Make Me Up (Killer Style 3)

He rolled to a stop near the police barricade blocking off the crime scene and parked on the street away from the news trucks and the pack of reporters lingering nearby.

He spoke into the Bluetooth hidden in his helmet. “Call Reggie.”

Reggie Watts had found his way off the same streets as Cam thanks to the judge who’d scared them both straight. He’d gone from delinquent to detective, his eye always on the next step up the ladder towards headquarters. Cam gave him crap about it, but at least Reggie had a plan that went beyond next week. Cam didn’t have a plan that went past the next day.

His brother in everything but blood picked up on the second ring. “Not a good time.”

“No shit.” Was there ever a good time with the lives they led? “I’m down the block and need in.”

“No.” Flat and unequivocal, Reggie sounded as hardnosed as he looked.

Cam dialed back the annoyance that flashed up like a fire from the pit of his belly. This wasn’t the time for Reggie to start toeing the line he’d blatantly ignored for so long. Cam had to make him see that. “The makeup artist, she’s a friend.”

Reggie snorted. “Assuming this is the same person you know, I’m not walking you behind the tape to see the person who’s being a total pain in my ass.”

“Sounds like Drea.” He couldn’t keep the grin out of his voice. The woman didn’t just lack a poker face, she didn’t have a poker mouth, either. If she thought it, she said it.

“She doesn’t like cops,” Reggie groused.

“Lots of folks don’t like cops. Shit, I remember when you didn’t like cops.”

“Can you get her to give more than a perfunctory statement?” Reggie had lowered his voice, but there was no mistaking the growing frustration in his tone. “This scene makes me twitch, and I’ve already had a call from the commissioner, an alderman, and the husband’s attorney demanding a quick resolution one way or another.”

“You think it was murder?” Cam asked.

“That’s what my gut is telling me, but I won’t know for sure until the ME gives her report. It looks like everyone and their dog hated the vic, and right now I have more suspects than my bottle of Tums can handle.” Reggie sighed. “The more detail I can get—and the sooner I can get it—the faster I get this stink bomb off my plate. If you can get that woman to talk so I can eliminate her from a long fucking list of potentials, then I’ll welcome you with open arms.”

Cam should gracefully accept victory. But he couldn’t. Things didn’t work that way between brothers. “So you admit that you need my help to do your job?”

“I’m hanging up on your sorry ass.”

As always, he’d taken it a step too far. “Get me in and Drea will talk.” The words rushed out before Reggie got pissed off enough to hang up.

The only sound Cam heard was the blood rushing through his ears. If Reggie turned him down, he’d still find a way in, but when he had a choice, the easy route was usually the fastest.

“She better,” Reggie said finally. “Or else she’s going to be spending time down at the station as a material witness with new jewelry, courtesy of the state. We’ll see if that gets her to say more than the bare minimum.”

There was no way in hell he could guarantee Drea talking, but he wasn’t about to make that confession. “Meet me on the north side of the barricade.”

Reggie grunted his assent, and Cam hung up.

He pushed aside his collection of burner phones and the change of clothes he always kept in the Victory’s saddlebag and made space for his helmet. He scanned the area around the blue and white sawhorses spanning the four lanes of Fifth Street. A couple of uniforms stood with their thumbs hooked in their belts, chatting with the reporter from Chanel Four. Otherwise it was a ghost town. All the activity was happening in front of the brownstone, which was exactly why he wanted to get Drea out of there—cops made them both twitchy.

“She’s back here.” Reggie said as he led Cam into the brownstone’s foyer, which was big enough to land a Huey helicopter. “We had to move everyone inside after a couple of reporters got close. You walk where I walk and stay the fuck out of the front room.”

No wonder Reggie was in a surly mood—even for him. With a vic who obviously had more money than God, the top brass had to have his balls in a vise already. “What’s in the front room?”

“My scene, which you are not screwing with.”

Cam gave a one finger salute to his friend’s back as he steamrolled down the hall. “Got it, detective.”

His steps slowed as he near the open doorway to the front room. The unmistakable sounds of the crime scene investigator’s camera flashing buzzed over the low hum of shop talk. A young beat cop covered in nervous sweat stood guard outside the entry. The way his unblinking eyes looked anywhere but at Reggie left little doubt as to who had shredded that guy’s hide enough to warrant soaking his Haines undershirt.

“Don’t even look in there,” Reggie grumbled as they made their way past an empty, giant-ass fish tank next to the rookie.

“Why not?” Cam asked, stilling in front of the door and craning his neck enough to see a blonde sprawled out on the floor, surrounded by cops and evidence markers.

A wide wall of one pissed off detective stepped between Cam and the open door. “Because that’s my crime scene, and I don’t even want you breathing in its direction. The chief will have my ass if he hears you’re here.”