Page 67 of Skeletons in the Closet

Fox threw his hands up. “I don’t get why I’m in trouble. I didn’t do anything.”

Quaid continued to give his husband a look that spoke volumes, but Doyle laughed it off and turned to me. “Were you looking for one of us?”

“Um… I was, but… Am I interrupting? I can come back.”

“Not at all.” To Quaid, Doyle said, “Take it down a notch, hot stuff. You’re scaring the newbie records clerk.”

I frowned. How long did I have to work at the department to stop being considered new?

Quaid pointed at me, eyes never leaving his husband. “I’m not the only one giving you the face. Consider that.”

I peered among the group, feeling outside the loop.

Doyle, still chuckling, leaned back in his desk chair and cradled the back of his head in his hands. “How can I be of service?”

All three of them were staring at me now. I cleared my throat. “Well, I was curious if you two were the ones who picked up the Beth Rowell case.”

No one spoke, and no one was smiling anymore. I needed to explain myself, but I wasn’t sure I had a good explanation. Telling them I was working alongside an ex-cop turned PI who wasn’t popular in the department was probably not the right move.

“Do you know something?” Fox asked.

“Not exactly. Um…” I shrugged. “I vaguely knew her. She… was involved in stuff.” Oh god. That was succinct.

“What kind of stuff?” Doyle asked.

I considered my words. “Let’s just say someone I know claims she was possibly cheating on her husband. I saw the headline in the papers today and—”

“Fucking papers, man,” Fox spat, slapping the desk. “I told you. Didn’t I call it? I knew this would happen the second that dipshit at the coroner’s started asking all those questions. You can’t take on co-op students and expect them to keep their mouths shut. Not in this day and age. They don’t fucking care about nondisclosures or confidentiality. They run their mouths, and then we gotta—”

“Torin, shut up.” Doyle lowered his hands and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We can’t discuss anything about the case.”

“Is it a case?” I arched a brow. “I mean, if two homicide detectives are working it, you must suspect foul play.”

Doyle shared a look with his husband. I couldn’t read his face, but they seemed to be having a silent conversation.

Quaid shrugged. “Up to you. I gotta go. Nice to see you, Tallus.”

Quaid turned to walk away, then spun back to his husband, holding up his left hand and pointing at the wedding band. “Behave.”

Doyle burst out laughing. “One tiny ogle and I’ll never live it down.”

Quaid gave him a pointed look as he marched away. “Two is grounds for divorce.”

“All right, all right. Cool your jets. You’re all I need, hot stuff. You know it.”

“PS,” Quaid said. “The conversation about the tuna salad and the cat isn’t over.” He vanished down the hallway.

“What was that about?” Fox asked. “Who’re you ogling?”

“No one.” Doyle turned back to me. “Why do you really want to know about Beth Rowell? Don’t bullshit me.”

I heaved a sigh, debating the best course of action. Had Costa told Quaid about my dealings with Diem back in December? It was possible. They were friends. The case Diem and I had solvedhad been one of Quaid’s, and Costa had helped us with some dirty digging.

“Fuck it. I’m doing side work for a PI friend. He was commissioned to investigate a woman’s husband. The woman suspected her husband of cheating. We drew lines to Beth Rowell. Now she’s dead.”

“No shit. Who’s the husband?” Fox snapped up a pen with the intent of writing it down.

“He’s not your suspect. The guy killed himself about a month ago.”

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