EighteenJake's phone started playing a tune at nine o'clock Boxing Day morning. He fumbled around the bedside table, unplugging the phone from its charger. “Yeah,” he croaked.
“Jake Stevenson?” a familiar voice said.
Jake opened is bleary eyes. “Yeah,” he said pulling himself into a sitting position.
“It's Tony Oakes. Merry Christmas.”
Jake grabbed the sports bottle next to the bed, taking a long suck of cool orange squash. His fuzzy brain coming online immediately. “Tony. It's nine a.m. on Boxing Day. What's up?”
“What do you know about Eduardo Guzman?”
Jake almost jumped out of bed. Katherine stirred next to him, turning over, murmuring in her sleep. “Why do you ask?” Jake said, thinking rapidly.
“The murder up the Beacon Hill last year. The hooker and the taxi driver. Forensics p
