Page 63 of Reading Between the Lines
Diem’s vibe said he was not in an arguing mood, so I kept the hoodie on but spent a minute wiping the mud off my coat and shoes using one of Ivory’s frilly pink cloths from the bathroom. My soiling the delicate décor seemed to amuse Diem, dampening his surliness.
By the time we were back on the road, the midday sun was making a veiled attempt to warm the town, straining to penetrate the heavy cloud cover and succeeding at times. Most of the ice on the roads and sidewalks had melted, but the bare tree branches still wore their glassy coats of armor.
The police station was located a few blocks from the high school in an unremarkable building on the northwest side of town. A handful of cars occupied the lot, but it seemed quiet on a Tuesday at midday. I couldn’t imagine much happening in a dinky town like Port Hope. The Weston incident was probably the most excitement they’d seen in years, which made me curious why the authorities had so quickly dismissed Delaney’sconcerns. I would have thought they’d have been all over it simply for something to do.
Diem sat in the running Jeep for a long time, staring at the beige brick building, grinding his molars, and wringing the life out of the steering wheel. He hated cops. He hated bowing to authority. Back home, Diem would never have lowered himself to this level. He would have used a contact to get the information he needed, but in a place where we didn’t know anyone, the option wasn’t available.
Without a word, he killed the engine, and I followed him inside, reminding him to talk nice and not get us arrested.
My dry socks were officially soaked, and they squished unpleasantly inside my shoes. I bit back a complaint, recognizing Diem’s limits when it came to bitchfests surrounding designer clothing. I risked a trip to Walmart at this rate, and I didn’t care how broke I was, there were some lines I wouldn’t cross. Yes, I was a diva, but I would wear my ruined Versace, mud and all, before submitting to anything subpar.
With about as much politeness as Diem possessed, he asked the male officer behind the counter if we could speak to the person or persons involved in the Mandel case. He flashed his PI credentials and explained that Delaney Mandel had hired us to look into a few things. All neat and tidy. All legitimate. Diem didn’t often play nice, so I was impressed.
The officer examined Diem’s ID for a long time before ushering us into a separate room, explaining he would need to radio the officer in question since he was on patrol. “Can I get you a coffee or something while you wait?” he asked.
“I wouldkillfor a coffee right now.” Hearing my words, I held up my hands in defense. “Not that I would murder anyone. I like coffee, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not homicidal over it. I mean, I can be in the morning if I don’t get enough sleep, which is often, but for the most part, I have perfectly regular coffee urges.Although I had a rough morning. I was almost eaten by a dog. My coffee urges are teetering close to desperate, but I don’t think we’re quite in the homicidal zone. Not yet.” I cleared my throat. “Cream and sugar, please.”
The officer blinked a few times and slowly shifted his gaze to Diem. “And you?”
“I’m homicidal all the time. The only thing keeping me grounded is this one.” He thumbed at me. “And without coffee, he’s pretty much useless.”
More blinking. “Okay. One coffee, coming up.”
The man vanished down the hall, and Diem side-eyed me with a smirk. “He didn’t believe me, or he’d have locked the door.”
“Careful, cuddle bear. If you adopt a permanent sense of humor, I might fall head over heels in love.”
Diem’s smile melted. He didn’t seem to know what to do with the comment and found something interesting on the floor to look at instead.
Constable Ralph Hercules joined us twenty minutes later, wearing a beige uniform and a heavy, navy-blue department jacket, the shoulders dappled with rain. He cleared six feet but wasn’t nearly as built as my boyfriend.
His utility belt jangled as he marched into the room and slapped a brown file folder on the industrial table. We earned handshakes and analytical glares. The man lingered on the oversized hoodie I wore under my open coat, and I wanted to explain but decided it best I bite my tongue.
Depositing himself in the seat across from us, Constable Hercules folded his hands on the folder and sized up my brick wall boyfriend. “Diem Krause. Private investigator with Shadowy Solutions, based out of Toronto. Is that correct?”
Diem offered a clipped nod and a grunt.
When Hercules glanced at me, I sat straighter. “Investigator in training. Still completing the course. I have ten hours to go,but… it’s hard, and I hate school. This isn’t my sweater by the way. It’s his. I borrowed it since it’s freezing outside, my coat is wet, and I don’t have extra clothes. Plus, Diem’s in a mood today, and I’ve learned not to argue with him during times of stress. I’m usually way more fashion conscious, and—”
“Tallus.” Diem’s voice was a low rumble.
I shut up.
The stolid cop didn’t seem interested in my predicament and shifted his attention back to Diem. “Delaney Mandel hired you?”
Another nod from my incommunicado boyfriend.
More staring. I got the sense the two had entered some sort of authority pissing contest, but it was hard to tell. Cops—and ex-cops—tended toward perpetual stubbornness and had out-of-control egos. So as they silently compared the size of their dicks—or whatever they were doing—I sat patiently waiting, biting back the urge to offer commentary.
I didn’t know who won, but the tension broke, and Constable Hercules opened the folder.
“Weston Mandel.” He plucked a few pages from inside and spun them around, shoving them toward Diem. “Can’t say I have much to share. It was a straightforward investigation. All signs pointed toward an accident. No evidence of foul play. Can’t make a case when there isn’t one.”
Diem skimmed the papers, and I glanced over his shoulder. I was familiar with reports since I always dealt with them in the records room. The form was a common one police use to write up incidents. Hercules had given all the details about the scene where Weston had been discovered and the process taken to determine what he believed happened. The second page outlined where he figured Weston had entered the water. Considering they’d found Weston’s glasses and skid marks in the mucky embankment where his running shoes had failed to grip the side, it seemed obvious the place wasn’t in question.
Diem pointed to a sentence about the man who’d discovered the boy. “Who’s the dog walker?”
“Nicholas McConaughy.”
