Page 14 of Tortured Eyes
Six
“Watts!” I shout out into the hall and wait for him and Nigel to come to my office. They've been stalling on their case, and I need to know why.
“Yes, boss?” Watts puts his head around the door like he hasn’t got a care in the world. Lucky for him, Nigel knows better and bypasses his partner, then comes straight into my office and stands, waiting to answer my questions.
“Give me the rundown. It’s been, what, three days? And I’m not seeing the progress on the case file I’d expect. Talk to me.”
“Female vic, beaten to death in her bed. Blunt force trauma to the skull was the fatal blow, but there were defensive wounds on her hands and forearms. Awaiting full autopsy and blood work.”
“Any sign of sexual activity?”
“Not on initial examination or from evidence collected at the scene. Forensics haven’t found any suspicious or unaccounted for DNA.” Nigel continues his pointed overview of the case.
“My money’s on the husband, boss.” Watts grins at me as if he’s said something smart.
“Really? Why are we saying that? We don’t assume shit in this job.”
“Everyone knows the statistics. It’s a cut and dry, boss.”
I narrow my glare at Watts and count to three in my head. “I don’t care about the statistics, Watts. I want to see the evidence. Show me proof. A motive. Anything concrete that we can start to piece together to find our perp. The details logged against the husband include the initial questioning after the murder was reported. By him. Do your work, Watts. Nigel, I want to be there when you interview the husband again.”
He nods at me and turns, dragging Watts with him.
I sigh, frustrated and distracted. Part of my mind's stuck on my own case. It's going nowhere fast, which pisses me off. The team has nothing new to go on, and I feel like I'm missing the bigger picture. But I can’t see that because I'm distracted. That never happens to me. I'm the focused one—the one who does nothing but work. But since meeting Mr Logan Cane, he's where my mind travels to. And the worst part? I know he might be the lead I need to look at my dad’s old cases, but the chemistry between us, the instant attraction I felt, the thrill when we were talking? It was like a shot of pure adrenalin and more addictive than the purest hit of brown you can find in this city.
I grab my jacket, needing to get out of the office. Running away from anything isn’t my MO, so I go right to the source of my distraction.
Less than half an hour later, I take my helmet off and shake my hair out. The leather jacket teamed with slacks and a work shirt is an interesting combo, and certainly one that raises plenty of eyebrows. Whatever.
I stare up at the giant Cane logo monogrammed onto the side of the building and let my next move sink in. Fighting for answers head-on is about the only thing I’ve not done, and right now, it’s the only move I’ve got left. I owe this to my dad. That’s what I keep telling myself. It has nothing to do with the man I met the other night.
My badge and gun are visible under my jacket, and the weight of my weapon is reassuring. A part of me feels like I’m walking into the lion’s den, or maybe it's wondering if I’ll even make it out of this building in one piece.
I stroll through the front door and look around. For so long I’ve avoided coming here—avoided being so obvious about what I’ve been looking into. Sure, most of what I've amassed won’t hold up in court. Hell, it wouldn’t even get to court if I went down that road, but I’m done with skirting around the questions I’ve spent four years asking myself.
The woman behind the desk eyes me as I approach, raising her brow as she waits to see why I’m here.
“Logan Cane, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t need one.” I place my badge on the gleaming reception desk and smile, waiting for her to burst into life. To her credit, she doesn’t. She surveys me like she’s assessing me, before casually tapping the screen in front of her and picking up a phone.
“Yes, I have a…?” She looks up at me.
“Detective McCarthy.” I smile through squinted eyes.
“Detective McCarthy in the lobby for Mr Logan Cane.” She waits for whomever to respond. “Yes. Understand. Thank you.” She disconnects the call with a swipe of her finger on the screen and raises her eyes to me again. “I’m afraid Mr Cane isn’t available.”
“I’m sorry, but what part of my name and position gave the impression I wasaskingto see Logan Cane?”
“Detective McCarthy, Logan Cane isn’t available because he isn’t in the office, but Mr Nathaniel Cane is available for you. Please take the elevator up to the top floor. You’ll be met there.”
“Thank you.” My smile couldn’t be more fake if I tried.
I snatch my badge from the counter, turn and head to the bank of elevators in the corner. Nathaniel Cane, or Nate as the files suggest, the brother of Quinn Cane and the brains behind many of the developments, or so it was in my father’s day. Quinn Cane was the one who had the question mark over his head regarding his involvement in several murders. Plus, according to my father’s files, there was a third brother. No details, no hospital files. Just a death certificate.
The ping announces my arrival, and with it, a tinge of disappointment settles that I won’t get to meet and talk to Logan. Revealing that he was coming on to a cop was a particular highlight in the conversation I’ve already rehearsed in my head.
