The turquoise eyes roved to me. “Dr. Brennan, I presume?”
Palenik grinned. A first. “How long you been waiting to deliver that line?”
“It’s nice when you can give an old classic your own spin.” Detective Nameless also grinned.
My clothes were molded to my body. My makeup was soup on my face. My hair was hanging in salty wet tangles. My car was in the drink. I was not amused.
“So,
The men exchanged one of those smirky ain’t-testosterone-grand glances, then Detective Nameless straightened, rounded the cruiser, and opened my door.
“Ivar Lo.” A diminutive hand shot my way.
Surprise made me blurt, “Hung and—”
The hand was withdrawn. “My partner’s handling a domestic dispute.”
“How did you know—”
“Detective Ryan thought you might need dry clothes.” Lo tossed the gym bag onto my lap. “Sorry, no undies.”
I should have been grateful. Instead, I felt peeved. And embarrassed.
Lo circled back to Palenik. “Got a call from a guy on the job, homicide, Montreal. He’s stuck up on the North Shore. Asked me to deliver the little lady to a rendezvous point.”
Deliver the little lady?
“Her lucky day. She gets a little ride-along.”
Lo smiled in my direction.
Ride-along? Not only had Ryan kicked into shining knight mode, Lo was treating me like some dimwit TV viewer with cop fantasies. The old anger switch tripped in my brain.
I reined it in. No reason to antagonize the little twerp.
“I am perfectly capable of calling a taxi.”
“And paying with what?”
“I’m certain—”
“You done with that form?”
I handed the clipboard to Palenik.
“Ryan says you come with me.” Lo was bending in, speaking to me.
“Does he.” Tundra cold. “I do not need a ride-along, Detective Lo. I’ve spent a great deal of time on police investiga—”
“You can change in my car.”
“I have no intention—”
“Wrecker’s on the way.” Palenik cut me off. Why not? Lo was doing it. “I’ll deal with the tow.”
“I owe you, buddy,” Lo said.
Palenik started his engine. Subtle fellow, Ralph.
Clutching Lo’s gym bag, I got out of the cruiser and slammed the door. Hard.
Lo pointed at the Crown Victoria. “I’ll wait here.”
“And where will this little ride-along take me?” Barely civil.
“Your partner’s meeting us in Kalihi Valley.”
Oh?
“I’ve got a CI says Francis Kealoha was murdered.”
THE CROWN VIC’S INTERIOR SMELLED OF SOY SAUCE AND GARLIC.
Lo drove like Ryan. Gun it. Brake. Gun it. Brake.
Or maybe it was the gallon of ocean sloshing in my gut.
Ten miles out, I felt queasy.
I suspected I was wearing Lo’s clothes. The parrot shirt and waistband fit reasonably well, but the pants legs stopped three inches short of my soggy sandals.
My cheek was raw and my forehead had a lump the size of a peach pit. My hair was knotted atop my head. Poorly. I’d had no comb. And only tissues to remove my smeared mascara.
Fetching.
