Page 48

Officer Dustman is—was—a shitty cop in a lot of different ways. But Teague swore up and down there was no order to take him out yet. And this is not Teague’s work.

It’s not Gauphre’s either.

This is an entirely different methodology, a signature of sorts that purports something nefarious. Now I’m starting to sound like one of the old radio serials from decades ago.

I clean for hours on end, the process taking so much longer than normal.

“Hey. No ear porn?” Teague asks from the doorway, taking extra care to stay clear of the splatter zone.

A laugh huffs from me on a breath. I lift my chin to the bagged remains and say, “That’s what Dusty called my audiobooks last time he pulled me over.”

“Yeah? Did he do that often?”

I don’t pause in my work, eager to be done with this and get home to my… family is the word I would choose in a heartbeat. “No original material today? You sound like Eddie now.”

“And?”

I sigh. “And he pulled me over once or twice a week. At first for a taillight out, then for speeding. Sometimes, I think he just did it because he could, you know?”

Teague’s quiet for a rare moment, surveying the tasks that still remain. “You have another clean suit? A little bigger size?” I nod toward my supply box and go back to work while he crinkles Tyvek. “It would be a dick move to stand here talking while you do all the work.”

When he’s sufficiently covered, I give concise directions for each remaining task.

“Turns out, Dustman did a lot of things he shouldn’t have. It was brought to our attention that he was perhaps harassing women around town and⁠—”

That brings me up short. “Who brought that to your attention?”

“Eddie.” Just a name, no inflection behind it.

“When?”

Teague levels me with a stare that I struggle to interpret. “Recently. And rightfully so. The officer was spending time sitting outside your house. Rifle sight, zip ties, and a pile of crusty tissues in the seat next to him. Worse than that⁠—”

“How can something be worse than…” I wave my hand in the air because I don’t even want to repeat any of those words.

“He was on probation with the department. His shifts had been cut, but his bank account was nice and fat. Almost as juicy as all of this.”

The joke lands, and a laugh bubbles up. Nothing like a little gallows humor between friends.

“So he was collecting for side work. I can respect the hustle.” Who am I to judge a hard worker looking for some extra cash?

“He wasn’t on Christophe’s payroll. No one else is claiming him or his contract work, and we don’t have any leads on what that might even be. Just that he’s been following you, keeping an eye on you, and might have been dealing with some carpal tunnel if the pile of tissues is any indicator.”

Okay, so that part gives ickiness.

“And the mess?” I nod to the puddles of gelatinous goo. “Have we gotten anywhere with that?”

His head bobbles from side to side like he’s weighing his response. “Yes and no. Looks like an anticoagulant of some kind. But the previous bodies maybe didn’t get as big a dose. Maybe this guy’s heart was hammering it through his veins where the others were… I mean, beating much slower if at all. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

“What’d doc say about it?” It’s a big assumption that he was even looped in on this, but Hibou is usually brought in to confirm or finalize the hits. No one wants loose ends crawling away or rising up when I get here to clean. That was one of my stipulations. Dead means dead.

“That fucker. I try to avoid him when I can, and he’s not great with answering emails.” Teague stacks one disposal bin on top of another and lifts them easily. “Where do these go?”

“Compartment G, but you emailed him? About work details?” My stomach lodges in my throat at the mere thought of that security breach.

“Fuck’s sake, no. I didn’t email the bastard.” He lugs the remains out to my van and then returns to the pile of bags. “I’d just rather have my back sliced open by auto parts again than to spend time chatting him up. The bags go where?”

“I’m not a fan either. Compartment I.”