been
barking her brains out."
Riley gasped, hand over her heart, heavy rain pelting her face.
"What the hell are you doing out here?"
"Stop answering questions with questions," Jo Salazar yelped. "I
hate it when you do that. Open the damn door. It's wet out here."
The women burst into the living room, dripping water. Hooker,
McDonald's old hound dog, stood hopefully in their path, tail wagging
expectantly, staring beyond them, out into the rainy night.
"No," Riley said bitterly. "He's not coming."
Rain streamed from her hair as she stepped to the liquor cabinet, an
ornate old sideboard inherited from her grandmother, found a half-full
bottle of vodka, and splashed some into a tumbler. She swallowed, eyes
closed.
"What?" she croaked, opening them to Jo's solemn gaze. "This stuff
gets the citizens of Moscow through cold Russian winters."
"This is a hot Miami summer." Jo shook her head, her big eyes shiny.
Riley ignored her and focused on the dog still standing stiff-legged
near the door. "She always does that," she said bleakly.
"It takes a while," Jo said softly. She yanked off the hooded rain
jacket she wore over a halter top and blue jeans. "They were together a
long time."
"Yeah, right."
Silence hung between them, more pained than awkward.
"Let me go hang this in the bathroom," Jo said.
Riley poured another drink before letting the dog out into the
backyard. Hooker plodded stoically into the downpour, which showed no
signs of letting up.
Jo returned, curly brown hair tousled, a bath towel around her neck.
She tossed another towel to Riley.
"Dry yourself off at least. You look like a drowned rat." Tall and
statuesque, with broad shoulders and hips created for childbearing, she
crossed her arms like an angry parent. "Where the hell were you?"
"Took the kayak out on the bay."
"Smart move. I was afraid of that when I didn't see it here. Don't
you check the weather anymore? My NOAA radio was broadcasting
thunderstorm alerts all afternoon."
"It's summer in Miami, Jo. You just said so yourself. Thunderstorms
are forecast every afternoon."
"You're lucky you're not a fried, drowned rat sleeping with the
fishes."
"What are you drinking?" Riley sounded exhausted as she dried her
face and hair.
"The usual," Jo chirped. "You got Earl Grey?" She stepped into the
galley kitchen, put the kettle on the gas stove, opened a cupboard, and
rummaged familiarly for the tea bags.
"I was worried," she said. "I called the station and they said you
weren't working."
"Who'd you talk to?"
"Burch, the sergeant."
"Wonder why he was still there?"
"Didn't ask." Jo took two mugs down from a shelf.
"So what are you doing here? Who's watching the kids?"
"Their dad—it's Ricky's turn for a change. He's making corn dogs.
They were looking forward to it."
"You want some dry clothes?" Riley pulled her drenched T-shirt over
her head. Her bra was soaked, too.
"Your stuff is all too small for big healthy girls like me. By the
way, have you lost weight?"
Riley shrugged, went to her bedroom, stepped out of her soggy shorts
and panties, and donned a short terry-cloth robe.
"Come on, Kath. You okay?"
"Sure, never better. Not."
"You should have taken time off."
"I didn't think it would be this hard." Riley sat barefoot on the
sofa, head in her hands. "I did a really stupid thing. The guys must
think I'm nuts. We had a walk-in, a woman who thinks her ex-husband's
death twelve years ago was no accident, that it was murder."
"So?"
"He died in a flash fire, burned beyond recognition." Riley's words
were barely audible.
Jo winced and took a deep breath.
"I immediately jumped on it, ordered the guys to chase it, top
priority. It's not even a homicide. It's classified as an accident. But
you know who I saw when I looked at the scene pictures. They freaked me
out. The guys are really pissed."
"They'll get over it. It's no big deal to check out."
"It's not fair to them. They have more important, real cases to
work. They always thought I
barking her brains out."
Riley gasped, hand over her heart, heavy rain pelting her face.
"What the hell are you doing out here?"
"Stop answering questions with questions," Jo Salazar yelped. "I
hate it when you do that. Open the damn door. It's wet out here."
The women burst into the living room, dripping water. Hooker,
McDonald's old hound dog, stood hopefully in their path, tail wagging
expectantly, staring beyond them, out into the rainy night.
"No," Riley said bitterly. "He's not coming."
Rain streamed from her hair as she stepped to the liquor cabinet, an
ornate old sideboard inherited from her grandmother, found a half-full
bottle of vodka, and splashed some into a tumbler. She swallowed, eyes
closed.
"What?" she croaked, opening them to Jo's solemn gaze. "This stuff
gets the citizens of Moscow through cold Russian winters."
"This is a hot Miami summer." Jo shook her head, her big eyes shiny.
Riley ignored her and focused on the dog still standing stiff-legged
near the door. "She always does that," she said bleakly.
"It takes a while," Jo said softly. She yanked off the hooded rain
jacket she wore over a halter top and blue jeans. "They were together a
long time."
"Yeah, right."
Silence hung between them, more pained than awkward.
"Let me go hang this in the bathroom," Jo said.
Riley poured another drink before letting the dog out into the
backyard. Hooker plodded stoically into the downpour, which showed no
signs of letting up.
Jo returned, curly brown hair tousled, a bath towel around her neck.
She tossed another towel to Riley.
"Dry yourself off at least. You look like a drowned rat." Tall and
statuesque, with broad shoulders and hips created for childbearing, she
crossed her arms like an angry parent. "Where the hell were you?"
"Took the kayak out on the bay."
"Smart move. I was afraid of that when I didn't see it here. Don't
you check the weather anymore? My NOAA radio was broadcasting
thunderstorm alerts all afternoon."
"It's summer in Miami, Jo. You just said so yourself. Thunderstorms
are forecast every afternoon."
"You're lucky you're not a fried, drowned rat sleeping with the
fishes."
"What are you drinking?" Riley sounded exhausted as she dried her
face and hair.
"The usual," Jo chirped. "You got Earl Grey?" She stepped into the
galley kitchen, put the kettle on the gas stove, opened a cupboard, and
rummaged familiarly for the tea bags.
"I was worried," she said. "I called the station and they said you
weren't working."
"Who'd you talk to?"
"Burch, the sergeant."
"Wonder why he was still there?"
"Didn't ask." Jo took two mugs down from a shelf.
"So what are you doing here? Who's watching the kids?"
"Their dad—it's Ricky's turn for a change. He's making corn dogs.
They were looking forward to it."
"You want some dry clothes?" Riley pulled her drenched T-shirt over
her head. Her bra was soaked, too.
"Your stuff is all too small for big healthy girls like me. By the
way, have you lost weight?"
Riley shrugged, went to her bedroom, stepped out of her soggy shorts
and panties, and donned a short terry-cloth robe.
"Come on, Kath. You okay?"
"Sure, never better. Not."
"You should have taken time off."
"I didn't think it would be this hard." Riley sat barefoot on the
sofa, head in her hands. "I did a really stupid thing. The guys must
think I'm nuts. We had a walk-in, a woman who thinks her ex-husband's
death twelve years ago was no accident, that it was murder."
"So?"
"He died in a flash fire, burned beyond recognition." Riley's words
were barely audible.
Jo winced and took a deep breath.
"I immediately jumped on it, ordered the guys to chase it, top
priority. It's not even a homicide. It's classified as an accident. But
you know who I saw when I looked at the scene pictures. They freaked me
out. The guys are really pissed."
"They'll get over it. It's no big deal to check out."
"It's not fair to them. They have more important, real cases to
work. They always thought I
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