The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

“Okay, well, thank you for the muffin and the coffee.” She dropped two dollars on the counter and left.

She’d just bit into the muffin when her phone rang. Chew, chew, chew… She swallowed a large chunk and fished her phone out of her pocket. Caller ID told her it was Malone. “Hey.”

“Where are you?”

“Just about to head in.”

“Good. Come to my office straightaway.” With that he clicked off.

Something had Malone worked up, and that, combined with the strange way May had been with her, gave Amanda the niggling feeling something wasn’t right.

She drove to the station, breaking a few speeding laws, but when she walked through the building, she found her legs weren’t moving fast. She made her way through the cubicle maze belonging to the Homicide Unit, passing Cud, who looked up at her but turned away just as quickly.

“Come on—get in here.” Malone was waving her down the hallway like a marshal corralling an airplane into a parking spot.

She went inside, him behind her, and he shut the door.

“We don’t have long,” he said.

“What happened?” She had a sick feeling crawling over her skin, and it tamped down the urgency of filling him in on the bracelet and data chip.

“First, please tell me you have that alibi.”

“You’re freaking me out a bit.”

“Never mind that… Your alibi?”

She hadn’t done anything with Motel Guy’s plate last night, but she had a link to hunt him down. “Working on it.”

“Working on it. Oy vey.” He started pacing his small office. Stopped. Put his hands on his hips. “What seems to be the issue?”

“It’s a little complicated, and I’d been up for over thirty hours and needed sleep.”

“Just don’t tell me you don’t really have one because I’ll wind up with a hernia.”

“Oh, I have one.”

“Okay, good, good.” He looked at her as if expecting her to hand it over, despite the fact she’d just said she was working on it.

She shrank. “As soon as I have it, I’ll—”

There was a knock on the door.

“There’s the shit hitting the fan,” Malone mumbled. “I didn’t even get a chance to warn you.”

“Wha—”

Malone got the door. “Lieutenant Hill, how nice to—”

“Save it, Malone.” Lieutenant Sherry Hill strode into the room wearing a navy-blue pencil skirt with matching jacket, a cream silk blouse spilling over the neckline—a string bean on stilettos holding on to a black leather attaché case.

The lieutenant looked around the room and pursed her lips, which were painted a bright red in stark contrast to her otherwise fair features. “Small little office, isn’t it? We should have moved this meeting to mine, but it’s best we get down to business.” She leaned against the filing credenza and reached into her attaché.

Amanda glanced at Malone, who closed his eyes and shook his head. Whatever was coming out of that thing was not good news. Malone was a shade of green or, as Lindsey would have said, “he had gills.” It was how she described it when she wasn’t feeling well.

“You could sit in my seat if you’d like,” Malone offered Hill, likely more a delay tactic than out of any real concern for her comfort.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”