Page 11 of Cutter

Forty-eight never-ending hours had passed, and no word had come from Cutter. The man’s silence was going to drive Emily crazy. Optimism and realistic pessimism had waged war in her mind while she waited on the edge of her seat for a response. Each chime or vibration from her phone initiated a rush of pins and needles. As time ticked past the forty-eight-hour mark without a message from the handsome biker, pessimism was winning the struggle.

Damn him. He’s going to turn down my proposal.

Might as well prepare herself for a big disappointment and maybe discuss and research new ideas with the captain to save the investigation.

With a loud huff, she dropped her purse on the corner of her desk and sat down, glaring at the organized pile of message notes. Flicking her fingers, she spread the notes. Nothing important to read, only managerial requests that could be handled at another time. Not now. She was too keyed up and feeling too anxious to deal with old paperwork.

As she unlocked her drawer to take out the Sons of Chaos confidential file, Yoanni came around her cubicle’s partition.

“Good thing you’re here,” she said. “The captain’s in a terrible mood. He wants to see you this minute.”

“What happened?”

“I got here thirty minutes ago, and he was already pacing his office. Something’s got him all riled up.”

“Okay, lead the way.” She slid the file under her arm and walked after a rushing Yoanni.

At the end of the hallway, the door stood open. Captain Weaver’s tall form crossed his office space back and forth. Emily walked in, and he grumbled, “It’s about time you showed up, Mayhew. Where have you been?”

Yoanni tiptoed away from the threshold and quietly closed the door. Emily frowned at her fleeing friend. Yoanni was no fool. She was giving Emily center stage, letting her take the brunt of the fireworks.

Emily had arrived on time and refused to accept the reprimand. Holding up her wrist, she turned it, holding the face of the watch to the captain. “Excuse me, Captain. My shift starts at nine. It’s ten minutes before the hour.”

Captain James Weaver’s distinguished-looking face lost color. His thick eyebrows shot up to his hairline. For a man in his early fifties, he boasted the youthful mane of a man in his twenties. The only obvious sign of aging was the expanding presence of silver along the temples.

“Really, Mayhew?” He arched a threatening eyebrow. “Are you giving me sass?”

“Well… No, sir. Only stating the facts.”

“Don’t test my patience, Detective. It’s in short supply today. Now, sit.” He pointed at the chair before his desk.

Nodding, Emily came around the chair, smoothed down her skirt, and sat. Carefully, she placed the case file on her thighs and folded her hands on top in her most demure fashion.

For the most part, Emily’s relationship with the captain was professional and respectful, but on occasion, he slipped into an almost paternal role. This might bother another woman, but not her. Emily had lost her father when she was eight, and the empty space he’d left behind had never closed completely. Whenever the captain used that fatherly tone on her, she felt supported and appreciated. He didn’t have to say it; she knew he cared about her in the best possible way.

He lifted a document from his desk. From where she sat, it looked like an incident report of some kind.

“This was waiting for me.” He dropped the document close enough that she could read it. “The incident took place in the early morning hours. Two kids were lost to fentanyl poisoning.” He sighed with such a sad expression, he looked twenty years older. “The naloxone didn’t arrive in time. It seems the college kids had purchased their addies on the street to cram for a test. Unfortunately, the contraband pills had been laced with fentanyl.” He shook his head. “And that was it for them.”

She scanned the report. The students never had a chance. When convulsions began, their friends panicked and didn’t call for help right away. The hesitation stole precious seconds from an overdose reversal.

“Maybe every college dorm and apartment should be supplied with Narcan,” she said.

“And maybe we should do our jobs and stop the spread of fentanyl use in its tracks,” Captain Weaver argued. “Where’s your friend? What happened to the biker you interviewed a couple of days back? Is he going to help us or not?”

“I haven’t heard from him. He said he’d make up his mind in a day or so.”

“Why? What’s his hesitation?”

“You know the history. The way the department treated him and the DA’s rush to trial. It wouldn’t surprise me if I never heard from him again. He has every right to mistrust us.”

“Only to a point, Detective. Didn’t he confess to striking the guard? I seem to remember reading that part somewhere.” He cocked an eyebrow. “It didn’t matter if he took the blame to help his friend or not. Once a suspect confesses to an offense, the game changes. You should know that.” He held up a hand. “I’ll concede that Salazar was too anxious to get that case going. On several occasions, the prosecutor was so damned pushy, he gave me the creeps.”

“You’re right. But that wouldn’t stop the guy from feeling resentful.”

“Fine. Now what? We can’t sit on our thumbs, waiting for Mr. Sensitive to make up his mind. These guys will continue to push opioids on young people.”

Emily eyed her boss as last night’s conversation with Yoanni came back to her. “I’d like to get the ball rolling.”

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