Finding Our Reality (The Reality Duet #2)

Chapter 6

CRUTCH

She’s following me down the hallway, hauling her purse and a large computer work bag on her shoulder. I offered to take it from her, but she refused. On our way to the conference room, we pass by the large bullpen office I share with the other investigators—Marcum, Leary, Colson, and the new guy, Wilson.

She pauses, staring at Marcum’s desk. “Where is everyone?”

“Marcum is in a lieutenant’s meeting. Leary and Colson are out of the building, and the new guy, Wilson, is actually on loan for a couple of weeks to a department in South Alabama. He did some undercover work when he was on patrol, and he’s on loan doing the same thing for a different department.”

She walks into the office, not asking for permission, acting like this is a second home to her. And I don’t stop her. I should, but I don’t. I always do what I shouldn’t, and that hasn’t changed. She opens one of Marcum’s desk drawers and smiles to herself, quickly shoving it closed. I don’t know why a drawer full of protein bars make her happy, but I’m glad they do. That little smile is the best thing I’ve seen in days.

She stops for a moment at my desk. There’s nothing personal on it. No framed photos. No mementos. Nothing. At least, there’s nothing on top of my desk. If she opened a drawer, she would see the dog-eared copy of Silas Marner , the last book we read together before I left her.

Reaching across to Colson’s desk, she quickly rearranges his framed photographs and shoves his stapler and tape roll into the wicker basket of the large potted plant between his and Wilson’s desks. She breezes past me, wafting the scent of her shampoo in my direction. “Let’s go.”

“You know he’s gonna blame me for that.”

She shrugs and makes a huh sound, quickly filing her fun side away and bringing Ella back to the forefront.

I unlock the conference room door and step aside, giving her wide berth. I reserved the room for the foreseeable future so we can leave our paperwork here and I can lock the room each time we leave. I’ve already brought in my case files on Carrie and stocked the room with office materials, a dry erase board, and a thumbtack board. I even bought the kind of ink pens and highlighters she likes. Well, used to like. She wastes no time pulling out her laptop and getting hooked up.

I pull up a seat, adjusting my weapon as I sit down. “So, what exactly is this business of yours? What do you do? Why did the mayor fall all over himself and break protocol to have you work on this case?”

She glares at me with those honey and copper eyes, blinking her black eyelashes. She’s seriously considering not answering my question. If she’s not even going to communicate with me, this will be one hell of a long investigation. It’s already long considering I spent the entire weekend obsessing about what might have happened when she left the bar with that guy.

I know what happened. I’ve left the bar with my fair share of women, and I know the outcome. And it’s driving me into the insane asylum. Driving me into an early grave.

Eventually, she concedes. “LMC Forensic Consulting. That’s my company.”

“LMC? What’s that stand for?”

“It doesn’t stand for anything.”

“It’s an acronym, Lulu. It obviously stands for something.”

She stalls, chewing on her lip. Then she rubs the scar on her neck. “Love My Career.”

Bullshit. She’s lying. I toss the letters around in my head. LMC. I wish it stood for Luella Margaret Crutchfield. Wishful thinking, I know. Giving her this win, I move on. “So, what does a forensic consultant do?”

“I do a little bit of everything.”

I grab an ink pen and flick it back and forth on the table, annoying her. “Care to elaborate?” She scowls like I just asked her to explain quantum physics to a toddler.

“A lot of what I do is the tedious searching that others don’t want to do or have the manpower to do. Say an attorney is needing to comb through two years of bank and credit card statements to search for specific transactions that occurred at only one particular gas station. I search for that. Take it a step further and say those transactions then need to be categorized with cell phone activity that occurred at the exact same time. I do that.” She just named the exact things she did with Carrie’s case twelve years ago, and she’s turned it into her profession. “I do independent review of police case files to give my opinions. Maybe ask the questions that others might have forgotten. Or say a prosecuting or defense team needs a certain expert witness in a field, but they don’t have the time to research each possible expert’s credentials and expertise to determine who may be a good fit. I do that. For instance, a surgery malpractice suit may need a witness physician who’s specialized in a very specific field of study. Maybe there’s only ten doctors in the United States who know this kind of technique. I search out who would be the best fit for the case.”

I can’t believe it. She’s a detective. She may not carry a badge or interrogate people, but she definitely does the analysis part of the job. And it sounds like she does it well. “What about the TV stuff?”

“I was in the courthouse in Mobile one day, consulting for a prosecutor. It was a pretty high-profile case in the fact that it had a lot of news coverage. A prominent councilman was accused of killing his pregnant mistress and dumping her body in the bay. An assistant producer was there doing coverage for one of the major cable channels—one of the all-crime channels. The two of us got to talking, built a rapport. The channel was looking for a scouting and researching correspondent to cover and run down possible true crime events for coverage. It started with them. Others heard about my work, and I begin consulting for some of the major TV news magazines as well. I cover all of Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi, and the Florida Panhandle. I do preliminary interviews so they can plan accordingly for any coverage they may want to give a certain case.”

“So, watching all those crime shows and documentaries actually led to something. Unbelievable. What about being an architect?”

She straightens her shoulders and pulls a notebook with green flowers on it from her large bag. “I’m here for Carrie’s case, Ry. That’s it. Not to rehash my life. We should get to work, shouldn’t we?”

She doesn’t want to talk about the past. Especially if it involves me. Can I blame her?

When I don’t answer, she forges forward. “So, I was thinking we really need to start at the beginning. Go through everything with a fine-tooth comb before conducting any new interviews.”

New interviews? How can I take her on new interviews? There’s always a risk with any interview, no matter how benign it may seem. She really thinks I’ll put her in harm’s way? Is she in harm’s way when she does interviews for the TV people? I shake my head, trying to clear myself of the binding cobwebs of worry. I can’t allow myself to get distracted with that. Not now. I need to do my job. “We’re not starting anything until you tell me what brought you in on Friday. You found something or heard something or discovered something. I need to know what it is, and I need to know right now. You may be used to leading the show, Lulu, to being your own boss. But make no mistake, this is my investigation. If you try to hide something from me, I’ll toss you out on your ass. Mayor, sheriff, and city police chief be damned.”

Ice cold blood courses through her veins. It’s like I can actually see it through her winter-tanned skin. I’m such an idiot. Why do I keep sticking my foot in my mouth? We both know I already tossed her out on her ass once before.

Oh well, I guess she knows my words are no idle threat, then.

With about as much emotion as a carrot stick, she reaches into her bag and lays a small plastic baggie in my hand. I hold it up in the light. “Tape?”

“From the envelope. It will need to be tested for fingerprints, DNA. I touched the tape holding the envelope to the underside of Carrie’s jewelry box so my trace will be on some of the tape.”

“Envelope?”

She produces another plastic baggie with an envelope inside of it. My heart rumbles against my ribcage like thunder. Something tells me that once I see what’s inside this envelope, my world will never be the same again. “Let me grab some gloves,” I mumble.

Lulu beats me to the punch, pulling a small box of latex gloves from her large work bag. “Here.”

She impresses me more every single second.

I have to shake my hands before reaching inside. They are trembling. I don’t want Lulu to see me as weak. I can’t help but wonder if she thinks I left her because I was weak or strong. Selfish or selfless?

Carefully, I grab a small stack of pictures. Wordlessly, I flip through them. As an investigator, I’m trained to keep my feelings in check, to keep things close to the vest. And I’m having a very difficult time with that right now. I want to scream. I want to break shit. I want to scoop Lulu in my arms and kiss away the pain I know she’s feeling inside.

I’m furious. Disgusted. Horrified. Gutted.

Carrie is high. Unconscious. And being raped.

Lulu’s whisper is choked. “There’s more.” She nods at the envelope.

My fingers wrap around something plastic. I’ve not had any one-on-one experience with a pregnancy test before. But I know enough to know that the two lines mean one thing.

I look over at Lulu.

I’m a fool. A damn fool.

I’m about to get myself into trouble. So much trouble.

We’re told to never make any promises. Ever. Never make a promise in this line of work.

Yet, here I am. All I want in this world is to make her feel better. So, I’ll promise her the moon and the stars. Why?

Because I shouldn’t. And I always do what I shouldn’t.