Page 9 of A Friend in the Glass

“Unless now’s not convenient,” Sam said, glancing at Rufus’s bulging pockets.

“Give me a break. Shampoo’s expensive.” Rufus held up one of the capsules. “Look at this: coconut. I’m gonna smell great for the next week.”

“Mother of God,” Sam said under his breath and tapped the keycard against the reader.

A green light flashed. The electronic lock disengaged. He eased the door inward, anticipating the resistance of a swing lock or chain. Nothing. Cool air washed past him, carrying the smell of vinegar, urine, and coconut. Sam listened. Nothing again.

When he stepped into the room, he let out a breath like he’d been socked in the gut. The woman on the bunk was dead. He knew in the first instant; it was one of those skills that, once you learned, you couldn’t unlearn. Black, on the easy side of middle age, dressed in discount-store slacks and a plasticky-looking polka-dot blouse, she had kicked off one flat, and her stockinged foot made her look caught off guard and vulnerable.

The story, if you wanted to believe it, was all laid out: a syringe and needle; doubled-over foil and the metal cap from a glass-bottle Sprite; a blue Bic lighter; the tubing eased around her upper arm.

“Fuck me,” Sam said. “You’d better call Erik.”

Chapter Six

After Jake Brower had been murdered last summer, Rufus had been uncertain of his future as a confidential informant. And as concern for where his next paycheck would come from grew, he’d been transferred with no warning to the care of Detective Weaver of Major Cases. Erik had quickly proven to be Jake’s opposite in every way. He was impatient, foul-mouthed, a habitual ballbuster who never let Rufus get away with even half the shit Jake had turned a blind eye to. But even though they weren’t friends—would never be in the way he had been with Jake—Rufus liked Erik. He’d been solid during the fiasco regarding Rufus’s mother and her killer, Jimmy Sirkosky, and Erik also put up with Sam as being part of the Rufus O’Callaghan care package.

Sort of.

Sam was a civilian, after all, so him being anywhere near a crime scene tended to rub Erik the wrong way. Rufus found that in these situations, for as long as Sam planned to be in New York—and no, Dr. Donna, he didn’t want to address that particular anxiety, let’s talk about some of my other upsetting and intrusive thoughts, thank you very much—keeping interactions betweenSam and Erik as brief as humanly possible typically yielded the most positive results. And this one? Rufus had consolidated it to: help, there’s a dead lady here and no, we didn’t do anything wrong.

“Erik said he’s on his way,” Rufus said into the uncomfortable stillness of the room. He tucked his burner into his pocket while watching Sam hover over the dead woman. “Let’s go. It smells like piss in here.”

Sam didn’t move.

“Sam,” Rufus prompted. “Come on.”

“This is our chance,” he said. “Let’s take a look before Erik makes us bounce.”

Rufus raised both hands in a sort of dramatic what-can-you-do gesture. “Take a look at what? She OD’d. Find her wallet, check her ID, but she looks like how Cyber Kim described her. It’s Shareed, I bet, and she made the life choice that mama always warned me about.”

“She OD’d right before she was going to meet us to sell information? She traveled halfway across the country so she could blow me off and shoot up?” Sam frowned and squatted next to the bed, leaning closer to examine the dead woman.

Rufus crossed his arms, aware of his own agitation and defense. “I don’t think she wanted to sell you anything legit, babe.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, she needed money for a habit. Case in point.” Rufus nodded at the body with a jut of his chin.

“So she flew from Georgia to New York City and called me.”

“Maybe she was already living here.”

“But she picked me.”

“Your identity isn’t hidden like mine is. She could have… fuck, I don’t know, read some old news article online, saw your name, found your number in the White Pages, thought you’d be an easy play.”

“Because I’m an obvious mark. Gullible, disposable cash, that kind of thing.” Sam straightened. “Somebody did this to her. What aren’t you seeing?”

“I didn’t say any of that, Sam. Don’t put words in my mouth,” Rufus answered, shoulders now at his ears.

“I just don’t get what you’re not seeing. She called me. She had information on Lew, on Stonefish. And now she’s dead. That’s a pretty simple a, b, c to me.”

Rufus snorted before he could smother the sound. “If she’d been shot execution-style, yeah, I’d be right there with you. Blunt force trauma, sure, someone did her in. But she OD’d. Probably on some godawful shit she bought behind a fucking dumpster. There’s nothing here except one sad woman who won’t wake up tomorrow.”

“Why me? Why Stonefish? Why not some fucking captain who’s sitting on stolen equipment or covering up his buddy’s sexual assault charge? When nobody else believed you that your mom’s killer was active again, I believed you. I don’t get why you’re being so fucking stupid about this.”

Rufus could feel the flush in his chest, his neck, his freckled cheeks. His underarms began to sweat. “I’mnotstupid.” He pulled out his phone again, checked the time, put it back. “We’ve got maybe ten minutes, if Erik isn’t driving with the siren on.”

---