Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Pillows were changed out, hand towels, dish towels, blankets, indoor décor, outdoor décor, lights, wreaths, candles, rugs, and so many pine cones. Hannah loves them. When Sam saw all the Rubbermaid containers come out, he always complained.
“It’s only the first week of October,” he grumbled as he stomped up the stairs.
“I know!” I yelled after him. “I’m late this year.”
The kids were all conscripted into service, and the house went from summer breezy laid-back ease to cozy fall goodness. Since I loved autumn, I was always happy to see the leaves change, feel the weather go from sticky and muggy to crisp and chilly. And Sam always loved it when he saw the fall blankets draped on the couch, the lightweight ones put away for the season.
“I love my house,” he said, and pulled me down into his lap just as there was a knock on the front door.
“No,” I whined, arms wrapped around his neck, ready to kiss him.
“Maybe they’ll go away,” he whispered.
I shook my head. “No one ever goes away.”
The doorbell rang then, which took Dobby to the door, barking his head off.
I groaned, Sam groaned, and we both got up. Hanging back as I always did when Sam was home—he preferred that—I waited as he opened the door.
“Good evening, Chief Deputy,” a police detective greeted him, and I knew that from the gold shield clipped to the lapel of his suit jacket. Also, he looked familiar. “I’m detective Daley O’Meara from the Fourth. I was here once before when––”
“We found Ruby Bishop,” I blurted out, looking up at Sam. “You saw the little girl in the street and saved her. She was three then.”
Sam nodded and offered his hand to Daley. “I do remember, and of course I know you’re Duncan Stiel’s old partner, Jimmy O’Meara’s, son.”
“That’s right,” he said, smiling at Sam, shaking his hand.
“What can we do for you, Detective?”
Stepping sideways, we were faced with two more detectives, same gold shields, but these two looked like they had walked straight out of my television from the set of a police procedural. One was very sleek and well-dressed in a Hugo Boss suit; the other reminded me of the guys I used to score pot from in college.
“This is Roberto Salazar and his partner, Jago Mabe, from Narcotics.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam told him, squinting at the two men, crossing his arms, which could be intimidating. The bulging biceps and the no handshaking was not particularly friendly. “We work with them quite a bit.”
My husband had horrific manners at times. Moving by him, into the doorway, I asked if everyone would like to come inside.
“Yes, please,” Mabe said, pushing his aviators up into his unruly mane of brown hair.
I turned to look at Sam, who grunted but stepped back so I could hold the door wide so all three could come into the house. Once everyone was seated in the living room after Sam carried chairs in from the kitchen for the two of us—we gave our guests the couch—I asked if they would like something to drink.
“I could use some water,” Mabe told me. “And something for pain.”
“Really?” Salazar said under his breath, but I heard him.
“I could die from this headache,” he told the man who I would have been able to tell was his partner even without the earlier introduction. They sat close to one another and were quite comfortable in one another’s space. “And then where would you be?”
Salazar looked heavenward for a moment, I was guessing to ask the good Lord to grant him patience, before he smiled at me and asked for a water as well. Daley said he was good.
In the kitchen, I got out three bottles of water, got a powder hydrator for Mabe, poured it into the first bottle and was shaking it up as I returned. They were speaking generally, talking weather and sports.
I passed two bottles to Mabe, along with three Tylenol capsules, because really, who took just two? I explained about the hydrator and how my daughter swore by them, and then gave the third bottle to Salazar. Once I took a seat beside Sam, O’Meara took a breath.
“Were you aware,” he began, “that in June of twenty twenty-two your daughter stole a truck full of cash and weapons from the Colima cartel out of Sinaloa?”
Sam was scowling, which meant he was irritated. “I didn’t know it was the Colima cartel because the DEA took custody of the men my daughter left on the sidewalk and the truck. We all knew it was drug money, but the word I got back from Agent Stafford, who’s our liaison over there, was that it was a dead issue. Are you saying it’s not?”
“It was, he was right,” Salazar told Sam, leaning forward on the couch. “They haven’t made any new inroads into Chicago since they popped up on the DEA’s radar.”