Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Twenty

John took a deep breath and waded in. "Hey, Mike," he began, trying his best to sound as if nothing had ever happened. "You find out who owns that 'Teahouse' website yet?"

Mike turned in his big orthopedic chair and leaned back in it, appraising John with a long, cool stare. "Working on it. Why?"

"I think your case and the Pride case are related."

"Pride and the Samuels murder? Why?"

"Lizzie and I were looking over old posts on that site. Somebody had posted some beach photos of Julie, and I noticed a bracelet she was wearing. When I picked up the box of his desk stuff to take to his mother, I found that bracelet sitting on top of all the stuff in there."

Pride had definitely been a boss who still liked to work cases. John thought of all the opportunity that would have provided him to muck up the Samuels case and possibly lose or hide evidence, and took a swallow of coffee to smooth the lump that rose in his throat.

"It wasn't in an evidence bag or anything," said John. If it had been, he'd have checked to see if Pride had signed it out before he died. "I assumed it was just something he'd put in his desk, like a girlfriend gave it to him or something. It's hard to believe he would have known Julie Samuels somehow, but—" Pride would never have left evidence in his desk, but since Mike had and the result had not been good, John simply finished with, "It's the bracelet."

Mike leaned back, arms behind his head, and lost some of that angry look for the first time since the Greenhouse thing. "Describe the bracelet," he said. John complied.

Mike snorted. "Robin, get real," he said. "Lots of those bracelets exist and they all look alike. And even if by some weird chance Pride did know the girl, that in no way proves it's her bracelet or that the same person killed both of them. Unless you're suggesting Pride did the Samuels murder, which is ridiculous."

John swallowed.

"So why do you think I should share notes on this?" Mike lowered his voice so it wouldn't carry across the squad room.

John tried to think of something to say that wouldn't get him into trouble. He couldn't. He shrugged.

"Screw you, Robin," Mike said, turning back to his desk. He picked up the phone and jabbed out a number as if he were jabbing someone's eyes out instead. "At least leave me the fucking cold cases."

                                                                                                ***

That night John pushed his dinner around on his plate. For once Lizzie had cooked and not burned anything, and somehow even managed to get, well, half the kitchen cleaned up. She walked around all evening in a fluttery sheer top and tiny boy-short underwear with buttons going up the front. Old-fashioned pink ruffles adorned her shapely bottom. The costume and her make-up, obviously left over from a photo shoot earlier today, made her look like a Betty Boop cartoon come to life, only lean and sexy instead of cute. Her short, dark curls completed the likeness. She strutted around on black pumps high enough to go out on the town in; she even poured him his favorite beer.

She sat down and stared at him, her lips a glossy pink pout. John felt bad for being so preoccupied—how many guys got served dinner by a Vogue model in this getup?

"Johnny, what's wrong?" she said. "You've been out of town more than you've been in town, and you haven't touched me in over a week." She scooted in her chair and flashed him one ruffled cheek. "Don't you like my Foxers? I shot their online catalog today, and they gave me my pick. Are you still mad at me? I got paid. There's money for last month's and this month's utilities in an envelope on the dresser. And I will replace that coffee machine, I swear."