Page 56 of The Grave Artist
He said, “When he wakes up tell him Jake Heron called. And he’s looking forward to gaming with him as soon as he’s out of StaleState.”
“Out of—”
He spelled the word.
And they disconnected.
Maybe we could go online as a team sometime ...
One sip of coffee. Another.
Sanchez walked into the workstation and sat heavily in the chair across from Jake’s desk.
He recounted his failed attempt at information gathering.
“I just came from there. He’s still in surgery.”
“How’d you get in?”
“Badge.”
“How’s he doing?”
“They won’t say anything until he’s out. They’re as stingy with info as cops are.” She made a coffee too.
“Could he give you any statement?”
“No. He’s been out the whole time. I don’t know what he could say, anyway. The scenario was pretty clear. HK got him from behind. He never had a chance to turn around. Jake ...”
Something odd about this, using his first name, unsettling. They were a surname-only pair. An unspoken habit between them, maybe to maintain a certain emotional distance. Keep things strictly professional.
After a pause, as if she too realized what she’d done, she continued, “When I first heard about the attack, I thought it was you. I mean,youwere supposed to go talk to the girl in the cemetery.”
The sentence carried a particular tone. And it defined Carmen Sanchez to a T. She was, in her typical understated way, expressing how relieved she was that he was safe, how devastated she would have been if anything had happened to him. It was how they communicated about matters between them—personal matters.
Obliquely.
He asked, “You know Frank well?”
“Pretty well. We were on a couple of task forces together.” A faint laugh. “He’s been working up the courage to ask me out.”
Jake hesitated a moment, recalling the detective’s questions about Sanchez’s relationship status. “You think so?”
“You never noticed?”
“Not really.”
Her eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. Understandably. As his response was neither yes nor no.
But the question he wanted to ask—you plan to go out with him?—remained unspoken.
And Sanchez was apparently not inclined to volunteer anything. “Did you come up with any leads to Ms. Person of Interest with the red-stripe shoes?”
Understanding the prior subject to be closed, he refocused his attention on the case at hand. “She turned west on Harrison Street. Retail district. I’ve been searching for cameras but not having much luck.” He nodded to his screen. “A street vid showed her ducking into a cosmetics store. Didn’t buy anything. And there was only a fake camera inside.”
Half the cameras in retail stores were for show only. A monthly security surveillance system with cloud storage could cost hundreds. For thirty bucks you could buy a plastic mock-up of a camera with a battery-powered blinking red light. Savvy criminals knew the difference, but for the most part, using such a cam was a solid deterrent.
His computer chimed with an incoming message.
