together. He was such a good man, honest, and truly nice in a way that cut through all his layers. After the horrid ending with her first love, Peter, the conundrum of Lisa appearing in her teenage life and the parody of dating she had experienced in her earlyyears in New York, Susan had come to distrust men — until Dave, whom she appreciated and adored completely. She reached over and wove her fingers into the knot of his hands. As soon as possible, she would get him alone and tell him the truth.
A gold sedan drove slowly up the street and pulled to a stop behind Officer Johnson’s squad car. A bright red leaf fluttered out of the car when the driver’s door opened, reminding Susan that it was autumn, and a beefy man in black leather emerged, crushing the leaf beneath his boot. He was followed from the passenger’s side by a petite Hispanic woman in tight jeans, a hot-pink knit turtleneck and a short jean jacket. She paused to put on some cherry-colored lipstick, smacking her lips together and leaning back into the car to place the lipstick on the dashboard. She looked about Susan’s age, in her late twenties, and the man seemed older. He took off his leather driving cap to tissue dry his scalp — sweating, strangely, in the cold early-morning air — and she saw that his pate was bald around a halo of light brown hair.
Dave stood up, leaving Susan’s left side suddenly bereft of warmth. She got up and walked over to join him and Officer Johnson in greeting the detectives.
“Yeah, Zeb? Whaddaya got?” The woman’s voice was high-pitched and staccato. The man stood beside her, rubbing his hands together, then cupping them to catch steamy puffs of breath.
“Teenage girl didn’t come home,” Johnson said. “This is the family. Susan Bailey-Strauss and Detective Dave Strauss, Seven-eight.”
Dave again displayed his shield. Susan was impressed by the immediate response it always got from other cops.
The woman elbowed her partner. “Yo, baby, first-class, you gotta listen to him no matter what.”
The man nodded gravely to Susan and then looked at Dave. “Detective Alexei Bruno, Eight-four. Trust me, ignore this one; she’s the pain of my existence.” He had a heavy Russian accent.
“Son of a bitch doesn’t know pain,” the woman said, “but I’m telling you he will. Detective Lupe Ramos.” She offered her manicured hand to Dave first, then Susan, adding a just-between-us-girls wink.
Susan tried to hold herself steady in the moment, to trust that Dave would know how to handle this situation, but these detectives worried her. She looked at Dave and squinted her eyes, trying to transmit her thoughts: They had to get some competent detectives down here. He had just stepped forward with the sober expression of someone about to climb out on a limb, when Officer Johnson began a summary of his initial investigation. Susan watched Dave as he kept still and waited, ever polite. She had always admired his diplomacy — he believed that most things eventually resolved themselves — but tonight she did not feel there was time for patience. If he didn’t speak up soon, then she would.
Johnson finished his summary with, “Detective Strauss might have seen someone up there” — he pointed at the brightly lit window, three buildings down — “looking onto the street.”
Bruno’s and Ramos’s attention veered simultaneously to the single glowing window. In that quiet moment, their faces shared a look of concentration and seriousness that surprised Susan, supplying the littlest morsel of hope.
“Johnson,” Ramos said, “get the girl’s stats on theair. Tell ’em we gotta MOS family situation, could be one thing or another but we’re gonna run with it. And get Forensics down here; we want prints and we want ’em ASAP. Mrs. Strauss, you’re gonna show me around your house while we wait on the prints. And you, mi amor, take Detective Strauss over here and pay a visit to that freak in the
A gold sedan drove slowly up the street and pulled to a stop behind Officer Johnson’s squad car. A bright red leaf fluttered out of the car when the driver’s door opened, reminding Susan that it was autumn, and a beefy man in black leather emerged, crushing the leaf beneath his boot. He was followed from the passenger’s side by a petite Hispanic woman in tight jeans, a hot-pink knit turtleneck and a short jean jacket. She paused to put on some cherry-colored lipstick, smacking her lips together and leaning back into the car to place the lipstick on the dashboard. She looked about Susan’s age, in her late twenties, and the man seemed older. He took off his leather driving cap to tissue dry his scalp — sweating, strangely, in the cold early-morning air — and she saw that his pate was bald around a halo of light brown hair.
Dave stood up, leaving Susan’s left side suddenly bereft of warmth. She got up and walked over to join him and Officer Johnson in greeting the detectives.
“Yeah, Zeb? Whaddaya got?” The woman’s voice was high-pitched and staccato. The man stood beside her, rubbing his hands together, then cupping them to catch steamy puffs of breath.
“Teenage girl didn’t come home,” Johnson said. “This is the family. Susan Bailey-Strauss and Detective Dave Strauss, Seven-eight.”
Dave again displayed his shield. Susan was impressed by the immediate response it always got from other cops.
The woman elbowed her partner. “Yo, baby, first-class, you gotta listen to him no matter what.”
The man nodded gravely to Susan and then looked at Dave. “Detective Alexei Bruno, Eight-four. Trust me, ignore this one; she’s the pain of my existence.” He had a heavy Russian accent.
“Son of a bitch doesn’t know pain,” the woman said, “but I’m telling you he will. Detective Lupe Ramos.” She offered her manicured hand to Dave first, then Susan, adding a just-between-us-girls wink.
Susan tried to hold herself steady in the moment, to trust that Dave would know how to handle this situation, but these detectives worried her. She looked at Dave and squinted her eyes, trying to transmit her thoughts: They had to get some competent detectives down here. He had just stepped forward with the sober expression of someone about to climb out on a limb, when Officer Johnson began a summary of his initial investigation. Susan watched Dave as he kept still and waited, ever polite. She had always admired his diplomacy — he believed that most things eventually resolved themselves — but tonight she did not feel there was time for patience. If he didn’t speak up soon, then she would.
Johnson finished his summary with, “Detective Strauss might have seen someone up there” — he pointed at the brightly lit window, three buildings down — “looking onto the street.”
Bruno’s and Ramos’s attention veered simultaneously to the single glowing window. In that quiet moment, their faces shared a look of concentration and seriousness that surprised Susan, supplying the littlest morsel of hope.
“Johnson,” Ramos said, “get the girl’s stats on theair. Tell ’em we gotta MOS family situation, could be one thing or another but we’re gonna run with it. And get Forensics down here; we want prints and we want ’em ASAP. Mrs. Strauss, you’re gonna show me around your house while we wait on the prints. And you, mi amor, take Detective Strauss over here and pay a visit to that freak in the
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