Page 126 of Long Way Down

“Nope.” Contreras held up a hand. “Wearen’t doing anything. Not until tomorrow. Doug will keep for a while. You need to go home and get as much sleep as you can. Eat a good breakfast, and be fifteen minutes early to your interview with IAB.”

“But, Tobias–”

“Home, Dixon. And that’s not a request,” he said, kind but firm.

The mulish look she tried to give him was probably ruined by her giant, jaw-cracking yawn.

“No arguing,” Contreras said, shrugging into his jacket. “Pongo’s gonna take you, and he’s got strict instructions to put you to bed, and call me if you give him too much trouble.”

“Traitor,” she muttered, without the intended heat, and with another yawn.

“I’ll check in later,” he said, backing toward the doors, fishing his keys from his pocket. He aimed a finger at Pongo. “Call me.”

“Yeah.”

He left them there, alone together in the sea of slumped, sniffling, pained people that filled the waiting room. Melissa found that she still didn’t want to look at him; was afraid that if she touched him, he’d reel her in close, and that she’d cleave to him, unresisting.

She finally snuck a glance his way, and was shocked all over again by the sheer weight of his regard. All his worry and, and, yes, Leslie was right, damn it, his like. His affection. It was warmer than those words conveyed, more visceral and intense, but she refused to offer stronger alternatives.

His gaze tracked back and forth across her face, searching, and she tried to brace herself for whatever too-feeling thing he might say, though she knew she’d reached her limit.

Thankfully, though, all he said was, “Let’s go. I’ll get us a cab.”

The ride to her building was fast, and silent. She didn’t realize she’d nodded off, forehead pressed to the cool window, until Pongo shook her gently awake and told her they’d reached her building.

She swayed a little, on the sidewalk, and he steadied her without comment. Her back teeth had started to chatter, a clicking she could hear in her head; her hands were unsteady on her keyring, when she pulled it out to open the door to the lobby. It was just the adrenaline crash, she knew, but that didn’t make it any more bearable. She’d pulled all-nighters before, and on a different night, could have pounded some coffee and kept on her feet. Now, though, after the stress of this evening, she was barely functional.

The elevator ride seemed to take forever, Pongo silent save the steady in and out of his breathing. It unnerved her, but she was too tired to remark upon it; she’d never heard him this quiet before; never glanced over and seen him look troubled, like this.

She tripped getting off the elevator, and spent the walk down the dark-carpeted hallway toward her apartment looking down at her feet, concentrating on the placement of each step. It was Pongo who alerted her to the threat that lay ahead.

She ran into a hard bar that turned out to be his arm. Lifted her head as he tried to tuck her around behind him. She heard the distinct, plasticky click of his gun sliding from the polymer holster he kept at the back of his waistband.

“What?”

“Stay back.”

She gripped his sleeve and hauled herself around him. “Pongo, what–” Then she saw it.

Letters. Words, painted bold and red on the white door of her apartment. A message in dripping all-caps.

THIS ONE’S FOR YOU, DAVEY.

Twenty-Four

Pongo had never called the cops in his life. He didn’t want to break the streak now, but he thought he might have to when he saw the last of Dixie’s meager color bleed out of her face when she saw the apartment door. She rallied, though –attagirl, he thought, proud behind the metallic tang of fresh adrenaline on the back of his tongue – and called it in herself, offering up her badge number and all that technical shit that told the responding officers she was one of their own and they ought to hurry.

He wanted to go in before they got there.

“No.” She gripped his sleeve to hold him back. “Don’t contaminate the–” Then her back thumped against the wall and she slid all the way down so she was sitting at the base of it, dragging him with her.

“Dixie?”

She was still conscious, but barely. She waved him off. “Just…tired. Wait for them.”

And so they waited, sitting side by side on the floor, legs drawn up before them. Her eyes would flutter shut, and then she’d forced them open with obvious effort, as if the lids weighed ten pounds apiece.

She hauled herself upright, with his help, when the uniforms arrived. Then it was a lot of standing around until the forensics people arrived. The door was photographed at length, dusted for prints, swabbed, tested, whatever, and then the uniforms did a walk-through to clear the place and make sure the message-writer wasn’t hiding under the bed or in the pantry.

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