Angel's Tip by Alafair Burke Read Free Book Online

that last mile.
    “You know what your problem is, Hatcher? You’re a smart-ass, just like Flann McIlroy.”
    Ellie dropped the sunny smile. The last time she saw Detective Flann McIlroy, he was dying in her arms on a cabin cruiser at City Island, gunshots in his stomach and throat. “McIlroy was a great cop.”
    “He was a good investigator. He knew how to follow his gut. Problem was, his instincts could be back-assward, and he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t listen to anyone. He thought he was smarter than everyone else.” Eckels pointed to imaginary people standing around his office. “Thought he could go his own way as long as he shined on all the stupid people around him.”
    “I’m not like that, sir, and I’m not shining you on.”
    “But you do think I’m stupid,” Eckels said, rocking back in his chair.
    “Of course not, sir.” Ellie hadn’t realized until that moment the kind of insecurity Dan Eckels must live with.
    Eckels locked eyes with her, sucking his teeth. Ellie held up both palms. “No bullshit, Lieutenant. I’m here to pull my weight. And I won’t bring you breakfast anymore. For the sake of your heart. And, well, I really can’t stand being a kiss-ass.”
    “Jesus H.,” Eckels grunted, letting his weight drop forward. “Just go ahead and tell me what you’ve got.”
    She drew him the bare-bones picture they’d gathered so far.
    “A college student killed on spring break in Manhattan? Please tell me the girl’s a bow-wow.”
    Ellie shook her head. “She was very pretty. And blond. I hear the public likes crime stories about midwestern blondes.”
    The self-deprecating crack about her own personal brushes with the media was enough to get another creepy smile out of him.
    “I was tempted to reassign this case to another team, Hatcher, the way you grabbed it. But you know something? You want to be in the middle of the shit storm? Then go for it. You weaseled your way into this squad after only five years on the job? We’ll see how much the brass loves you when your clusterfuck’s on the front page of every paper in the country.” He unfurled the imaginary headline with outstretched hands: “Murder in the Big Apple.”
    “I won’t say I wasn’t warned.”
    “Keep me in the loop, Hollywood. McIlroy never did.”
    “Not a problem, sir.”
    She turned to leave his office, but Eckels wasn’t finished. “How are things with Rogan?”
    “Good. Real good so far. Thanks.”
    “Just so you know, you’d be paired with that lazy fuck Winslow if Rogan hadn’t saved you. Don’t be a pain in his ass.”
    Ellie let the door fall closed behind her.
     
    SHE FOUND ROGAN on his cell phone at his gray metal desk.
    There were at least eight different varieties of desks among the twenty that were scattered throughout the squad room. From the looks of things, someone with a borderline case of obsessive-compulsive disorder had at some point attempted to pair them into matching sets for partners. Eight variations. Twenty desks. The math did not work. She took a seat at her own wood-veneer setup.
    Rogan lowered his voice to a whisper and swung his chair away from her. She heard him mutter something about “three thousand.” She wondered if the call had something to do with his wardrobe. Maybe the price of a new suit. Or maybe a bet to help pay for the next one.
    To avoid any appearance of eavesdropping, she picked up her phone to make a call of her own.
    “Peter Morse.”
    “Hey there.”
    “Hey, yourself. I’m glad you called. I was worried maybe you met some other guy last night when I wasn’t on watch.”
    “Nah, maybe back in my old skanky days. I kicked it at home alone last night.” Ellie had only known Peter Morse for two months, and she’d been in Kansas for half of that time. But since she’d been home, they’d spent more nights together than apart. “Did you get a lot of work done?”
    Peter was a crime beat reporter at the Daily Post by day, aspiring author by night.