I give Paige a reassuring nod. “It’s okay.”
Still handcuffed, I follow Sergeant Ortiz into the rain. I shrug and keep my head down as we jog into the library. The cold rain pelts me.
The moment the officer and I step inside, we come across a flurry of activity at the security desk. A forensics photographer is taking photos of the ground behind it. I never checked behind the desk when I walked in earlier that evening. That was a foolish move on my part. I knew it was strange that there was no security there. I should have investigated.
I stop and turn to Sergeant Ortiz. Rainwater drips from my damp hair onto my face. “Was it Terrell?”
He exchanges a look with another officer standing by the crime scene, who shakes his head. I’m hit with two feelings back-to-back. The first is relief that it wasn’t Terrell. The second is guilt because of my relief. As awful as the feeling might be, I’m glad the body isn’t my friend’s.
“Miss?”
I look up to see Sergeant Ortiz waiting. I’m not sure how long I have been staring at the scene near the security desk. “There may be another one.” The words come suddenly from my mouth as if spoken by their own volition. When I realize everyone is staring, I shake myself out of my trance. “There are usually two guards working at night. Someone else must be around somewhere.”
One plainclothes detective starts barking orders to spread out and search. Officers rush out, talking into radios and heading in different directions. Sergeant Ortiz gestures for me to keep moving.
It takes considerable effort to pull myself away and follow him to the escalator. This is where I first saw the owl. What was its role? Was it Santa Muerte’s pet or some familiar spirit? It must have been down here, keeping watch, while Santa Muerte…
Sergeant Ortiz and I climb to the second floor. The cuffs make it difficult to hold the handrail, so I move slowly up the steps. The rotunda is filled with technicians, uniformed officers, and plainclothes detectives. Work lights are set up, shining on the body of Lupe, which, fortunately, is now covered by a sheet.
Ortiz stands by my side and waves for someone’s attention. “Detective! She’s here.”
From the group of investigators emerges the detective. He’s younger than most everyone here but passes through the scrum with the confidence of someone with authority. His brown suit has lost its form as if it’s the only one in his wardrobe and has been worn too much. He lets it hang on his lean frame in the same casual way that one wears pajamas. An ugly blue tie dangles from his unbuttoned collar.
Once he reaches us, he proceeds to ignore me, looking around the room. His fingers run through his tousled hair, doing little to improve his disheveled look. When he finally turns to me, he eyes the cuffs on my wrists.
“Take those off,” he orders.
Ortiz removes the cuffs without questioning.
“I’ve got it from here,” the detective says.
Ortiz collects the handcuffs and walks away. The detective looks around the room. At the moment, no one is close by and within earshot.
Finally, he turns to me. He’s tall, so I have to tilt my chin up to meet his face. It’s a good face, rough and handsome. He doesn’t even flinch when he looks at my yellow eyes. With my wrists free, I wrap my arms over my chest. I’m shivering from the cold and the situation.
The detective asks, “Do you need a blanket?”
I shake my head. More water drips down my face, and I self-consciously wipe it away.
“Are you okay?” he asks, checking me over. His voice is deep, with the remnants of a New York accent.
“Yes.”
“You’re not hurt?”
“No.”
“Cops treated you okay?” He sounds genuinely concerned.
“Yes.”
“Good. You know I have to yell at you now, right?”
“I’m ready.”
In an instant, his tone changes from concerned to severe. “What the hell happened here, Darcy?”
Detective David Resnick and I have known each other a long time. Being a private investigator, I have crossed paths with him more than a couple of times. Some of my cases had to do with crimes committed in his bureau. He used to work in Gangs and Narcotics in Hollywood, and one of my first cases had to do with a drug dealer named Rollo who was selling cocaine to child actors on a studio lot. Luckily for me, I’m immature enough to pass for a sixteen-year-old and was able to help David nab him in a sting. That bust made him a high-profile star in the LAPD and provided him the path to move up to Robbery-Homicide. Since then, he’s been my go-to for inside police information.
A few months ago, he moved to the Central Bureau, which puts the library in his jurisdiction and makes him the detective on scene tonight. At the moment, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing for me.
“Didn’t you get my statement from the first officers on the scene?” I ask.
“I want to hear it from you.”
No, he wants to catch me in a lie. He stares down at me, and there isn’t a hint of friendliness in his eyes. Tonight, he means business.
“I came in late to set up for an exhibit tomorrow,” I say. “No one was at security. I came up here and found Lupe. Then the police arrived.” The fewer details I offer, the better.
“That’s all you’re gonna give me? You’re a better storyteller than that.”
“You want a story or the truth?”
David glares at me, but I don’t let him intimidate me. It’s a tough world, and I’ve spent the better part of it dealing with dangerous criminals, aggressive cops, and literal demons. When you’re my size, you have to learn how to punch, curse, and spit with the boys if you don’t want to get pushed around. Unfortunately, when a woman asserts herself like that, she
