Free Heartsick by Chelsea Cain

another sip of coffee. “You working on the headline already? I like it.”

    “Why agree to a profile now, Detective?”

    “You’re going to help me do my job.”

    “You think so?”

    “Yeah. But we can talk about that at that nine o’clock meeting I have been instructed not to miss.” He held up his red notebook. “I’ve got to get back to work,” he said. He took a few steps. “Susan, right?”

    She nodded.

    “You can call me Archie except when it seems like Detective might be more appropriate. Are you a morning person?”

    “No.”

    “Good.” He turned and walked off toward the checkpoint, tossing the empty coffee cup in a public trash receptacle. “See you tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder.

    CHAPTER

    10

    I t was almost 7:00 P . M . and it was dark and Archie’s ribs hurt. It was all the standing around. Or the humidity. Or maybe just the mind-numbing boredom. Kristy Mathers had been gone for more than twenty-four hours. And after a day of interviews, searches, and dead ends, it had come to this: Their best avenue of investigation was to stand there waiting for something to happen. The overwhelming sense of impotence was hard to bear.

    Archie used his thumb and forefinger to open the pillbox, still in his pocket, and slip out a Vicodin. He knew them from the other pills by touch: the size, shape, the cut mark. He slipped it in his mouth. If anyone saw, it would look like a mint. Or an aspirin. Or pocket lint. He didn’t really care. The bitter taste of stale coffee hugged the back of his tongue. He was wishing he had another cup, when Chuck Whatley, a rookie patrol cop with a freckled face and a shock of unnaturally orange hair, waved Archie over with his flashlight. Dusk had settled, and there was a chill in the air despite the cloud cover. Archie walked quickly from where he was standing at the edge of the hubbub. He felt damp, even though it had only misted. That was how it was in the Northwest: It rained just enough to get you wet, and yet somehow never enough that you could be bothered to don something waterproof or carry an umbrella. Officer Whatley was standing next to a maroon Honda. It had rust around the tire wells and looked mottled where the wax finish had worn off. He stood like all patrol cops stand, with one thumb hooked on his belt, bent over talking to the passenger, periodically looking up excitedly as Archie approached.

    Under the streetlight, the maroon Honda looked sequined with rain. Officer Whatley’s eyes were bright. “She thinks she saw something, sir,” he said.

    Archie kept his voice level. “Ask her to pull over so these people can get by,” he told the officer. Whatley nodded and leaned toward the passenger, and the Honda pulled out of the line and next to a police cruiser. The driver’s door opened and a young African-American woman tentatively stepped out. A pair of hospital scrubs hung loosely over her skinny frame and her neat cornrows were held back in a low ponytail.

    “What’s this all about?” she asked Archie slowly.

    “A girl disappeared last night,” he said. “You didn’t hear about it?”

    The skin of the woman’s face seemed pulled too taut, the lines of her skull too evident beneath her flesh. She pulled at her fingers until they popped. “I’m a nurse’s assistant at Emanuel. I work nights. Sleep days. I don’t keep up on the news. Is it connected to those other girls?”

    Officer Whatley broke in, no longer able to contain himself. “She saw Kristy Mathers last night.”

    “Thank you, Officer,” Archie said with a stern glance. “You on your way to work now?” he asked the woman, opening his notebook.

    “Yeah,” she said, still eyeing them uneasily.

    “And you worked the same shift yesterday?”

    She shifted her feet. Her scuffed white clogs snapped against the wet pavement. “Yeah.”

    A few other uniformed officers had gathered around, curious and keyed up at the possibility of a witness. They stood