Page 65 of Detectives in Love
“Second time, same deal—wallet’s gone, signs of a struggle, and Bridge got stabbed. Classic robbery gone wrong.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, what’s your theory then?”
Xavier starts pacing in front of the bins, thinking hard. “What time did the murder happen?”
I check the file. “Last Friday, around 11:25 p.m.”
“And the first robbery?”
“The previous Friday, about 11:40 p.m. Both times, he was coming home from work.”
Xavier stops, frowning, hands on his hips. “How come Willand’s team never caught the robber? They had him on camera.”
“To be fair, he was wearing a mask,” I point out.
“Come on. There are a million ways to ID someone, mask or no mask. They’re just not trying hard enough.”
I shrug. “Well, if we’d said yes to Willand a week ago, Xavier, we probably wouldn’t be here now.”
Xavier’s eyes flash with disapproval. “If you’re suggesting we start investigating petty thefts, Newt, we might as well rescue cats from trees while we’re at it.”
I ignore the sarcasm.
“Walk me through it,” he says, stepping into the middle of the alley. “From the beginning.”
“Alright, let’s see.” I flip through the folder. “About a week and a half ago—Friday—Bridge was heading home from work. He was at Farewell Security, that real estate firm Willand mentioned. Office is on Wexley Street, not far from here. So he walks down Bolton Gardens, turns into this alley. It’s dark… he doesn’t see someone hiding.” I glance up and nod toward the bins. “Right there, between those.”
Xavier watches me, waiting.
“Guy was masked,” I say, skimming the page. “Pulled a knife, grabbed the wallet, took off.”
“And the murder?”
“Hang on.” I flip to the next page. “Okay—last Friday. Same routine. Bridge leaves work at 11:17, shows up on a camera on Wexley. It’s about a five-minute walk to here, but Bolton Gardens has no surveillance. They estimate time of death around 11:25. Body was found at 11:40. And his wallet was gone again.”
“But this time, the killer’s a ghost,” Xavier mutters, exhaling sharply. “City’s crawling with cameras, and yet the night of the murder—not one caught him. Like he was never here.”
“Yeah.” I chew my lip, flipping back through the file. “Between 11:15 and 11:40, only three people were seen on the surrounding streets—Bridge, and an elderly couple. They were the ones who found the body and called it in.”
“So,” Xavier says, walking toward the alley’s exit, “no cameras here, but every other street’s covered. Right?”
“Yup.” I nod. “None of them caught anything.”
“Give me the rest of the photos.”
I hand over a few more. Xavier studies them in silence for a full five minutes, then takes the whole folder from me, flips through it, hands it back, and gives me a long, thoughtful look.
“How tall are you, Newt? What—five-five?”
“Five-ten,” I snap, glaring at him.
Xavier ignores me completely. He just frowns, grips my shoulders, and stares into my eyes like he’s running some internal calculation.
My mouth goes dry. I shift, awkward and tense, cursing his total disregard for my personal space.
“Xavier—”
