down before it ever had a chance to begin its journey. It was clear that he was hoping to experience a little vicarious thrill. “Well, at least you know that much.”
James pulled his jacket off the back of his chair, but didn’t bother putting it on. The two men walked toward the doorway leading out of the squad room. “Meaning?”
Santini moved fast to keep up. “Meaning you don’t know a good deal when you see one.”
It wasn’t a “good deal” he saw when he looked at Constance Beaulieu, it was trouble. Trouble with a capital T. He got enough of that on the job. “Maybe I don’t want ‘a good deal.’”
Santini halted just outside the squad room, looking at James as if he’d never seen him before. He lowered his voice as he asked, “Munro, you’re not…?”
James gave him a dark look. “No,” he said firmly, “I’m not.”
“Because it’s okay if you are.” Santini shrugged his wide shoulders. “It’s just going to take me some time to get used to, that’s all.”
James went to the stairwell, throwing open the fire door. He preferred taking the stairs to waiting for an elevator. It was faster. “The only thing I am is a man who’s getting really close to strangling his partner. And at this point, I don’t think any jury’s going to convict me.”
Santini followed him down. An huge sigh escaped his lips as he made it down three flights and then to the underground level behind James.
Holding the outer door open for him, James found his tolerance in short supply. “What?”
“Nothing.” They made their way through the underground parking structure to where James had left the car. “Just sometimes I wonder what God was thinking, wasting all those looks on a guy who doesn’t know what to do with them.”
Reaching the car, James got in behind the driver’s seat. The enclosed area felt stuffy. It didn’t improve his mood.
“I know what to do with them.” He jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine hummed to life. “I wash them, I clothe them, and I get them over to a crime scene.” He glanced over his shoulder to see if the way was clear. It was, but he still didn’t back out. Instead, he gave Santini a warning look. “And if you don’t drop this, we’re going to have our own crime scene right here, right now. Except that you’re not going to be in any shape to investigate. Now am I making myself clear?”
“Yeah.”
Santini sounded more like a sulky child than a grade-A police detective, but he would take what he could get.
“Good. Now let’s see if anyone around Playa del Rio saw or heard anything yesterday that might be useful.”
For once, his partner didn’t hold out much hope. “Everybody’s going to have a terminal case of deafness,” Santini predicted.
James slanted a final look at his partner before he pulled out of the parking structure and onto the street. “They don’t know how lucky they are.”
It was the usual dance. The robbers had been quick, efficient and seemed to know exactly when to strike—when the register was fullest. After questioning dozens of employees, customers and people who lived and worked in the general vicinity of all five of the restaurants that had been hit in the last five months, they were still coming up empty. There were no leads, no clues.
In the winter, that kind of thing didn’t irritate him nearly as much as it did in the summer. Humidity always shrank his temper down to almost nonexistent, like a wool sweater thrown into the dryer set on hot.
The only good thing was that, confronted with the details of the case, Santini had finally stopped yammering about the woman who had come to claim her necklace.
Cameo, he mentally corrected himself. She’d called it a cameo. Him, he didn’t know the difference between a cameo and a camcorder. Things like that were Santini’s department. His partner had a keen eye when it came to possessions while James had the nose for something being out of kilter. For overlooked details and things that didn’t quite add up unless you tried using a different kind of math.
But not this time.
Leaving his car parked in the facility where he rented a monthly space, James crossed the street to get to his apartment. Heat rose almost like steam from the sidewalk, a testimony to the rain that had fallen earlier for a short duration. Not enough to cool, just enough to add to the stickiness of the night.
For the moment, the case had him stumped and he hated that. Hated feeling at a loss. There had to be something they were missing, some speck of a clue that by itself meant nothing but, in the proper light, made all the difference in the world.
The robberies were obviously the work of the same people. So far, though, he hadn’t been able to find the connection. The restaurant employees were different at each location. No one was related to anyone else. They ordered their meats and produce from different suppliers, used different employment agencies. Nothing was the same.
Yet something had to be. The robberies just didn’t have a random feel to them.
He tried to console himself by thinking that there would be a slipup. There always was. Someone got greedy, someone got sloppy. And when they did, he’d be there to catch them. It was as far into optimism as he ever allowed himself to venture.
Glancing at the number that registered above the elevator doors, he saw that the car was almost on the top floor. He didn’t have the patience to stand here waiting for it. Muttering a curse under his breath, he took the stairs.
The back of his shirt dripped with perspiration by the time he reached the third floor. After letting himself into his apartment, James dropped his keys on the small table next to the door. He deposited his weapon in a more secure place. On top of the single bookcase that stood with its back not quite flush against the wall. The floor was uneven. Located near the subway, the apartments in the building all showed the signs of wear that came from having several trains an hour rumble by not too far from its foundations.
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