He went back to the refrigerator, pulled out a cellophane-wrapped chocolate Ding Dong.
“Bandoni,” I said, pointing at the Ding Dong. “Seriously?”
Bandoni stared at the small cake as if he wasn’t sure how it had gotten into his hand. Then he shrugged. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”
He opened the Ding Dong and took a bite.
One of the detectives leaned around the door. “Bandoni. You got a call on your landline. ’Cause I’m your fucking secretary.”
“Stay in touch, rookie,” my partner said over his shoulder, his words mumbled around the chocolate. He swallowed. “Unless you hear otherwise, we all powwow at the Black Egg later this afternoon. Donovan’s autopsy after that, special thanks to Emma Bell and her willingness to go the length for us. And what is it you jarheads say?” He slapped the doorframe. “Eyes in the back of your head. You see that van or any, I dunno, naked Barbie dolls, you call me. Got it?”
“Got it.”
As soon as he was gone, Cohen and I faced each other.
“I don’t like it,” Cohen said.
“Which thing specifically?”
“Your possible stalker.”
“Our possible stalker.”
He snorted. “You picture anyone outside the IRS stalking Bandoni? Or me?”
“The only place I’m going right now is a cleaning company. If they try to abduct me at broom-point, I’ll sic Clyde on them.”
Cohen knelt and took Clyde’s head in his hands. “You watch out for her.”
Clyde made a noise, as if in agreement. Then again, it might have been the fact that he knew Cohen carried treats in his pocket.
Cohen held out a hand. “Shake, fur ball.”
The fur ball complied, and all seemed right.
For just a moment.
But then my heart faltered. Something in this case was wrong. To put it mildly, I chided myself, thinking of Noah and Donovan. Even so, beyond the mutilated bodies of our victims and the possible threat of mass murder, a high-voltage threat seemed to pulse in the air. An electricity that made the hair lift on my neck.
Smile! I’m watching you!
Marine paranoia? Or a Marine’s sixth sense?
Have a nice day!
When Cohen stood, I leaned into him and pressed my hand to his cheek. He turned his face to kiss my palm, his lips soft against my calloused skin. He smelled clean and good. Of soap and shampoo and the underlying scent that was his alone. The world couldn’t be all bad. Not with people like Michael Walker Cohen in it.
I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed. I’d resisted him for a long time. But I’d finally come to the realization that Clyde and I wanted the sweet domesticity he offered. The calm. A place to call home. Cohen was an antidote to war and trauma.
We needed him.
I needed him.
And there was the fact that he was great in the sack. Sometimes a girl needed that, too.
“I’ll be careful.” I ran the pads of my fingers over the scars on his hands. “You be careful, too. We should all stay frosty.”
“Deal.” With his foot, Cohen kicked the break-room door closed. He wrapped his arms around me and moved his lips to mine.
For two glorious minutes, the world went away.
Then the door banged open. Bandoni. “Forgot my—” He stopped. “Ah, jeez. Get a room.”
I stopped at the lab to ask Gabel to prioritize testing the Barbie doll and to give him the note left the previous night, then headed to Top-A.
Kaylee’s Volkswagen convertible sat in an otherwise empty parking lot. The place looked forlorn. Wind gusted through the pine trees and rattled a lone tin can down the street. The picnic table where’d I talked to Helen, Erica, and Lupita was empty. A single candy-bar wrapper fluttered against the metal leg of the table.
I killed the Chevy’s engine. My phone buzzed as I was reaching for my coat. Mac McConnell, my contact in the FBI.
“I was about to give you a call,” I said.
“Good timing, then,” she said. “I just got a possible name for your girl.”
“If the name gives me a lead, I’m restocking your liquor cabinet.”
“A drink at Joe’s Tavern will do,” she said. “A woman named Aminta Valle could be your Ami. She and her father, Cesar, came to the United States almost six years ago when Aminta was thirteen. They were granted temporary asylum under a Temporary Protected Status designation.”
“You have any details on why they got the asylum ruling?”
“It’s a way too familiar story. When Aminta was twelve, thugs from Calle Eighteen tried to conscript her brother into the gang. When he refused, they swore they’d rape and kill Aminta and force the boy to join anyway. The police just looked the other way. Aminta and her father and brother fled for America the next day.”
“Fucking world sometimes,” I murmured.
“It gets worse. The boy’s appendix ruptured. Nothing like a hard kick from the universe when you’re already down. Enrique died in a camp in Mexico. Aminta and Cesar tried to return home to bury him, and the gangbangers came after them. They fled again.”
Tragedy piled on tragedy; heartbreak visited upon people guilty of nothing more than being born in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I pressed a button and lowered my brand-new window to let in a gust of chill air. In the back, Clyde slobbered on the glass, his tail wagging. He was ready for action.
“Thanks for the information, Mac. You have an address for Aminta and her father?”
“Valle senior passed away a few months ago. Ami lived for a time in North Platte, Nebraska. But she returned to Denver at some point before her father’s death. Now she’s listed as residing at their home in Globeville. I’ll text you the exact address. Anything else?”
North Platte. Home to our poultry cars and ColdShip. “That’s it for now, Mac. Thanks.”
“Call when you’re ready for that drink.”
And she was gone.
I stared out at the empty picnic table and imagined the women who’d been sitting
