Page 47 of Sighs By the Sea

“Possibly. What’s the layout in there?” I ask.

“There’s a folding counter up front, usually a few guys getting their laundry done. Machines are behind that, and the drop-off is in the back.”

“Anywhere someone could hide?” That’s my main concern. Clearing an entire laundromat would be tough even with a team. Alone, I’m too slow to cover all the entry and exit points.

“Maybe the janitor’s closet. They keep all the soap back there. Sailors aren’t supposed to use it, but they all do.”

I grab the door handle and yank it open. Inside, a shirtless man with dog tags folding laundry at the counter is the only sign of life. The machines are running loudly, some thumping as they go through their spin cycles. The strong stench of cleaning chemicals fills the air as I move further inside. Grayson and Hobbs are behind me, and I can hear Grayson’s quick, nervous breaths.

Definitely not ideal backup.

“Chill, Grayson, I can hear you panting.”

“Can’t help it if I like watching you work,” he says, his voice low. I smile as I slink forward. He can try to play off his nerves as attraction, but I know better. I remember my first time in a hostile situation—I puked right after we nabbed the suspect. Poor Harry’s shoes never recovered. He still gives me grief about it, but I don’t mind. It’s a memory I cherish because it marked the moment I’d made it as a detective.

Along the back wall, giant white bags stuffed to the bursting point are piled high. As we venture further in, another three bags tumble onto the pile from a chute in the wall.

Efficient but lazy, I think. My father was in the reserves for a while—eight years, I think—and those two words sum him up perfectly.

The closet is on our left, and I pull out my pistol, my hand steady. I nod to Hobbs, who moves forward to pull the door open.

I slip inside and find a chain light. A quick pull floods the space with light. Industrial shelves lined with brown boxes labeled as detergent fill the room, but on the ground are three white laundry bags with a thin blue blanket draped across them. I point to it with my gun and glance over my shoulder.

“Looks like someone’s been sleeping here,” I say.

At the door, Hobbs nods. “Sometimes guys take naps in here after overnight watches. The barracks can be loud, and this place is quiet.”

“Do they eat and pee in here too?” I ask. As soon as I say it, Grayson covers his nose, his face turning pale. I bury my giggle in a cough. The stench of urine is strong but masked by the chemical smell. “You good, babe?”

He nods vigorously and gives me a thumbs up. I’d bet anything he’d lose his lunch if he opened his mouth. God, he’s cute. Totally an inappropriate thought for the middle of a search, but come on! The tough guy has a sensitive constitution. It’s adorable, like watching a gorilla cuddle a kitten.

Point is, someone’s been living in this closet. I say it aloud, and Grayson seems impressed. I think he’s realizing that Detective Parker is much more than a pair of long legs and a pretty face.

“I can call for a walk-down,” Hobbs offers.

I nod, understanding the term, though Grayson probably doesn’t have a clue. Hobbs speaks into his walkie, and with that out of the way, I crouch down to check the bottom shelf. As soon as I do, a man’s legs kick out, knocking me back. My gun flies from my hand as I tumble into a pile of laundry bags.

Grayson reaches out to help, but I fling his hand away. “Get Axe!” I scream. But Grayson is shoved aside as Axe bolts, knocking Hobbs over in the process. Hobbs is on his feet before I am and sprints after him, his gear bouncing wildly. Once I’m up, I’m gaining on them both. Track star in high school. No big deal. Hobbs is a bit slow—probably the sixty pounds of gear strapped to him.

A siren blares from the building, and dozens of service members lazily file out. I ignore them and pump my arms, pounding my feet against the dirt. This man has answers—he’s the key to getting Grayson’s son back and his life. There’s no way he’s slipping back into the crowd. When I’m close enough, I launch myself at him.

We tumble down, but Axe quickly recovers, landing a punch to my cheek. Fury boils within me. I strike his face with my elbow, hook my leg under his knee, and flip us over. Now on top, I yell, “Stop!” just as Hobbs arrives.

“Restraints,” he pants, calling over his shoulder. Axe is still struggling, flailing like a wild animal. I flatten my body against his, pinning him down with my chest as I grip his wrist and contort it back, making him wail in pain. “Oww, you bitch!” he spits out.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and look up to see Hobbs. “We got it from here.” Ten other MPs stand behind him, all with automatic weapons trained on Axe. I release his hand and get to my knees in the dirt.

Grayson finally arrives, doubled over and gasping for breath. “You…okay?” he manages between breaths.

“Are you?” I laugh. He plops down into the dirt and gives me a thumbs up.

As Axe is zip-tied, I ask, “Ricky Courtney?”

“Fuck you, pig.”

I don’t have time to tell him where to shove it because Grayson suddenly lunges, drawing back his fist and landing a punch across the guy’s face. “Ouch, fuck!” Grayson yells, shaking out his hand. Yeah, I get it—punching people hurts. That’s why I prefer elbows.

But I’m laughing as I pull him back. “Okay, Rambo, I think he’s good.”

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