It probably hadn’t helped that she took off the splint to wash her hair and accidentally flexed the fingers a few times. She promised herself that she’d follow the doctor’s instructions from that point on. Take it off only to remove the sock and put on a clean one.
Sock. That’s what they called it. It seemed wrong to call anything on her hand a sock.
Escaping to the dingy little alcove they called a break room, she made a cup of coffee. After dumping in too much sugar for it to be remotely healthy, she reached for her labeled carton of half and half in the fridge, then stopped herself. Popping it open, she sniffed carefully. It didn’t smell bad, but things had gone a little weird between her and dairy products lately.
Mel had always had a great relationship with dairy. Between ice cream, half and half, milk, yogurt, and cottage cheese, most of her diet revolved around dairy. Since that awful butter in the restaurant, she’d been unable to tolerate it.
Last night, after leaving the hospital, she’d grabbed a pint of her favorite ice cream as a consolation prize. Mel now had a lovely brown stain on her couch, because that first big spoonful had shot out of her mouth and onto the cushion immediately. It had tasted like licking the bottom of a dirty shower stall, one used by many sweaty men who didn’t approve of using soap.
This morning, the milk for her cereal had caused her to spit it out into the sink. The trust had been broken between her and dairy, so she sniffed again, then returned the carton to the fridge. She made a face at the flavor of coffee without cream, but she wanted the caffeine. Getting it to her desk while juggling a bunch of files and a giant plastic brace on one hand resulted in her leaving drops of brown liquid in her wake.
Dropping the files onto her desk, she tapped her ID Key against the computer sensor to wake it. Her email was insanely full. Propping her hand up on the desk seemed to keep the throbbing to a minimum, so she settled in to review her burgeoning email queue. It was awful.
The police department had been forced to institute a labor rule that specifically barred any officer from access to their email after work under normal circumstances. People had been so tied to their email, fearing they’d miss something or be found less dedicated when it came time for promotion, that they’d faced a wave of burnout the likes of which had never happened before.
Burnout costed money, so the rule had been put into place just as Mel had been granted her first detective shield. Now, if you needed to access an email or file after work hours, someone had to send you a code to do it, and those codes were logged. Too many codes would flag a review.
Hence, the terribly full inbox she was facing now.
Turning to Paul, who had just hung up the phone while chasing down a lead, she said, “You don’t think I could go grab someone off the street and pay them to read my email, do you?”
She was only half-joking.
He grinned at her, then looked pointedly at her hand. “You could use a day at the desk. Think of it that way.”
She smiled back, but it wasn’t a real smile. She hated desk work. She loved being a detective, but the desk was not her vehicle of choice to ride in. He took a sip of his coffee and that made her think of her own coffee.
“Your coffee taste okay?” she asked, eyeballing the light brown liquid.
Paul frowned. “You mean does it taste any different than any other day when it tastes like the grounds were swept up from the floor and mixed with sawdust?”
“No, I mean your cream. Does it taste off?”
“Oh, no. It’s fine. You need to borrow some?” he asked, always polite and willing to share with a partner.
Mel screwed up her face. “You’re going to think I’m an idiot, but I wonder if PETA or the soybean lobby might have finally gone and dosed people with some anti-dairy virus.”
He laughed. “You what? You’re kidding, right?”
Rolling her eyes, Mel said, “Yes, I’m kidding. Sort of. I can’t eat dairy anymore. It all tastes like ass.”
Paul only shook his head and said, “I use soy creamer, and it tastes fine. You can borrow some if you want. It’s in the fridge.”
“No way! If they dosed me, I’m not going to do what they want.”
“Now, I really do think you’re an idiot.”
“Whatever. So, what are you up to today?” she asked, changing the subject.
Paul’s lips twisted. “Running down the lab.”
“For what? Which case?”
He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms behind his head. He’d come in early today. She could tell. The yawn that followed the stretch told her he hadn’t done much in the way of sleeping either.
Shivering after his yawn, he said, “You saw her. Charlize Bronson? The woman with the sling.”
Mel did remember her, or more specifically, her red-hot rage. She’d been attacked while taking her garbage out, in the dark alley where the larger bins had been rolled for pickup the next morning. Her attack had been particularly brutal. The man who grabbed her had likely not been looking for her, but had simply taken the opportunity. After she’d scratched him, he’d smashed her hand with a brick until most of the bones were broken. She would never have complete use of it again.
Even so, the ruckus had made him run off before he could finish the deed. He started, but didn’t finish. And his interest wasn’t below the waistline, but rather above the neck. He was one of those.
“Ah, yes, I remember her. What’s up?”
Paul’s chair squealed as he scooted it closer to the desk. “We didn’t get much on the first canvas. You know that, right?”
She nodded.
“Well,
