Free Last Fairytale, The by Molly Greene Page B

though, wouldn’t it?”
    “I guess.” Bree sighed. “Seeing him was a shock. He was so young. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
    “Put it out of your mind. Really, there’s no reason for you to dwell on poor Andrew’s death. Despite what I said, the authorities are not completely convinced it was a homicide. There’s still the outside chance he died of natural causes. It happens.”
    “I didn’t get the impression it was a natural death while Garcia was hammering me Friday night.”
    “The police don’t take this sort of thing lightly, and it isn’t in their nature to be reassuring. So can I make it up to you? Dinner this weekend?”
    “Sure. I even promise to be on my best behavior.”
    “I look forward to that. I’ll pick you up at your place six-thirty Friday evening. Since I know where you live.”
    “I’ll be ready. Fancy or casual?”
    “Semi-casual.”
    “I’ll see you then.”

Chapter Eleven
     
     
    The next morning, Bree fired up her laptop and began to compile notes about Ducane. She recorded her experience at Elergene, how Andrew looked when she found him, her impression of the uniformed officers, and her interview with Garcia when he arrived on the scene.
    She got stuck when it came to a description of the police station. Exhaustion had eaten away at her focus by then, and all she’d wanted was to get home and climb into bed. One quick visit to the cop shop would change that, and she could try to pick up something from the detectives while she was there.
    Bree phoned. Garcia was unavailable. But when the department’s admin confirmed he was in the office, she pulled on jeans and a turtleneck, then grabbed her keys and headed up to Fillmore.
    The sky was leaden. The overcast felt downright gloomy, and the heavy, colorless umbrella hung like a pall of sooty cotton above the rooftops. It was a good day for indoor projects, like fulfilling client contracts. She really should be working, but the pull of the case was more compelling than the prospect of dashing off new employee bios for a company newsletter. They would have to wait.
    An open stretch of sidewalk appeared in front of the station and Bree wedged into the curb, parallel parking like a pro in the cramped space. She jumped from the car with an energy she hadn’t felt in months, then pushed through the entrance doors and noted the comparative quiet that enveloped the station midweek.
    Drama was apparently aggravated by weekends. And darkness, and alcohol.
    She maneuvered among the desks like a practiced visitor. Garcia’s was neater than she remembered, and his hair had been recently trimmed. He was hunched over a file, chin on fist, scrawling jerky notations in the margin.
    When she sat in his metal-armed chair, he stopped writing and looked up. “I thought the guy was supposed to make the first move in your story.”
    He cast his eyes back down and made a final scribbled entry before clapping the file closed. He tossed the manila folder on top of a haphazard pile that teetered in a plastic bin to his left, then pushed back his chair and waited.
    “Good morning, Detective Garcia.”
    He nodded.
    She bet he possessed great silent treatment skills, but Bree intended to win this standoff. She observed the room closely as the quiet stretched out, then turned her eyes back to the man.
    Garcia’s high cheekbones and olive skin hinted at native American blood. By the looks of the crow’s feet around his eyes, he’d passed his mid-thirties a couple years back. They also indicted that he smiled once in a while, although she’d not witnessed it.
    He was neatly dressed, and the cuffs of his crisp white shirt were folded back to reveal forearms that looked as though he had the strength to throttle someone with one hand.
    No ring. No jewelry at all, in fact.
    The desk had been cleared since her last visit, revealing a battered metal Rolodex beside a mug of pens and pencils. His plain white coffee cup was lettered with the word