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Jack agreed, thanked Ron, and left. He sent Tess the details; she would alert Luisa, the Angelhart secret weapon. Jack grinned. His little sister was a whiz with computers, thanks to the military.
Jack slid into his truck just as his phone vibrated with a text message. He assumed it was Tess confirming. He was wrong.
The message was from Logan Monroe.
Can you meet this afternoon? I need to hire you.
Twenty-Seven
Margo Angelhart
I sent Jack’s call to voice mail, but followed with a quick text that I’d call in a few.
I’d just arrived at the Cactus Park police precinct because I needed to confirm that Carillo ran my plates. That meant talking to Rick.
Sergeant Rick Devlin worked swing shift in the 900, a long narrow precinct bordering Glendale west of the I-17 corridor. I had debated going to his house in Anthem, but decided after three months of no contact, showing up on his doorstep wasn’t the best idea.
So here I was, outside his precinct and hoping it was open.
Phoenix PD was so understaffed that they often didn’t have the people to handle walk-ins. They were understaffed three years ago when Jack left, and they were no better off now. Phoenix was the fifth largest city in the US and had half as many officers per capita as the fourth largest city—and a third as many officers as the sixth largest city.
So staffing precincts for walk-in traffic was one of the first luxuries to go.
Just because Rick was a sergeant didn’t mean he sat at his desk all day—he was often in the field, responding for backup or whenever a ranked officer was needed at a crime scene. But, because he was a sergeant, he was always in the precinct at the beginning of his shift.
I arrived at ten minutes before two, when he would officially be on duty, and was fortunate that the precinct was open, manned by a very pregnant woman in leggings, a filmy blouse, and lightweight jacket. My guess, a cop on light duty.
“Hi, I’m here to see Sergeant Devlin,” I said. “Margo Angelhart.”
“Angelhart? You know Jack?” She had a New York or New Jersey accent. I know they’re different, but linguistics are not in my skill set. I can tell the difference between the west, the east, and the south, and that’s about it.
“My brother.”
Angelhart is not a common name. I was related to every Angelhart I’d ever met.
“How’s he doing?”
“Good. You worked with him?”
“Eight years ago, before he got his gold shield, he was my FTO. Back when I only had one kid and thought that was it. You talk to him often?”
“Just had burgers and beer last night.”
“Next time you see him, tell him Fitz got knocked up again.”
“You’re Fitz.”
“Eleanor Fitzpatrick, a mouthful.”
“Try Margaret Angelhart ten times fast.”
Fitz laughed. “I saw Dev come in, but let me see if he’s free.”
She rose, put a hand on her back. “I swear, this is the last kid I’m popping out. ’Course, I said that four years ago with number two. It just gets harder the older I get.”
There was a time I wanted kids. That’s what happens when you grow up in a great family—you want to make a great family of your own. But I was on the verge of turning thirty-three and didn’t have a steady boyfriend, let alone a husband, and I wasn’t going to do it alone. I’d thought Charlie Endicott was the one, then he wasn’t. For a while, I thought Rick Devlin was the one.
He wasn’t. At least, the jury’s still out. And the longer the jury was out, the less likely we’d make it work.
