He’d known about the first. Hell, he’d been the one doing the arresting.

The second arrest was more recent. He skimmed the report. It stemmed from a protest in Philadelphia three years ago. The charges had been dropped. Also not surprising.

What did surprise him was the fact that there were zero motor vehicle accidents listed. An accident with injury warranted a report and a victim name.

He glanced toward the chief’s office again. Darlene was on the phone, boots propped on the desk as she shot the shit with a few members of the chamber of commerce on a Zoom call.

Since the boss was still busy and he was already looking, he decided to dig a little deeper. He expanded the search and skimmed the rest of the results.

Pay dirt.

Four days ago Remington Honeysuckle Ford, 30, was transported from an apartment in Chicago to the emergency department of St. Luke’s Hospital for a “severe asthma attack.” Edging closer to the screen, his elbow caught the empty shake bottle, sending it tumbling to the floor. Snatching it up, he shot a guilty look in Darlene’s direction then shifted his attention back to the monitor.

The emergency responder report ended there. Without a warrant, he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the hospital’s records department.

Had she passed out from the asthma attack and broken her arm in the fall? If so, who had been at her apartment to call 911? And why would she lie about a car accident?

The side door burst open, and Brick sent his shake bottle flying again.

God damn it. Less than two days on the island and the woman had already frayed his nerves.

“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” sang Carlos Turk as he wandered into the bullpen, hands on his hips. The corporal was obnoxiously and permanently cheerful. Every day was beautiful. Every work shift was fun. Every burger was the best he’d ever eaten. It was hard to dislike a man for being happy all the time, but Brick still made the attempt.

“It’s fourteen degrees,” he countered.

“A beautiful fourteen degrees.” Carlos paused and gave Brick the once-over. “You look like shit, man.”

“Beautiful shit?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Reasonably attractive shit?”

“Good enough. Pastries are in the break room,” Brick said, exiting out of his search. He’d worry on the problem later.

“You caffeinated enough for this morning?” Carlos asked, rubbing his palms together. “I believe it’s your turn to be the bad guy.”

* * *

The Styrofoam bat caught him mid-thigh as a six-year-old screeched for help.

“Nice work, Becky. Hit him again,” Carlos instructed cheerily from the sidelines.

Brick bit back a sigh as he monster-walked toward the little girl with lopsided pigtails.

She shrieked as she wound up then let the bat fly, hitting him in the gut.

He should have had that bear claw.

“Look, guys! He’s going down,” Carlos called, winking at the perky kindergarten teacher.

Taking his cue, Brick lumbered down to his knees and then slumped onto the floor, growling and moaning dramatically.