Page 19 of Falling For You

The Spotter

ANDY

"Walsh!"

I stood from my desk and headed to Burns's office.

Lieutenant Burns was behind his desk with a flyer in his hand. Fire Prevention Week. A cartoon dalmatian in a fireman's hat grinned at me from the page.

"We've got a presentation at a local elementary school next week. Fire department's running the event, but they've asked for a uniformed officer to talk to the kids about what to do in an emergency. Dialing 911, knowing their address, that kind of thing. You're the only female officer on shift that week, and they want representation."

"I'll be there, Lieutenant."

"Good. I'll send you the details."

I walked out of his office and nearly collided with Elliot in the hallway.

He stepped back. I turned and kept walking.

It had been weeks since I stormed out of his apartment. I decided on my floor that night that I wasn't going to let Elliot Handler get to me at work. I wanted to make detective before I ever met him. I wasn't going to let whatever I still felt about Elliot stand between me and the shield.

We were just colleagues now. I didn't have to acknowledge him unless the job required it, and I didn't care what he did with that. On balance, I had the upper hand. One conversation with HR about a sergeant who hid a four-year relationship with a patrol officer in his chain of command, and his career was done. And he knew that. That's why he tried so hard to twist the breakup to make it sound like it was my fault, some sad attempt at saving his own ass. There was nothing he could do to me. Bully me, maybe. But that was nothing I hadn't dealt with before.

"Ready for another thrilling day of patrolling the great city of Las Vegas?" Doug fell into step beside me, coffee in hand.

I smiled. "I can barely contain myself."

"That's the spirit."

We walked out together.

Dispatch sent us to an apartment complex off Maryland Parkway just before noon. Dead body. Responding officers requested.

The victim was a man named Ben Mendelson. Mid-thirties, found by his landlord after two days of unanswered calls. He was on the living room floor, eyes open, no visible wounds.

The detective who arrived did his job. Examined the body, walked the apartment, asked the landlord the standard questions.

"Suicide?"

Elliot had appeared behind us. He was looking at me, waiting for a response.

I didn't give him one.

He cleared his throat and walked past us to the detective.

"I don't think it's a suicide," I told Doug quietly.

"What?"

"I don't think he killed himself."

"What makes you say that?"

"Look at his apartment. Nothing in there is cheap. He's got a pour-over setup with a gooseneck kettle. A Parker pen and thick, textured Japanese stationery beside the phone. Ben Mendelson was meticulous about everything he owned." I kept my voice low. "The suicide note is torn from a spiral notebook. The ink is ballpoint, thin, cheap. That note didn't come from this apartment. And he's dressed, Doug. Jacket on, shoes laced, keys on the counter. He was about to walk out his front door."

"Do you want to tell Handler?"

I shook my head.