Matt found Jake sitting in the kitchen of the apartment staring at three ice packs in evidence bags lined up in a row on the table as if they held the answer to some cosmic, universal question.
He looked up when Matt came in. “Everything all right?”
“Who knows?” Matt picked one pack up by the corner. “Looks like somebody had a run-in with a door—or a fist.”
“Yup.”
Matt waited for more. When he didn’t get it, he added, “So?”
“Look at this.” Jake shoved the trash can toward him.
Matt looked inside. “Someone likes pistachios.” He hesitated, then said again, “So?”
“Hyatt loves the things.”
“Prints?”
“Everywhere.” He turned back to the ice packs and rubbed his chin. “With a little luck, some will match Hyatt’s.”
Matt stared at his brother. “I can keep trying to dig it out of you. I co
