For the next couple days, I immersed myself in work. Before we broke up, Noah scheduled the crime scene visitation on Frank Peoples’ case. He’d called a few times since we split. Each time I let it go to voice mail because I wasn’t ready to talk to him. On my second day back, I drove to the Pineridge police department, and pulled up to next to one of the black and white police cars. After checking in at the window, I sat in one of the lobby’s well-worn, wooden benches. Dark green paint covered the woodwork with some paint splatter on old, grey terrazzo, the kind you normally saw in Florida buildings and houses built in the sixties.
A side door opened. Elena stepped into the lobby, wearing a dark blue pantsuit. “Hey, you ready to go to the crime scene?”
“Of course,” I said. A man wearing
