Page 29 of Retribution
The Italian heritage is strong in her; with long brown hair, coffee-colored eyes, and olive skin, she’s every inch the mafia princess she’s meant to be.
Well.
Except for the tattoos running down her left arm. But they just lend her the right amount of badassery. She’s fucking gorgeous. I might just have my first girl crush.
She’s leaning a hip against the doorframe of the small house we’re to be sharing for the foreseeable future, eyeing me up with a cocky smirk on her face.
I got into Phoenix late last night, the short notice of my departure meaning the only flight Stacy was able to get me was the 9 p.m., getting me into Arizona around 11:30. She managed to find me a great deal at the DoubleTree and organized a rental car—I really do need to get her a raise—and I managed a good nine-hour sleep which I was desperately needing. I took my time over the complimentary breakfast and helped myself to a couple of abandoned newspapers, getting myself acquainted with what was going on in the local area.
Even though I managed a decent night’s sleep, I still helped myself to four coffees on the three-hour drive to Flagstaff, and now I’m feeling just the tiniest bit wired—if my jittery hands are anything to go by.
“Hi, I’m Susannah. Daniella, is it?” I ask, putting my hand out towards her.
Cocking a brow at me, her smirk grows wider, and she reaches out to grasp my hand in a quick, hard shake before withdrawing it to fold her arms over her chest.
“Dutch,” she replies back. “Only my sperm donor calls me Daniella. It makes me a little—stabby.”
Chuckling, I haul my suitcase closer to me. Piece of shit lost a wheel somewhere between Chicago and Phoenix, and now it drags like a drunken sailor getting his land legs back. “Dutch it is. Mind giving me the tour?”
She steps back, waving her arm in a wide “come on in” motion, letting me proceed her into the foyer. There’s not much to see, really. Two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, an additional guest bathroom, living room, dining room, kitchen, and laundry.
At least the place is tidy; I would have a hard time living with a slob.
“So you’re my babysitter then,” Dutch states with a laugh as she watches me unpack my case.
Hanging up the little clothes I brought with me, I smile over my shoulder at her. “Babysitter? Nah. I don’t think you’re needing one of those. Not just yet, anyway.” Giving her a wink, I grab the last of my clothes, tossing them in a drawer before sitting on the bed with a bounce. “So, I was thinking,” I start as Dutch raises a brow.
“About?”
“I think we should go find a shitty bar, one with a pool table or darts. Twenty says I’ll kick your ass.”
Dutch throws her head back, laughter spilling from her as her shoulders shake with mirth. “You’re on. But let’s make it double or nothing.”
“Deal.”
I should have been more circumspect when making that deal. Dutch brings me to a perfect dive bar; paneled wood walls, obligatory Coors and Bud Light neon signs above the bar, walls decorated with road signs and antique license plates. There’s a pool table and a dartboard, along with one of those old-fashioned jukeboxes that Dutch promptly loads up with seventies rock and metal music.
She’s fucking awesome at both pool and darts—because of course, she is—racking up the balls and sinking them like a pro. And darts? Psh. I never stood a chance. We quickly lose any nervousness around each other in the heat of competition, and by the end of the evening, as we scarf down piping hot pizza slices in a nearby restaurant, I’d quite happily say that the bonds of friendship are quickly forming.
The pitcher of beer is going down nicely, and we finally turn our talk to work. “Have you had much of a chance to learn anything about the murders?” I ask around a bite of pizza. “You haven't been here long, right?”
“Nope,” she replies, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Got here about a week ago. Spent a couple of days moving into the house and getting the lay of the land.” She looks around the restaurant then back at me. “Bit different than what I’m used to.”
Laughing, I click my glass to hers, taking a deep drink. “I hear you. Compared to Chicago, this place is a one-horse town.”
“Right? So, anyway, yeah. Got a partner assigned to me. Boss man’s a prick, by the way. Misogynistic asshole by the name of Cooper. He’s the ‘women should be barefoot and pregnant’ type.”
“Sounds lovely.”
Dutch cackles back at me. “He so is. Anyway, Chase, my partner, and I have been sorting some files and making boards, but we haven't made much progress so far. Things work a lot slower here than they do back home, so be prepared for that. We’ve got IDs on some of the victims, but others we’re still waiting on DNA analysis for. And I use victims mildly, seeing as so far, they are all either pedophiles or connected in some way to human trafficking.”
“Here’s to taking them down then,” I say, saluting her with my glass.
***
We’ve spent the past three days pouring over files and adding to the boards. The conference room we’re set up in looks as if a bomb has gone off; the long table is covered in files and pictures as we race around the room, filling boards faster than the bureau can supply them. There are currently nine of them arcing around the edges of the room, each filled to the brim with evidence.
The glass door swings open and one of the interns drops two more boxes on the already heaving table.
