Page 56 of Sighs By the Sea

Me: Feel free. See you at sevenish?

Sexy Jailbait: Indeed.

His text makes me laugh aloud. It’s so him—grammatical and short. The wolf doesn’t stop his ways because he finds a she-wolf. His brooding just encompasses her. Like I’m a member of his pack now. I’m giggling as I tuck my phone away at the imagery. Harry shoots me a glare.

"I might regret my meddling if this is what it gets me," he says.

"Stop that and help me break down his description."

Harry nods. "Lives on Skid Row, has a drug problem, but suddenly has 50 g’s to order a hit. I’d say she found herself a financier."

"What’re we thinking? Pretty Woman situation?"

Harry shakes his head and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Too obvious. But we do know she’s probably a mom, 'cause of the tattoo, and she caught the attention of a 35-year-old Chewy. So maybe age 20-40."

"I’d agree with that. I'd say we need to walk around, talk to people in her typical hangouts." He must be able to tell that I want to do that tonight. His brows knit together. "But getting downtown tonight is too dangerous. First thing tomorrow, we can go take a look," he says as we step outside. Though I want to argue, I nod along. He won't budge on this, and really, he shouldn't. "Hey! Chin up, lady. That means this won’t interfere with what I’m guessing will be a date tonight?" Harry adds smugly.

I give him a glare over my shoulder. "My dates don’t interfere with the job. Why do you think I was texting him?" We climb into the car, and Harry starts it up.

"Maybe you should let your dates interfere, Margaret. Might actually get one of them to stick around."

"It’s not my fault men are so intimidated by a woman with a career and confidence."

Harry laughs as he pulls away from the prison. It’s late afternoon by the time we get back to the station, and I need to update the case notes and submit my request for Chewy to the prison. Afterward, I put the description Chewy gave into the system and start clicking through photos. The thigh tattoo has narrowed things down significantly. With my chin in hand, I lazily go through the thousands of results. But as I half-review them and half-daydream about my night with Grayson, one mugshot in particular sticks out.

I’ve seen this woman before, but different. Younger and without the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Where? I open the woman’s file and see her listed as homeless, with her name as Mariah Carey. I smile. Lots of homeless people give fake names. If their prints aren’t in the system, well… not much they can do except charge them with vagrancy in addition to whatever else they had going on.

Mariah had done ninety days for ketamine possession and vagrancy. The courts had tried to figure out who she really was, but to no avail. No known associates, no previous jobs listed, no diseases she needed care for while locked up. Man, she really didn’t sing when she was arrested. That goes a long way in terms of street cred, especially for a woman. Unfortunately, even in the gangs, men run the fucking world. But being able to say she kept everything close to the chest would help her out once she was back on the streets.

There’s a list of homeless shelters she had frequented often, and that’s it. I write them down right as my phone rings.

"Hey, you," I say after answering.

"How upset would you be if I was early?" Grayson asks, a hesitancy in his tone. I check the time; it’s six-thirty. The day really got away from me once I started hitting the research.

I grin. Of course, Grayson would always be early. "There’s a key under the hibiscus pot, and I’m headed out now."

"Okay, and don’t forget I’m cooking. So don’t stop for junk." And again, I’m not surprised he’s mentioning that. He’s a planner. If I showed up with a bag of tacos, his entire night would devolve into chaos. Though it might do him a little good. He does have a son, after all—unexpected things are bound to come up a lot when George comes back around.

"I’ll hide my donuts, then."

He chuckles. "How’s work?"

"Got a few leads. Maybe I’ll tease you with them later."

"Sounds good. So I’ll see you in a few then?" I confirm that it will take about twenty minutes, and after a quick goodbye, I hang up.

I lock my computer and yank my blazer from the back of my chair. With my purse slung over my shoulder, I go around the other mostly empty desks and find Harry slumped over his own computer.

"You headed out?" he asks without looking up.

"Yep, but look up the lady I sent to your email. Mariah Carey. I think she might be our perp."

"Clever name. I’ll take a peek before I go," he says. I kiss his cheek and hurry out the front door. At the curb, I wait for my Uber. Usually, I would just ask Harry for a ride home, but I don’t want to pull him away from whatever he’s working on.

But my mind starts to wander back to the case as I wait. It’s a cop thing, or maybe a workaholic thing. I can’t exactly turn off the problem at hand just because I’ve punched out for the night. And right now, I’m stuck on Mariah. The woman’s face felt so familiar, and I don’t know why. When my ride finally pulls up, my eyes widen.

It hits me like a brick to the heart. Grayson’s wife—there’s a picture of her hanging in his hall by the bathroom. I saw it this morning. Mariah Carey must be Suze because Suze is Suzannah Cardenas. And who else would want Grayson dead more than a wife who ran away from him and his twisted family?