Chapter 1

Prologue

Samantha Garrett certainly did not have on her Bingo card any wish to be the sole witness to a mob hit, but that’s exactly what happened—the cherry on top of a spectacularly shitty day. Add that to the fact that her overdeveloped sense of civic duty would not allow her to simply ignore what she had witnessed, and the fucking police department had a mole. She was now in danger of losing what was left of her crappy life.

The irony of the whole thing was that Sam wasn’t a very good witness at all. She couldn’t actually identify the killer by his picture. The police had wanted to set an array of photos in front of her, and she’d simply shaken her head. The initial detective assigned to the case had looked at her like she had two heads when she had suggested the men in the lineup squat like they were leaning over a rooftop, aiming at a target, then turn around suddenly as if they’d heard a noise. But he really lost his shit when she asked if she could smell each man.

She hadn’t wanted to get into the specifics of her disability. Most people didn’t believe that prosopagnosia—face blindness—was an actual thing. It was. She’d been dealing with it all her life. Despite the tricks her mother had taught her when she was a little girl, her condition still caused problems. She wasn’t about to go into detail about those troubles with the dicknob sitting in front of her at the police station.

Chapter One

“Listen, lady, I’ve got better things to do than entertain your sense of fun. Do you think this is all a big joke?” Detective Dicknob asked, while sneering at Sam. “If you can’t even look through photos and point the guy out…”

Sam sighed. “I have prosopagnosia.” Let the asshole choke on that word. She really hated explaining to this insensitive slob. His wrinkled shirt and off-kilter, basic striped tie, with the large mustard stain prominently displayed, definitely bothered her sensibilities. If he couldn’t trouble himself to ensure his appearance was professional, what hope did Sam have of helping him understand how her other senses more than made up for her inability to recognize the man’s face?

“Propowhat?”

“Not propo, you baboon. Prosopagnosia. Face blindness.”

Sam could almost imagine the detective’s entire face turning a bright red in anger. She reconsidered her choice of words. Calling him a baboon probably wasn’t the best decision.

Deciding to barrel on before he tossed her ass out, literally, she powered on, explaining, “My other senses are highly tuned to compensate, and when I’m not in a crowd of people, I’m able to recognize how a person moves, which enables me to distinguish between people. I also tend to differentiate between stylistic wardrobe choices. You, for example, are a fan of cheap suits and infrequent dry cleaning. I can practically smell what you’ve eaten in the last several months. It clings to your clothes.”

“Why, you little—”

“Harry, why don’t I take over?” a pleasant voice interrupted.

Sam turned her head to get a better look at the body attached to that soft, smoky voice. Curvy in all the right places. Yup, she’d much rather talk with this sexy alternative. Her style screamed professional with a tiny edge. The bright blue shirt beneath a stylish black leather jacket and slim-fitting black trousers also caught Sam’s eye. Obviously, Sam could only see the individual features on her face, not the identifiable whole—that was her fundamental problem—one that had caused a fair share of angst throughout her life. But the medium-length blonde hair cascading to the top of her shoulders in gentle waves simply begged for Sam to run her fingers through. It looked soft and shiny, in the way women who cared about their appearance often ensured.

Detective Dicknob’s chair screeched on the floor as he pushed himself away from the desk. He abruptly stood, barking, “Have at it, Claire,” before stomping away—presumably to add to the stains on his shirt or tie.

The woman gestured to Sam, directing her to another desk. “Come with me, Ms…?”

“Garrett,” Sam supplied. “Samantha Garrett. Please call me Sam.”

Sam heard the genuine amusement in the woman’s voice. “All right, Sam.”

“And you are?”

“Detective Claire Hartford.” She held out her hand for Sam to shake. “Let’s see what we can do about taking your statement and arranging for a lineup. You’re our only witness. If we need to make accommodations to get a conviction, well, then by all means, we’ll do our best.”

Sam’s day was beginning to look up. She sniffed, and it surprised her to detect notes of lavender and citrus. Two of her favorite smells. She never understood why the bakery wouldn’t at least try some of her creations that combined the two flavors. She couldn’t put the pieces of Claire’s face together, but she liked what she saw. The detective’s eyes were a rare shade of blue-green, a color which stood out against her tanned face. Sam imagined that when you put her whole face together, something Sam was never able to do, it would be quite appealing.

Once Sam and Detective Hartford had settled at the detective’s desk, she invited Sam to share what she’d witnessed again. “Can you please start at the beginning for me?”

“Okay, so I was having a pretty shitty day. My boss at the bakery wouldn’t even try the scones I made, much less agree to put them in the case. Then he yelled at me for flirting with one of our regulars. So sue me for liking the way the woman smells. I like the way you smell, too, by the way.”

Detective Hartford chuckled. “Thank you. But maybe you can get to the part where you witnessed the shooting.”

“Oh, right,” Sam began. “So, the bakery is on the ground floor of this tall building, and when I get stressed, you know, by all the yelling, I make my way to the roof. There’s a great view from the roof, and the air seems cleaner somehow. Maybe I should move to Colorado. I bet the air is great there.”

“So, the roof,” Detective Hartford prompted. “What’s the address of this bakery?”

“Yeah, right. Sorry, I tend to get off track sometimes and ramble around sexy women. I can’t really say you’re a pretty woman because I can’t tell if you’re attractive. Unfortunately, as I tried to explain to Detective Dicknob, I can’t see your face. I have prosopagnosia. Anyway, back to what you really want to know.”

Detective Hartford chuckled again. “That would be helpful.”

Sam once again heard the genuine amusement in her voice. “The bakery is the Rolling Scones, which I have to admit is a pretty good name, even though the bakery itself is really basic, but you need the address, huh?”

“Yes, we do,” the detective said with a smile.

“It’s located at 801 Jackson Avenue,” Sam answered.

“That address tracks with the shooting,” Detective Hartford said. “Can you go through everything you saw?”

“Sure, the minute I opened the door, I heard the shot and saw this man crouched down with his eye against the scope of his rifle or whatever he was using. I don’t know a lot about guns. He must have heard me open the door, because he turned in my direction.” Sam wrinkled her nose, looking slightly apologetic. “I’m no heroine, so I hightailed it back to the stairwell and hid. The guy must have packed up quickly because it wasn’t long before he was running down the stairs, his head on constant swivel, probably looking for me. I know all the hiding places, though, because sometimes I have to hide from my boss, who knows I go to the roof for relief. Anyway, I caught a whiff as he breezed by,” Sam finished.

“Anything else, like did you hear his voice?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. When the man turned around, he said, ‘What the—’ I didn’t hear the probable swear word to complete the sentence because by that time, I was already on my way to my hiding place.”

“Okay, that’s helpful. A little more to work with. Can you describe what the suspect was wearing? His build? Race?”

Sam brightened. “Oh, yes. I’m very good at those details. I’ve learned to notice everything about a person.”

“Good. Tell me everything you can remember.”

“He was white. Like really white, so not of Mediterranean descent. More like someone from a Northern European country or of Northern European descent. Plus, he had light blonde hair and the coldest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. He was slim but very fit, around six feet one inch and 180 pounds. He was dressed in all black, wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and black jeans. I’d guess he was in his early thirties.”

“How do you know his age or his eye color if you couldn’t see his face?”

“Well, see, that’s the thing about prosopagnosia. I have perfectly normal vision. There are different kinds. With my condition, known as associative prosopagnosia, I can see individual features, such as eye color, hair, and even the wrinkles on a person’s face. My difficulty lies in my inability to process and remember that face as an identifiable whole. Folks with apperceptive prosopagnosia see a blurry face and no details. That’s a lot more challenging. I’m glad I have the former versus the latter.”

“So you can also describe other facial features?” Detective Hartford asked.

“Mm-hmm, yeah, his nose was long and on the slimmer side with a slight bump at the top. He had full lips, a roundish face, and a prominent chin. His hair was close-cropped, military style.”

“Any facial hair?”

“Nope, clean-shaven. Oh, and the dude had a tattoo on his neck. Looked like a howling wolf. All in black and white.”

Detective Hartford sounded excited. “We can definitely work with this. You’ve perfectly described a suspect we are taking a closer look at. I’ll let the prosecutor know about your prosopagnosia, as it will be a hurdle he’ll need to address. I’ll ask him whether having you do a lineup will hurt or hinder the case.”

“I don’t suppose my suggestion of smelling each man in the lineup is a good idea. I could definitely pick the dude out by smelling him.”

Detective Hartford laughed. “Maybe we’ll stick with having them say, ‘What the—’”

“Could we have them do a small reenactment? You know, the crouching thing and then turning after hearing a noise?”

Detective Hartford paused and seemed to consider Sam’s suggestion. “Maybe. Let me talk to the prosecutor. How can I get in touch with you if—or when—we’re prepared to do a lineup?”

“All you have to do is ask, Detective. I would be delighted to give you my number.” Sam grinned.

The detective pulled a card from her leather jacket and handed it to Sam. “Here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything else to add.”

“Do you like baked goods, Detective?”

“Sure, who doesn’t?”

“I bake as a stress reliever. I’ve been dying to try something new with my ooey-gooey cinnamon rolls. Are you game to be my guinea pig?” Sam asked.

“No self-respecting cop would ever turn down baked goods.”

Sam smiled. “Great, I’ll come by tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have remembered a few more details by then.”

†

“We’ve got a problem,” Detective Arnie Kramer hissed into the phone. He’d found a secluded corner of the busy office to make his call.

“What problem?” the crisp voice on the other end answered.

“There’s a witness.”

“You got a name? An address?”

“Samantha Garrett. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll get you an address. You need to make it look like an accident, or they’ll know there is a plant in the police department.” Rubbing the top of his balding head, Kramer added, “I don’t need anyone sniffing around.”

“I’m a professional,” the man huffed. “Don’t fucking tell me how to do my job.”

“You’re the one who left a witness,” Arnie hissed.

“I’ll take care of it.”

The click of the phone told the balding man the conversation was over. He slipped his cell phone into his pocket and, as unobtrusively as possible, meandered back to his desk. Punching in the witness’s name into the computer, he found the address and jotted it down, stuffing the Post-it note into his pocket. He was about to call Frank Dussey again, but he thought maybe learning a little more about how much information Samantha Garrett had given Detective Hartford might be helpful. Too bad Detective Bishop hadn’t been the one to complete taking her statement. He’s a buffoon. No wonder they paired him with Hartford. She’s always saving his ass.

†

Strolling up to Detective Hartford’s desk, Arnie wrapped his knuckles on the corner. “Hey, heard you caught the cop-killer case. Need any help with it? We gotta catch this bastard. Tom was one of our own.”

Claire squinted at him and answered, “Thanks, I’ve got this. If I need help, I’ll ask my partner.”

“Right? Bishop?” He smirked. “Come on, I know you don’t get much assistance from him. Let me help.”

Hartford narrowed her eyes. “You’ve never offered to help before. What’s your deal, Arnold?”

Damn, he hated when anyone addressed him by his formal name. He always thought of Benedict Arnold, and he supposed that sort of fit. He was a traitor to his fellow officers. Ignoring the jibe, he emphasized, “It was a cop, not some low-life prostitute.” A dead cop who was getting far too close to his lucrative side hustle, he thought.

Hartford failed to disguise her disgust. “Every death deserves justice. Maybe you would close more cases if you had a better understanding of what it means to protect and serve. I don’t need your brand of assistance.”

“Fine, I’m just offering. Do it all yourself, like you normally do, and see how far that gets you with this case. You know this isn’t your typical homicide. Besides, the captain is likely to assign other officers to the case. This one is too important not to.”

“If he does, I’m guessing you won’t be his first choice,” she answered with derision.

“Fucking dyke,” he whispered under his breath, then walked away.

He’d get Bishop to give him more details. The slovenly detective loved to brag about his cases. All Kramer needed to do was offer to buy him a beer, and within the hour, he’d have all the information he needed.

†

Making his way to Bishop’s desk, Arnie grumbled, “I guess you heard that, huh?” He lowered his voice. “Your uppity partner isn’t a team player. How about I buy you a beer tonight, and you can vent all you want with me? Must be hard being her partner.”

“You have no idea. Thanks, I think I’ll take you up on that,” Bishop whispered.

Before Arnie returned to his desk, he noted the glare Hartford sent his way. He’d have to watch it, or the woman would get suspicious. Hopefully, she would simply attribute the interaction to good old-fashioned homophobia. Not that it would be completely wrong. Ever since his favorite president got into office, he’d given permission for people like Kramer to express their disgust openly over the dykes that had infiltrated police departments across the country.

†

Sam nearly skipped home to her tiny studio apartment in a decidedly sketchy part of town. She wasn’t paying attention. Instead, she was thinking about her interaction with the sexy detective. Her stomach grumbled, and she remembered she hadn’t eaten lunch. Although she was a talented baker, cooking was definitely not her forte. Even Sam realized that she could not live on baked goods alone. The Mexican food truck two blocks from her apartment offered a tasty meal, and lots of it, for a reasonable price. She could afford to splurge, especially if this would be her one meal for today.

“Hey, Jose. Can I have your chicken enchilada special, with a side of guac? And don’t be stingy with that guac, please.”

“I never am, Sam. I’ll even throw in an extra taco or two in exchange for one of your lemon-lavender scones.”

“Deal.” She pulled her sling-pack from her shoulder and dug inside for the plastic container. “How did you know I would have them with me?”

“Lupita said she was standing in line waiting for her coffee this morning and overheard you talking with your boss. Asshole.”

Sam popped the lid to the Tupperware and offered Jose a scone. “I know, right? He won’t even taste one.”

Jose plucked a scone from the container and set it aside while he prepared the plate for Sam. “His loss. When are you going to open your own bakery? You should offer to serve that white coffee. Have you had it before? It’s good. Really nutty.”

Sam smiled and offered a second scone. “Take another one for Lupita. Hell, take as many as you want. You know that if I ever do open a bakery, I’ll definitely serve white coffee. I need to do everything I can to separate myself from the masses. I just need a shit ton of money to get started. You wouldn’t happen to have an extra fifty thousand to loan me, would you? That would be enough for a mobile bakery, kind of like your food truck, only I’d offer sweet treats to go with your delicious Mexican food. We could park together and sell like mad!”

Jose laughed and grabbed three more scones. “If I had the money, I would definitely lend it to you, at a hefty interest rate, of course. You understand, right? Business is business.” Jose winked, then handed her the heaping mound of food. “Here you go, Sam. Let me know if you need a takeout container. I doubt you’ll finish everything on the plate. Eight should do it.”

She pulled a ten from her wallet and handed it to Jose. “Keep the change.” She frowned. “Wish I had more to give. I know you don’t charge everyone else eight bucks for the same meal.”

He waved her away. “Don’t worry. I’m getting the better end of the bargain here with four of your scones.” He grabbed a bottle of water and handed it to her. “On the house.”

“Thanks, Jose. You’re a peach. Lupita is a lucky woman. No wonder I can’t ever get her to come over to the dark side.” She waggled her eyebrows.

Jose laughed. “If anyone could, it would be you. I think she has a crush, but her Catholic upbringing will not allow her to act on it and divorce me. Thank God for Catholic dogma.”

Sam sat at a table right outside the food truck and savored every morsel. When she’d had enough, she leaned back and sighed, thinking about her day. On the bright side, she did get to meet that nice detective, whom she would most definitely bring cinnamon rolls to. Before she left, she asked Jose for a takeout container to put the rest of her food in. He was right. The enchilada with all the fixings, plus two tacos, rice, and beans, was too much food to finish in one sitting. She’d probably finish it tonight, though, as a late dinner.