Page 11 of Remember Her Name

“You know you want to,” he goaded her. “Come on, Quinn. We’ll call it even.”

Josie took out her own phone and texted the photo of Cleo to Brennan and Dougherty, instructing them to get it out to the rest of the officers searching and canvassing. “We’ve got work to do,” she said. “Keep your dollar, Douchebag.”

SIX

Josie trudged along the sidewalk, Turner trailing behind her. She heard a snap of the tab on his energy drink, followed by a fizz and then him guzzling it down. Wishing for another latte, she kept her gaze straight ahead to where Dougherty stood talking with a woman in her thirties. He had texted them that he had a lead. They were only five minutes from the main entrance of the park, striding past the line of houses directly across from the park’s tree-lined perimeter.

Josie heard Turner crumple his can. Over her shoulder, she said, “Do not litter.”

He huffed. “So bossy. Does your husband?—”

She stopped walking and whirled on him, sending him staggering back a step with her glare. He put his hands up. “All right, all right. I didn’t even say it.”

“You were about to.”

“But I didn’t, Quinn. I told you I’d work on my”—here he used air quotes—“‘inappropriate comments,’ and I am.”

Rolling her eyes, Josie turned away from him and continued walking. “You should have a jar for those, too.”

He caught up to her, shortening his pace to stay at her side. “You and Park— Palmer are already putting me in the poorhousewith these dumbass jars. I’m not doing another one. But hey, I’m open to suggestions. Maybe one of those signs that says, ‘It’s been forty-seven days without an inappropriate comment from Kyle.’”

Josie scoffed. “As if you could make it forty-seven days without saying something completely inappropriate in the workplace. Now shut up. I want to hear what this witness has to say.”

She expected him to come back at her with some kind of scathing barb but instead all he did was sigh. Either that energy drink hadn’t kicked in yet or what she liked to think of as the “behavior modification” measures that Noah had put into place were working.

The strong odor of fresh paint coated Josie’s throat as they reached Dougherty and the witness. “This is Detective Josie Quinn and Detective Kyle Turner,” he told her.

The woman’s blonde hair was pushed back with a headband. She wore a yellow tank top under white overalls that were stained with bright blue paint. It was shiny, still wet. That explained the smell. As Dougherty stepped away and started speaking into his radio, Josie and Turner showed her their credentials. She gave them a cursory glance. “I’m Charlotte Thompson,” she said. She motioned toward the quaint two-story home behind her, showing off more paint smudged along her wrist and forearm. “I live here. Just bought the place.”

Turner eyed the streaks down her front. “What are you? Fifteen? You look young to have your own house.”

Josie elbowed him sharply but he ignored her. As usual. “Miss Thompson,” she said, unable to let this one slide. “I apologize for my colleague. Since he’s not going to do it himself.”

Turner eyed Josie with a deep frown. She could practically read his mind.What the hell’s your problem, sweetheart?Could she demand a dollar for the silent “sweetheart”?

He must have gotten her mental memo because he sighed again and turned back to Charlotte. “I’m sorry for being rude.”

Whether it was sincere or not, Josie couldn’t tell, but it satisfied her nonetheless.

Charlotte studied him for a moment. “I accept your apology. Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m twenty. My older brother co-signed. He’s inside.”

Turner decided to move on, gesturing to the paint on her overalls. “Are you some kind of artist or you just fixing this place up?”

“Fixing it up,” she answered. “You like the color? Blue is supposed to be soothing.”

Turner opened his mouth and Josie just knew he was about to say something like “not really,” so she asked Charlotte, “You saw Cleo Tate this morning?”

She pointed across the street to where several cars were parked. “I told the other officer that this morning, there was a white car parked over there. I came out onto my porch to get a package that UPS dropped off and I saw this couple—at least, I thought they were a couple—walking down the street. On that side.”

A door slammed and Josie looked up at the porch to see a man in a white T-shirt and painter’s pants emerge. Dark hair, broody face. He leaned against the house and crossed his arms, watching them.

“He seems pleasant,” Turner muttered.

Josie was grateful that Charlotte seemed not to hear him. “What made you think they were a couple?”

Charlotte scratched her face, smearing blue across her cheek. Her eyes were still fixed on the line of cars across from them. “He was holding her arm. Like this.” She sidled up to Turner and curled a hand around his tricep. He looked down in alarm. Josie knew he was worried about his suit. He was always worriedabout his suits. Miraculously, he didn’t protest. Instead, he said, “Usually couples hold hands, don’t they?”

Charlotte released him. Josie wondered if it was wrong that she felt so much satisfaction in the blue fingerprint smudged on Turner’s jacket. “Right,” said Charlotte. “At first I thought maybe she didn’t feel well and he was kind of helping her along. Even from over here, I thought she looked super pale. It wasn’t until they got closer that I got a weird vibe. They were walking really fast, and she looked uncomfortable, afraid. Then I thought maybe it was like a domestic violence thing. Her one hand was wrapped up in some kind of white cloth. Like a shirt or something.”

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