the time, department coffee was scarcely above toxic, let alone palatable.
“There’s a place on the way, though. Great espresso. And, it just so happens, they make the best carrot cake around. Which, for the record, is Bishop’s favorite.”
“That should matter to me because?”
“Look, I get it.” Pausing outside the car, Williams looked to Beck over the shiny blue roof. “They came at you for no reason, and you’re used to it, so you’ve built up this defensive attitude. But you’re not going to make any friends like this.”
“Well, lucky for me, this is my job. I’m not here to make friends.”
“Couldn’t have made it clearer,” Williams said. “But it’s a helluva lot easier when you have them. Bishop is not just our provisional sergeant. Your introduction today was not just blatant insubordination. The man is God to them. If you’re on his bad side, you’re on all their bad sides, and, by association, so am I. So, I am asking you, please, make a gesture. I’ll even buy.”
Williams did have a point. More than one, actually. Bishop was her superior officer. The fact she wasn’t fired on the spot was all but miraculous. And, fair or not, the crap that fell on her also fell on Williams. That was just the nature of being partners. Beck only wished she knew exactly where the line was between being a good partner and appearing weak.
“Fine,” she caved. “Take me to the place.”
“Thank you,” Williams said as he slid into the driver’s seat. “By the way…” He saved his next big announcement until they’d pulled out of the space and started down the road. “My wife wants you to come over for dinner Thursday night.”
“Are you serious?” Beck asked him again.
“Yeah.” A smile dimpled Williams’ cheek. “This time I am.”
5 - Metro Homicide - Monday, 10:30 a.m.
Workday well underway, Beck was no longer a novelty as she stepped back into the bullpen. Phones ringing, clacks of fingers against keyboards, no one had time to give her attention, bad or otherwise.
The cardboard carton in hand, she spotted Bishop’s name on a nameplate, and headed over, prepared to choke back some pride in the name of departmental harmony.
“He’s not here.” Cockburn looked up as Beck took in the desk chair pushed flush against the edge of Bishop’s desk.
“Where is he?”
“Forty-eight-hour mandatory leave.”
Well, fuck. That wasn’t going to work in her favor. Unless, by some slim chance, Bishop’s absence and their fight that morning were completely unrelated events.
“Swollen spleen.” So much for that theory. “Doc sent him home to make sure it doesn’t rupture. Pack a helluva punch for a little lady, don’t ya?”
Groaning internally, Beck knew no gesture was going to have much effect after that.
“Is that carrot cake?” Cockburn looked to the package in her hand. “I’ll take it.”
Irritated, mostly at the fact she had nothing else to do with it, Beck tossed the carton onto the corner of his desk, deciding it gesture enough. Turning for her own desk, she glimpsed Martinez watching from his office, curious already about their hasty return, and, when her phone tickled her hip just in time, Beck reached for it at once.
“Did you get it?”
“Three, two, one, in your inbox,” Dougie replied.
Pressing the power button on her computer, Beck gestured Williams over. “Thanks, Dougie. Go back to sleep.”
“Already done,” he said, and, line going silent, Beck dropped the cell onto her desk.
“Video already?” Williams was cautiously pleased as Beck clicked into the anonymous email to pull up the footage. “How’d you get it so fast?”
“I know a guy.”
“A guy with a legal connection to the case?”
“Would that make you feel better?”
“It would make it admissible in court.”
“We won’t need it in court,” Beck said. “We’ll get the video footage from the company eventually. This just hastens the process.”
Glancing up and around, as if they were the ones under surveillance - which they probably were - Williams was too intrigued not to return his eyes to the screen as the video started to roll.
On it, Mr. Basu paced behind the counter. Back and forth. Back and forth. No sound or color, it was like watching an old movie. Though, Beck could already guess the ending. Fast-forwarding through the first thirty minutes, they watched Mr. Basu stride and turn, stride and turn, stopping only when customers came in. Until, suddenly, he went down.
“Whoa. What just happened?” Williams asked.
Going back just enough, Beck could feel Williams hover closer as she pressed “Play.”
In the moments just before he fell, Mr. Basu ceased to pace. Staring into empty space, he put on a smile as a customer came in, checking the man out with clumsy movements, and his hand slid onto the countertop as the customer left, as if he needed it for support.
Then, Mr. Basu seized. Entire body going stiff for a moment, his left hand rose to his head as the paralysis released him. Right arm flailing, he stumbled forward, hand missing the countertop and thrusting toward the shelf below. Surprise leaping onto his face, it shown for only an instant before the man crumpled behind the counter and out of the camera’s view.
“What in the hell just happened?” Williams questioned again. “Rewind it.”
“Watch his face.” Beck raised a finger to the screen. Pressing “Play” just before Mr. Basu reached for his head, she hit “Pause” when the small black line appeared beneath the man’s nose, long before he made it to the floor.
“Is that blood?” Williams practically wrapped around Beck to get closer to the screen.
“His nosebleed started then,” Beck uttered.
“So, he had some kind of seizure?”
“One of his eyes was crossed,” Beck said. “That can be a sign of stroke.”
“So, he had a stroke, reached out, and grabbed the gun by mistake? But how did the shell from a shotgun pointed away from him end up in him?”
“There were steel beams running under the counter. Not more than three feet from him. I’ve seen plenty of shells ricochet that far. If it hit the beam and splintered, that would also explain the fragments Baxton found around the main entry point.”
“And did it?” Looking up, it felt like Williams’ eyes were boring holes into Beck’s face. “Ricochet off a steel beam? Is that what you found under the counter?”
“Yeah.” Beck returned her eyes to the screen. “There was a dent.”
“And you kept that to yourself, because?”
“Because it’s not my job to process a crime scene,” Beck said. “It’s my job to find the killer after the crime scene is processed. In this case, there is no killer, so we’re done. Right? I mean, that is my job description?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Sinking into his chair as he made it back to his desk, Williams stared as if he didn’t know quite how to process her. “I’m all about efficiency.”
“Is that going to be your campaign slogan when you run for Sheriff one day?”
Williams’ smile assured Beck, when he did run, he was planning to win. “I just thought you weren’t here to make friends.”
“I’m not,” Beck responded. “But I sure as hell don’t need more enemies. I just want to do the job, and I don’t want to make it any harder than it has to be.”
“Mm hm,” Williams hummed.
“Okay.” Beck felt challenged to provide further proof she was doing it for the good of the case. “One of three things will happen next. One, the video will get here from the security company, and we will see exactly what we just saw. Two, CSU will realize the victim’s shotgun was fired and reevaluate their evidence. Three, the most likely scenario, Baxton will know, as soon as she cuts into the vic, that he had a stroke. She’ll also know the exact ammunition, at which point she will tell CSU to check the shotgun and go back to the scene, where they’ll find the dent, and this will
be ruled an accidental death and no longer be our case.”
“Yeah, that’s what will happen.” Williams nodded his agreement.
Satisfied she had at last satisfied him, Beck glanced again to Martinez’s office, relieved to see he was on the phone, and hoping they could get some actual legal evidence before he asked for a rundown.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Can I stop you?” Beck smiled across the desks.
“Why were you looking for this?” Williams questioned. “What made you think it wasn’t a robbery?”
“I don’t know.” Beck shrugged. “It just didn’t look like a robbery.”
“It looked exactly like a robbery.”
“Well, yeah. I mean, it did. But it didn’t.”
“Care to expound upon that a little?”
Not really. Beck would have preferred Williams just let it go, allow her to have a moment of professional insight without need to explain it. But she knew she couldn’t expect that. At least, not this soon.
“I’m sure you know convenience store robberies typically occur late night to early morning. They are rarest during the rush.”
“There’s always the possibility of a desperate criminal,” Williams countered.
“Then, there was the mess,” Beck said. “But not as much of a mess as there should have been. The vic, he kept that shotgun for protection. He wasn’t the type to go out every weekend for target practice. A gun in his face, I think he would have given a perp whatever he wanted, or would have tried to run. Either way, when someone threatens you, things don’t stay neat. You’re all over the place. You drop things. You run into things.”
“What about the