Symphony of Bones by L.T. Ryan (most romantic novels .TXT) 📗

news. Harris didn’t bother asking questions or denying the validity of the Chief’s claim. She had walked into Clementine’s office with a stone mask on her face, and she had refused to let it slip in front of her superior officer.

Or anyone else for that matter.

Harris only wanted one thing—to see the body. Clementine had protested. Harris had insisted. She would not back down, and after a full minute’s deliberation, the Chief had relented. She drove the detective to the scene herself, which was all the better for Harris. She may have been able to control her face, but she couldn’t control the shaking of her hands.

The twenty-minute ride to a warehouse just outside the city proper was a silent one. Harris did not feel motivated to fill the silence, and she assumed Clementine didn’t either. Any words at this point would have been empty. Proof, evidence, and tangible details were the only elements that mattered.

Most of the other officers still wore their jackets despite the sun being at its zenith, but Harris had left hers behind in the car. The heat of the day didn’t register against her skin, nor did the crunch of gravel under her boots. Even the patrol cars’ flashing lights competing with the sun’s rays were distant thoughts in the back of her mind. All she saw was the loading dock entrance, the caution tape, and the crumpled body laying just beyond.

Clementine put out her arm to stop Harris’ approach. The Chief waited until she looked her in the eye. “I’m giving you five minutes to do what you need to do. Scream, cry, punch a wall, whatever. After that, I need you back here with me. All pistons firing. We’re going to find who did this.”

Harris nodded, but when Clementine didn’t drop her arm, Harris was forced to meet her eyes. “I got it. Five minutes.”

The Chief nodded, then cleared everyone out. A few officers tried to give their condolences, but she ignored them. She didn’t want the pity or the sorrow or the sympathy. She wasn’t the only one suffering today, even if she was the only one who had gotten an escort from the Chief of Police. They all thought they knew what she was feeling, but they didn’t have a clue.

Harris put one foot in front of the other until the toe of her boot hit the first step of the stairs leading up to the dock. She took each step with deliberate care, feeling the stretch of her muscles before they contracted and lifted her upward. When she made the platform, she forced herself forward.

The bay door had been rolled up and caution tape draped across the entrance. Harris ducked under it, forcing her eyes to the body in the center of the room. There was no point in denying it was him. That would only postpone the inevitable, and they couldn’t afford to lose that kind of time.

Detective David Klein had been shot once in the head and once in the heart. The wounds were as clean as they could possibly be. In and out. No suffering. One minute he was alive, and the next he was not. He probably hadn’t even seen it coming.

It was a small comfort, but even in the fog of her pain, Harris recognized it for what it was—a miracle. Every police officer, from the beat cops to the Chief of Police herself, had thought about what it would be like. Whether you’d suffer for days before succumbing to your wounds or feel a sharp pinch before it was lights out and you never opened your eyes again.

His body was contorted, one arm trapped underneath. She wanted to push him onto his back, to straighten him out and maybe fold his hands across his stomach. But she resisted the urge. The crime scene had to stay intact. They couldn’t afford to lose a single piece of evidence.

Harris waited for tears that never came. She almost wished they would, to blur the scene in front of her. Instead, she saw David’s dead body in high definition. Every drop of blood, every scratch on his skin, every contorted muscle of his body was in sharp relief.

There was no doubt in her mind that she’d see him every time she closed her eyes for the rest of her life.

Footsteps echoed around the room. Harris turned to see Clementine approaching. The Chief was alone. Was he five minutes up already? She knew she wouldn’t cry with the other officers so close by, but she hadn’t had time to figure out what she’d wanted to do first—scream or punch something.

“This is my fault.” The words were out of Harris’ mouth before she could stop them. “I did this.”

“You didn’t.” Clementine’s voice wasn’t gentle. The sharp look in her eye quieted any of Harris’ protests. “You didn’t pull the trigger. You didn’t kill him.”

“I should’ve been here.”

“If you had, then I might’ve had two dead detectives on my hands instead of just one.”

Harris looked back down at David. She heard Clementine’s words, even registered that they were true, but the guilt that ate away at her stomach lining didn’t recede. If anything, it doubled its efforts to consume her from the inside out.

“I need to know what you know.” Clementine’s voice was all business, but when Harris turned back to her, the sharpness in her eyes had lifted. “All of it. Even the parts you don’t want to tell me.”

Harris stood, but couldn’t put David at her back. She needed to know he was still there with her, at least in some capacity. “Two nights ago, we were grabbing a beer when he got a phone call from a witness who wanted to turn on Aguilar.”

“Francisco Aguilar?” Clementine’s eyebrows pinched together. “Why?”

“David said it was because the guy had a kid on the way. He didn’t want to be part of any of it anymore—the drugs, the murders, none of it. He wanted out, and he wanted protection for