Page 35 of Jagged

"Listen, you think running this epic game studio keeps a place cool? Wrong." He stopped beside the futon where he had snacks and beer on the coffee table, then pointed to the entrance to the room on our right. "It's cooler in the game room."

"Only you would pay for a two bedroom in Seattle just to have one a nerd studio," teased Nikita.

"And we all benefit from my sacrifices." He let out a dramatic sigh. "Okay, so I figured we could do a little couch co-op, a little Call of Duty, a bit of Mortal Kombat. What do you say?"

"I'm here for it all," I said then took a sip of beer.

"Same." Nikita snagged one from the sofa as well as a bowl of chips with the salsa. "Let's get it on."

"Kinky. I like it," Thiago said and we both smacked him when he walked between us. "Hey!"

Nikita tossed him a glare that could kill. "Don't be typical."

"A'right! Sheesh." He shook his head then picked up the rest of the snacks. "There are wet wipes for our hands after we eat. Don't fuck my controllers."

"He said with conviction in his voice," I muttered, and he scowled.

Nikita laughed at us as we finally settled into Thiago's pride and joy. I loved Thiago's gaming room. Four sleek leather reclining chairs sat in the center of the room where three huge flat screens hung on the walls around us. They appeared weightless in their design and with updated tech, seemed to be floating. The chairs swiveled in all directions allowing the player to face whichever monitor they preferred. Consoles of every kind filled protective glass cases under each television, and the wires were kept in neat control. Behind us, a desktop computer with a gaming chair and sick rig held its space between the two windows that faced the fire escape. One window held a large air conditioner that ran quietly to cool down the room.

I took up space in one of the chairs, while my friends fell into the others. Thiago showed us how the tray rose from the side arm of the chair and held our drinks and snacks.

"You broke the bank in this room, T. Seriously. My god." I set my drink down and reclined in the chair. "It was good last time I was here, but this is beyond."

"Yeah, well. I've been slinging for an M.C. so that helps. Twenty guys, some ladies so far. All good," he said while walking around to turn on all the consoles.

"What's an M.C.?" I asked.

"Motorcycle Club. They wanted my blackwork for their logo and they're all getting it inked. Nice bunch of folks. Most of them are kinda older," he told us before returning to his seat.

"Be careful doing that, T. What if they're hooked up with some bad stuff? Also, why are they going to you? Don't those folks usually have their own artist?"

"They did, but their guy died. Part of them getting the ink is paying homage to him. He had cancer," he said. "Frankie hooked me up. She knew one of the lady riders."

"Of course she did," muttered Nikita. "She knows everyone."

I spent time listening to their shop talk while we warmed up with a silly couch co-op game about moving packages together. Of everyone at the shop, only Wyatt and I didn't actually tattoo people. Wyatt, however, practiced scarification with his art so even he had a hand in working with people's skin. I, however, did not. Sometimes I felt like the odd one out and tack on being a cop to boot, that didn't help.

I settled into gaming, not saying much in that time, while my thoughts ran a little wild. For some reason, the intrusions chose to focus on tormenting me about my lack of belonging. I wasn't a cop-enough-cop, an artist-enough-artist, or anything in particular. I'd had nearly twenty years to sort out my identity, and still yet it didn't seem quite solid to me. Maybe I wasn't meant for that sort of thing. The sort of belonging or connection that bore smooth edges like Tati's paintings or the curved lines of tight ink that took hours, days, weeks to complete. Maybe I was meant for jagged edges and pieces finished on the fly.

***

The conference room filled again with my colleagues vested in solving the cold case. The Millers, one stoic, the other pacing, worked in tandem while they presented their piece. We listened to Ainsley, the medical examiner, as she presented her findings and the information she gathered after I shared everything that Clementine gave me as well.

"There was evidence on all of the victims of sexual trauma which in all cases appeared to occur before the time of death," presented Ainsley. Outside of her homelife or Jordan life, she appeared professional, but mostly in brief periods before she would break role. "The C.O.D. for all victims was a captive bolt pistol shot to the forehead before exsanguination. From the positioning and angle of the bolt, plus the injury status, I suspect all of the victims were on their knees with their arms behind their back at the time. Execution style."

"Fucking christ, this bastard is a fucking…bastard," exclaimed Sali.

"It appears Sali has run out of adjectives." Ainsley turned toward Sali, her hands tucked into the pockets of her trousers. "Which is quite horrifying."

"Can it, Monsley," blurted Sali with a scowl to follow.

"Monson," muttered Maggie before elbowing her. "Calm your face, Sal."

"You calm your tits." Sali flailed her arms, then dropped down to sit beside her wife.

"Listen, you took on this case of your own volition." Agent Donovan pointed at Sali. "Calm your tits, indeed."

Sali flipped off Donovan and I tried to hide a smirk. Zay stared wide-eyed, seemingly torn between being appalled and amused.

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