Out of the Blues by Trudy Nan Boyce Read Free Book Online Page B

replaced by one that was ergonomic-looking, blue-cushioned, and turned to welcome her. The cubicle even smelled nice; lavender had been stashed somewhere. The drawers were stocked with tablets, forms, and unopened boxes of other supplies: pens, hand wipes, disposable gloves, crime scene booties, even a couple of juice boxes and power bars.
    â€œYou like it?” Rosie came up the aisle smiling and carrying a vase with the flowers.
    Salt’s head came just below Rosie’s chin when they hugged. “Thank you.”
    â€œUs girls have to stick together,” Rosie said.
    â€œWhat girls?” Barney stuck his head up over the next-row partition.
    Daniels’ fingers waggled above the partition close by. “You didn’t bring me flowers, honey.” Something flew over from Barney’s side.
    â€œOw.”
    â€œIgnore them,” Rosie said. “Around here everyone refers to them as the Wild Things. Daniels, Thing One, and Barney, Thing Two.”
    â€”
    G ARDNER MOTIONED Salt over, nodding his head toward Wills on the phone across the aisle.
    Wills stared straight ahead at the cubicle wall, avoiding eye contact with his partner, who was making exaggerated faces in response to what Wills was saying into the phone. “Yes, ma’am . . .
    â€œSince you were ten years old.” He noticed Salt but quickly turned his back on her and Gardner.
    â€œVisions . . .
    â€œI’m sure the Hahira police do appreciate your help . . .
    â€œNo, ma’am, we have someone we use here in Atlanta . . .
    â€œAn Atlanta psychic. He’s very good, very professional . . .”
    Gardner covered his mouth and fled toward the break room.
    â€œWe’ll keep that in mind—a silver key and a swamp . . .
    â€œBye now.”
    Wills punched the end-call button on the desk phone and banged the handset against his forehead.
    â€”
    â€œ G OOGLE IS MY FRIEND ,” Salt said to the screen. For hours she’d played with, practiced on, searched, and learned some of what was available using the law enforcement and public search engines. She’d found nothing about the corporation that owned the Chicken Shack.
    â€œWelcome to Homicide.”
    She looked up and into the steady, focused eyes of Manfred Felton. He held out his long hand. “I see you and Rosie have hit it off. Lucky you,” he said as Salt took his hand and stood.
    â€œSo far today has been much better than yesterday,” she said.
    â€œI heard. Nice work. Sarge giving you a rough time? And I bet the Wild Things”—he swept his eyes around the room—“haven’t been tumbling over themselves to make you feel at home either. It’s just as well actually. And if it will help you feel better and put things in perspective, imagine how it was five years ago when I first came to the squad.” He leaned against the partition and crossed his arms.
    She’d heard. He was a legend now, the first openly gay detective in the department; he’d risen in the mythology and lore of not only their department but homicide units all over. He had endured. Endured, overcome, and solved homicide after homicide—the red balls and easy cases called “bones,” as in to have been thrown a bone—all while enduring. His rate was one hundred percent clear-ups, every case cleared—unheard of. Now after five years he no longer had to endure. He had the record. He could even look forward to stone-cold who-done-its because he had the record.
    â€œI don’t think I can imagine how it was,” she said. “I really can’t complain, then, but I would have liked just the possibility of solving my first case.”
    Felton pointed to the open file on her desk. “I see by the coffee rings that he gave you a cold one.”
    â€œCoffee rings. Is that what you call ‘a clue’? Detective Felton, behold the Mike Anderson