tow truck, and the ever-present public notification team.
âAbout the sceneââ I started.
Feeling magnanimous, Flynn sat down on the hood of the car, all encouragement. âLay it out for me.â
âDid you see the print at the edge of the oil?â
He nodded, with barely a hint of superiority. Rory came over to listen as he supervised the activity surrounding the Lexus.
âItâs a Haix boot. Most cops wear Haix boots. Iâm thinking the perpâeither someone impersonating a cop or even a copâgets the vic to pull over and roll his window down, pops him twice in the chest with a wadcutter-loaded revolver. After, the perp opens the door, closes the window, and turns off the car.â
âExpelled from the Academy and your first drop is a dirty cop.â Flynn folded his arms across his chest. âSweet.â
âWhatâs your read?â I said, throwing down the gauntlet.
His hand came up. âAside from the fact that the oil, as well as the print, may have been here for days, youâre wearing Haix boots. So do paramedics, firemen, and security guards, to name a few.â
âTech!â Rory snapped his fingers at a woman in white coveralls.
The evidence tech jogged over. âYes sir?â
Rory pointed at my feet. âBag her boots.â
âYes sir.â She withdrew a permanent marker and a couple of large plastic bags from one of the pockets in her coveralls.
âNo. No way,â I said, backing up. âYouâre kidding, right?â
Rory shook his head, straight-faced.
The tech scribbled across the labels while I struggled to undo my boots. âBut thereâs no oil on these.â I stepped out of them, gingerly planting my pure white athletic-socked feet on the grimy asphalt. âBesides, my boots have a crosshatched toe tread. And that print is way too big to be mine.â
Flynnâs mouth contorted as he tried to keep a straight face. âSOP, Snap.â
âYeah.â Rory snorted with laugher. âWatch your socks, kid.â
The tech opened each bag for me to drop my work boots into, closed them, and trotted off with the bags to the evidence van.
âIs this you guys thanking me for calling you instead of calling it in?â Heat burned up my throat. âMomâs gonna love this.â
âJaysus,â Rory said. âStill canât take a joke, can yeh?â He walked away and started talking to a uniform whoâd just finished cordoning off the area.
âTech!â Flynn shouted. The woman turned around. âBring her some booties.â He put a hand on my shoulder. âEighty-twenty youâre right about the wadcutters.â
Even though heâd taken my shoes, I couldnât help the smile. âCan I stay and watch you guys work the scene?â
The uniform came over. âExcuse me, miss? Detective McGrane asked me to give you a ride home.â
Flynn shook his head. âScram. Iâll fill you in at dinner.â
Â
The scent of sugar and eggs and flour filled the early afternoon air. Thierry was at the stove, whisking Genoise cake batter over a bain-marie. Petite madeleines. He took the batter off the water bath and folded it into a pastry bag.
âHi, Thierry.â I slumped on the stool and watched him layer in row after row of tiny scallop-shaped pastries. âPistachio?â
âOui.â
Daâs favorite. A manila folder lay on the counter. I flipped it open, idly. Inside were obituaries from the Sun Times and the Tribune .
Keith Nawisko, Chicago bus driver and officer of the Amalgamated Transit Union Local #56, died Friday after a brutal attack near N. Milwaukee Blvd.
âI find for Flynn.â Thierry clicked his tongue against his teeth. The buzzer dinged. He removed a batch from the oven and flipped the tiny cakes nimbly from the pan onto the cooling rack. âIs sad, no?â
âYeah.â There wasnât any