Gina heard a noise from the backseat.
Her eyes nervously flicked to the rearview mirror.
She saw a man’s hand, then his arm, then his shoulder. Unusually, her gaze did not follow the natural direction toward his face. Her eyes snapped back to center, focusing on the flash of sunlight off metal. Her mouth, still full of Twix, dropped open. She felt her eyes go wide. Her nostrils flare. In slow motion, she followed the path of the hammer swinging back, then forward, aimed directly at the side of her head.
She had only one thought, and it was incredibly stupid: I was right.
20
Will stuck his hands in his pants pockets as he walked down the hall. The pain in his knuckle made him rethink the decision. A fresh streak of blood swiped across the back of his hand. Sara had said that she was going to put a Band-Aid on the cut. It wasn’t like her to forget, but they were both having to get used to new experiences.
She was giving him space, respecting his feelings. This sounded great on paper, but in actual life, Will had never once had anyone give him space, let alone respect his feelings. He wasn’t sure how to navigate his way back.
When he got mad at Amanda, she bullied and humiliated him until he dropped it. Faith over-apologized, groveling, calling herself a bad person, until he gave in to shut her up and put them both out of their misery. Angie had hurt him all the time, but then she’d go away and by the time she showed back up again, Will was over it. And sex-starved, which was another way she got him.
None of these strategies was going to work with Sara. The fact that she was unlike anyone in his life was one of her biggest draws. But this space thing was completely foreign territory. It felt like a very bad idea for Sara to expect him to fix it. What he really wanted to do was text her an eggplant, then she could text him a cowgirl, then things would go back to normal.
He ducked into the kitchen to wash the blood off his hand, but he found himself at the vending machine. Will hadn’t eaten in over an hour. He fed a dollar bill into the slot. The spiral turned. The sticky bun dropped. Will got back a quarter, which was half of what he needed for a Sprite. He had to twist around to get the change out of his opposite pocket with his opposite hand.
Will moved down to the sodas. He had a sick love of the high-tech machine. He fed in the money. He watched through the glass as the robot arm slid down the track so the robot hand could grip the can of Sprite and drop it into the bin below.
“’Sup, bubba?” Nick came up beside him and did that weird shoulder grip-pat. “I had some additional thoughts about that profile the FeeBees ran for the Chief.”
Will put his snack on the counter and washed the blood off his hand. The shoulder thing was starting to grate. Also grating: the way Nick called Tolliver the Chief, like he was Crazy Horse drop-kicking Custer’s ass into the Little Big Horn instead of a small-town cop who had pissed off the wrong criminal and ended up getting himself murdered.
Will dried his hands as he turned back around. “What about it?”
Nick was digging in his pocket for change. His jeans were so tight that the outline of his fingers was visible. “You got any quarters?”
“Nope.” Will was flush with quarters, but his shoulder was hurting too badly from all the grab-patting to retrieve them. “The report?”
“Right. I was looking at my old notebooks and it jogged my memory about this conversation the Chief and me had.” Nick extricated his hand. He picked out the coins, then dropped them into the machine as he told Will, “We were going over the profile. This was about a year after the arrest, you follow? And the Chief, he had a problem with how the profile was lining up against Nesbitt.”
Will remembered Nick’s evaluation during the briefing. “You said it hit Nesbitt in the sweetmeats.”
“Yeah, but reading through my notes just now, I saw where the Chief wondered about that. He was suspicious because the profile was so exact, like maybe some paper-pusher FeeBee saw Nesbitt was arrested and tailored the profile to fit him.” Nick shrugged. “Those fellas wanna get the bad guys as much as we do. Maybe they got a little too eager and reverse-engineered the profile so it matched what we knew about Nesbitt.”
Will leaned back against the counter, watching Nick punch his selection into the machine.
“Damn, hoss, did you get the last Sprite?” Nick punched the buttons a second time. He pressed his face against the glass to check the rows.
Will turned, giving the Sprite can several hard shakes before turning back around. “Take mine. I’ve got another one in my office.”
Nick took the can. “Thanks, buddy.”
“So, why did the Chief think somebody took a shortcut?”
Nick paused, clearly registering Will’s tone. Still, he said, “All we really had were photos from the Truong crime scene and a couple of shots taken on a BlackBerry of Caterino. That’s two crime scenes that didn’t have a lot of similarities. What do you call it when that happens?”
Will could see he was expecting an answer. He shook his head.
Nick tapped his finger twice on the top of the Sprite can. “Statistical conclusion validity.”
Will thought it had more to do with the findings not generalizing due to an underpowered study, but he said, “It’s possible.”
“Possible? I’d bet my left nut on it,” Nick said. “I trust the Chief more than I trust my memory, if you catch my drift. The guy was as sharp as they come. Damn fine cop. Best man I
