower.” Diaz pulled a decorative hook and chain from his pocket. “Where should I hang it?”
“Don’t be silly. You can’t hang it here.”
He glanced around the room. “You’re right. No window. No sunlight.”
“I appreciate the thought, but I’m afraid you’ll have to take it back with you.”
“No problem. It’ll be better at your house anyhow,
What time do you get off work?”
“Mr. Diaz—”
“Miguel. Or Mike, if you prefer. And you are Mayleen.”
“No!” she said firmly. “I mean, I’m Detective Richards.”
“Why so formal? Unless . . . perhaps there is already someone special for you, Detective Richards?”
“This is crazy. Are you propositioning me? I’m a law officer.”
“Is it against the law to give you flowers?”
“Look, you’re part of a murder investigation. I can’t take your flowers.”
“But your killer is dead. The investigation’s over.”
“Not until we get the ballistics report.”
He shrugged. “A formality, surely?”
“All the same.”
Diaz picked up the plant by its hanger and swung it onto a bare spot on her desk so that she had to look over the huge pink blossoms. “I was right,” he said, looking from the geraniums to her face. “With your beautiful hair, you should always wear pink.”
Pink? She felt herself going brick red.
She stood abruptly, but before she could order him to leave, her phone rang and she grabbed it up eagerly.
“Richards here.”
It was Terry Wilson and he delivered the bad news quickly, like ripping a piece of adhesive tape from a tender wound. “The bullets that killed Overholt and his wife came from his rifle, but the forty-five isn’t the same forty-five that killed Rouse. Sorry, Richards. We searched that trailer pretty thoroughly.”
“Maybe he ditched it. Or what about a locker at the base?”
“We’ll check, but it’s not likely he’d have two forty-fives, is it?”
“Guys like Overholt, the bigger the better.”
Wilson gave a sour laugh. “You got a point there.”
“This Overholt. He didn’t shoot J.D.?” asked Diaz as Richards closed her phone.
