“You fucking, bitch!” I lunge at her, readying a right hook to give her some dental work.
Sullivan grabs my arm, dragging me away from her. “Lobos! Not worth it, champ.”
“Your career already hangs in the balance, Detective. But if you want to go ahead and hang yourself by getting in a brawl with me, go right ahead.” Her voice smug and arrogant. I cooled my jets after all the bitch is right; kicking her ass is what she wants; so she can kick the stool out from under me.
“Lobos, go on back to the station. Ingrid is waiting on you in the morgue I’ll deal with this scene.”
I light up a smoke and blow a cloud of it in her face. “You fuck with me again, and I’ll end your bitch ass,” I say, just before leaving the scene. Driving back to the precinct, I tell myself nice going Lobos you nearly handed that bitch your career.
***
Ingrid and Amber hover over the body of the female victim we found. “Devi, glad you could join us,” Amber says.
“I got called away to another murder.”
Ingrid shrugs. “No worries.”
“What did you find on the victim?”
“Her nose was broken before her death. And there are powder burns on her belly which suggest she was shot at close range.”
“Drake sensed his handler was about to kill him, and he reacted. The MP drew her sidearm, and Drake broke her nose and disarmed her and shot her. Then he turned his attention to Conroy. That’s my theory of what happened.”
“I’m not surprised Drake escaped.”
“Just keep that between us, Amber.”
“No worries, Devi, Sullivan filled me in.” She picks up her tape recorder. “The victim’s name is Hilda Mortimer, thirty years of age and height 5’6 121 pounds, and judging by her blood work, she was in immaculate health.”
“Where would you put her time of death?”
“Time of death? I would say roughly 7 hours ago, which would put her time of death roughly at 4 am.”
“I’m going to go run her name and find out if she has any next of kin or a spouse to notify.”
“Right behind you, Devi,” Ingrid says.
I sit down at my desk, logging on to my PC. It’s nothing fancy it’s just a PC built for office work and internet access. It’s not like Ingrid’s her home computer is built for extreme gaming and casework.
I search the database for Hilda Mortimer, and only two comes up one is 60 years old that’s obviously not her, I click on the second link, and it takes me to a 30-year-old Hilda J Mortimer. Active United States Army. “Oh, shit.”
Ingrid looks up from her desk. “What?”
“Her spouse is Colonel Jane Barret. The base commander at MacDill.”
“Lobos, how the hell do you attract all the interesting cases, and I am stuck with the boring gangland murders?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the stars aligned just right or some shit.” I dial up my LT.
“Go ahead, Lobos?”
“The Murder victim Hilda Mortimer is the wife of the Colonel.”
“Well, that explains why she showed up at the crime scene. Oh, and Lobos do not blow up like that again at a crime scene, understand?”
“Yes, sir. Jane wasn’t concerned for one of her soldiers; she was concerned for her wife.”
“I’ll meet you at the Raging Leprechaun in an hour, and we’ll discuss this more. I need a drink.” I hang up my cell and stuff it into my pocket.
A frown slides across Ingrid’s face. “Shit, it’s going to start again, Devi.”
“I know, and worst of all, I don’t know where to start on locating, Drake.”
“I have faith in you.”
I scoff. “Remember those words when this department is dragged through the mud on national news.”
An hour later, I get a call from the crime lab telling me that it is, in fact, was Hilda’s hair in the back seat. I get a text from Frank.
I’m here waiting for you.
“Ingrid, I’m headed down to meet Sullivan at the Raging Leprechaun. You’re welcome to come.”
“No, thanks. I’m going to get back to my own case. Good luck on this one, Devi.”
“Alright, whatever. See ya when I get back.” I slip on my coat and leave the office. After getting into my car, I light up a cig and head to the pub.
Chapter 18
I stroll into the pub, which has a lingering cloud of cigarette smoke floating throughout this drunk cave. Searching the pub for my captain while dragging on a Marlborough Red, I hear Hey Joe by Jimi Hendrix blaring over the pub’s speakers, a soundtrack for the veteran wet brains who are trying to drown their minds to forget the past or drown their problems.
I spot my boss sitting in the booth back against the wall, he waves at me to get my attention. As I head to the booth, I glance to my right and see all my fellow drunks at the bar guzzling their lives away. Some of them are passed out at the bar, and one is on his cell crying, a middle-aged man who is telling his girl how he won’t touch the sauce again if she takes him back. Poor bastard is lying to himself. Soon as she takes him back, he will crawl back into the bottle again, looking for answers that aren’t there.
I sit down at the booth. “Drink up, Devi.”
Frank ordered me a double of scotch. “No wonder you’re still married after twenty years, you know how to spoil a girl in a bar. Anyway, why’d you call me here?”
“Colonel Barret wants to finally help us provided we put her in protective custody.”
“She only gives a shit because she found out Drake killed her wife probably.”
“Either way, she can help us.
