Robert B. Parker’s Buried Secrets

Seven

At the Burton house, Suit was dead on his feet by the time Tate pulled up in his Paradise SUV.

“It’s the new guy,” Gabe Weathers said to him.

Suit yawned. Thank God. Elena was going to murder him if he didn’t get home sometime soon.

A giant dumpster now sat on the road, already halfway full of things that couldn’t be salvaged or couldn’t possibly be used as evidence. Newspapers, stacks of them fused into solid blocks by years of mildew. Pizza boxes from restaurants that no longer existed. A sedimentary layer of beer cans crushed flat. Things like that.

The state evidence collection techs had been joined shortly after seven a.m. by a private crew of cleanup people. They also wore head-to-toe Tyvek suits and respirators — the air inside the house had grown steadily more rank as each layer of filth was unearthed — but in different colors. The state evidence people had basic white. The private crew was in a whole rainbow. It reminded Suit of that game he played sometimes on his phone, with the little spacemen in their spacesuits.

The new guy — Tate, Jesse had reminded him in a text — came out of the SUV, all smiles.

“Hey, guys, what’s up?” he said, bringing a box of donuts and a tray of coffees.

“Not me, not anymore,” Suit said.

Tate put the donuts and coffee down on the hood of the nearest Paradise SUV. He shook hands with Gabe and Suit. They went around with introductions. Tate seemed delighted when he heard Suit’s name.

“Call me Slate,” Tate said.

That stopped Suit.

“Slate?” he said. “I thought it was Tate.”

Slate smiled. “Yeah, well, it’s a nickname. Guys gave it to me at my old job.”

“Slate,” Gabe said, like he was testing the word out in his mouth. He looked at Tate for a long moment.

“Yeah,” Tate said.

“Why did they call you that?” Gabe asked.

Tate looked a little uncomfortable. He shrugged. “Dunno,” he said.

“You don’t know?” Gabe asked, same deadpan expression, same monotone voice. Suit had seen him use both when questioning suspects.

“Well,” Tate said, “I guess it was because I was so hard.”

“ ‘Hard,’ ” Suit said.

“Yeah. You know,” Tate said. “Like a rock. Granite. Slate.”

Gabe and Suit looked at each other, both thinking the same thing: Was this guy trying to give himself a cool nickname?

Suit hadn’t given himself his nickname. He didn’t even like it at first. He’d never heard of the ballplayer who shared his name. But he was a rookie, so he learned to answer to it. And after a while, it just became part of him.

That was how nicknames worked. You couldn’t just tag yourself with one because you thought it was badass. Had no one ever explained that to Tate?

“Isn’t slate the stuff they make chalkboards out of?” Gabe asked.

Tate looked uncomfortable. “I guess. Maybe.”

“Huh,” Gabe said. “I don’t think of chalkboards as particularly hard.”

Tate looked down, then away, a red flush working its way up from his neck to his forehead.

Suit tried not to grin.

“Suit, did you find chalkboards hard when you were in school?”

“Only in math.”

“Look, it’s just a nickname,” Tate muttered. “Use it or don’t.”

Whatever, Suit thought. He took a donut. At least Tate got the first part of police work right.

Gabe did the same and they both headed to their cars.

“Uh, hey, wait,” Tate said, standing by the yellow tape. “Anything I should know? Any troublemakers?”

Troublemakers? Suit thought. The street was empty. The techs and the cleaners were doing their work. The local TV station got some video and left. The neighbors got bored hours ago.

“No,” Suit said. “No troublemakers.”

He turned to leave again.

“But what should I do if someone comes by?” Tate’s voice, calling him back again.

Gabe gave Suit a look. He was struggling not to smirk. Not doing a great job of it.

“Just keep people off the property,” Suit said. “Keep them on the other side of the tape. Standard crime scene procedure. If you run into anything you can’t handle, call Molly, and she’ll get some help out here. But you should be fine.”

“Molly,” Tate said. “She’s the one with the great ass, right?”

Gabe stopped smirking. Suit froze in place, staring at Tate.

Even Peter Perkins, on the other side of the rising garbage pile, heard that. He stopped what he was doing, too.

“What?” Suit said, his voice dangerously quiet.

Tate didn’t catch the tone. He kept grinning. “I mean, I know she’s a mom, but she’s definitely a mom I’d like to—”

“Deputy Chief Crane is your superior officer,” Suit said, his voice suddenly a full octave deeper and much sharper. “And aside from Jesse, there is no better cop. Understand?”

Tate’s eyes went a little wide. “Uh,” he said. “I was just—”

“Do you understand?” Suit asked again.

Tate had the good sense to look down, shamefaced.

“Yeah. Sorry. I was just joking around.”

Suit and Gabe and Peter all looked at him for a full thirty seconds, the silence growing uncomfortably long. Even some of the techs stopped what they were doing.

“Yeah,” Suit said. “All right.”

He tossed the donut into the nearby dumpster. Suddenly not hungry at all. He and Gabe walked to their vehicles without looking back at Tate.

“Damn, Suitcase Simpson finally met someone he didn’t like,” Gabe said quietly. “You worried he’s going to replace you as Jesse’s favorite son?”

“I didn’t like how he talked about Molly,” Suit said.

“Come on, we always give Molly crap. She can take it.”

“To her face. Never behind her back.”

“Just saying, you might have been a little hard on him.”

“You think what he said was okay?” Suit said.

Gabe shook his head. “I think he’s a new guy. Trying to fit in. I know we all love Molly, but he pulls that with her, she’ll stomp his head down between his shoulder blades. He made a mistake.”

“Maybe,” Suit said, stopping at his car and opening the door. “But who tries to give themselves a nickname?”

Gabe shrugged. “Whatever you say, Suitcase.”

Suit looked back at Tate, now handing out the donuts and coffee to everyone who was still at the scene. All smiles again. Not a hint of any embarrassment or anger.

But Suit could have sworn he saw something when he was staring at Tate. Something passing over his face before he looked down.

Not shame. But rage.

“Something about the guy just bugs me,” Suit said.