“You’re going to inform Angelique’s family of the new sighting,” I say after another moment.
“The fewer people who know, the better.”
“Are you kidding me?” Now he does have my attention. “You have a significant lead and you’re not going to notify Guerline and Emmanuel?”
“When we know more, have something specific to share—”
“Oh, come on. You wouldn’t even have these latest discoveries without Emmanuel. The family trusts you, they came to you—”
“Actually, Emmanuel came to you—”
“And you wonder why? They knew then that you were holding back, and it did nothing but fuel further mistrust.”
Lotham remains calm and controlled: “Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never lied to a family. Never omitted a detail, buried a lead. You do this work, you know how it is.”
I scowl. But I can’t look him in the eye and we both know it. I’ve made this judgment call before myself. I just don’t agree it’s the right approach with Angelique’s aunt and brother.
I stack more chairs. Lotham returns to sweeping. Stoney appears and tends to the register.
Viv finishes first. Her husband no sooner appears on the other side of the smoked-glass doors than Viv comes bustling out, putting on her jacket. Telepathy after so many years of marriage? Or does he text her upon arrival? I don’t know why I prefer the more romantic option.
Stoney takes off next. One last glance between Lotham and me. Then with some sort of mental shrug, he disappears out the side door. Lotham puts away the broom. I finish up cleaning the bar area.
Then that’s it. Work is done. The customers and other employees gone. There’s just this man and me, and a homicidal cat upstairs.
Lotham walks toward me. He’s light on his feet. A boxer. In hindsight, I should’ve known instantly.
He stops right in front of me, and I can’t help myself. I raise my hands. I dance my fingertips across his face, feeling out the line of his jaw, the soft, ragged edge of his mangled ear, then find another scar, just over his left eye. He has ridiculously long, thick eyelashes. Why do men always have the best eyelashes?
His buzzed hair scrapes against my palm. Closer in texture to his end-of-day stubble and nothing at all like his silky eyebrows. He has furrowed lines in his forehead. I trace each one. Another sign of his stressful job? I like the mystery of those lines. What they communicate but cannot say.
My hands fall to his shoulders. Heavily muscled, rigid to the touch. Same with his arms. A boxer who still spends plenty of time in the ring. Up this close, I can see the pulse pounding at the base of his throat, hear his ragged breath.
I whisper my lips across the hollow of his throat. He smells of sandalwood, tastes like salt. The cleaned-up version of the man, but I would find him compelling either way.
“Good night, Frankie,” he says.
“Good night, Detective.” Then I raise my lips and kiss him properly.
For a moment, he unleashes. A storm of wild attraction and raw power as he crushes me against him. His mouth devours. His tongue ravages and I respond eagerly. This is not drunken fumbling or mindless fucking. This is feeling your feels.
I don’t protest when he pulls away, releases my arms, and steps back.
“Good night, Frankie,” he says again.
“Good night, Detective.”
Then I let him out the front door, and watch him walk away.
CHAPTER 19
It is a bright, sunny morning as I head down the final few blocks to the Samdis’ apartment. Even with daylight on my side, I find myself hunching my shoulders and gazing around nervously. If Mattapan is a mix of good and bad neighborhoods, this isn’t one of the good ones.
Rusted chain-link fences buckle and gape, revealing modest yards long on neglect—abandoned piles of battered kids’ toys, drifts of dead shrubs, borders of shattered beer bottles and used condoms. Each triple-decker seems determined to appear even more broken down than its neighbor. I honestly can’t tell who’s winning.
This isn’t the place to be after dark. I’m not even sure it’s somewhere I should be now, as I feel eyes starting to fall upon me, and more and more human-sized silhouettes appear at the windows to monitor my progress. I am definitely an outsider here.
Deep breath. In through my mouth. Exhaling through my nose. Not the first time I’ve been through this. Stay calm, relaxed, focus. I’m not a threat. I have no issues. Just a couple of questions for the family.
On my right, the front door opens and three African American males come strolling out, crossing their arms over their muscled chests and pinning me with their best thousand-yard stare. Followed by similar movement from the house across the street. Then up ahead to the right. Then left.
Am I this unwanted here?
I arrive at the Samdis’ building, which is neither the best nor worst on the block. The narrow triple-decker has shed huge flakes of dark green paint, while the stacked front deck sags dangerously forward. A giant piece of plywood patches a hole along the right side. Two more are nailed on the roof.
I don’t have to open the front gate. It’s already collapsed, the front corner gouged deep into the earth. I shimmy around it, kicking a deflated soccer ball that plows into a pile of empty booze bottles. I startle from the noise, snag my jacket on the rusty chain link, and tear a hole.
“Shit!” I curse, then belatedly catch myself. Relaxed and focused. The family I need to speak with are looking for reasons not to like me, excuses not to help. My job is not to give them one.
I pick my way up the front steps. One of the boards is so rotted, I skip over it completely, landing harder than I would like on the one above. I feel it shake upon impact, and clamber up the remaining stairs in a burst of adrenaline.
The second I hit the landing, the front door opens. A young Black male stands before me in a white tank top, and sagging dark jeans. He wears his hair in a million braids, curving back from his face before falling like a curtain to his shoulders. He has a giant diamond stud in one ear, and enough ink sleeving his forearms and twining around his neck to serve as a second shirt. Even looking straight at him, it’s impossible to see behind the confusion of tattoos, jewelry, and hair extensions. Urban camouflage.
“We don’t want you here,” he states. His eyes are dark and flat.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Samdi,” I say.
“We don’t want you here.”
“It’s regarding her daughter, Livia.”
“Get the fuck off my property.”
“Do you own the whole house?” I ask him curiously. “What a great accomplishment. And at such a young age, too.”