you let me know when I can talk to her again? I really need her, Catherine.”
“I know, Rebecca. Of course.”
The detective stopped in front of the elevator, at a loss for words. She didn’t want to say goodbye, and she wasn’t sure she should do anything else. The bell rang, announcing that the elevator had arrived. Catherine was so close to her she couldn’t seem to think. Then Catherine’s hand was on her arm, her fingers softly caressing, her green eyes holding Rebecca’s with a tenderness she could drown in.
“About last night…” Catherine began. “I didn’t mean to rush—”
“I want to see you again,” Rebecca interrupted. “Not here, and not about the case.”
Catherine realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out with a soft sigh as the elevator doors slid open. It took all her willpower to step back and let go of Rebecca’s arm. Touching her was such an unexpected pleasure. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that, too. Very much.”
Rebecca stepped in, then held the door back with one hand to keep it from closing between them. Several people in the rear stared. “Tonight? I’ll come by…”
“Yes…dinner…”
The elevator bell chimed with annoying regularity while the door bounced against Rebecca’s palm. She grinned at Catherine, who was smiling faintly, her eyes searching Rebecca’s face—memorizing every detail.
“I’ll call when I’m through,” Rebecca said as the doors closed.
“Just come,” Catherine called, hoping her voice carried through the metal. “Any time.”
*
Rebecca drove back to the station with her thoughts divided between Janet’s scanty recollections and the exchange with Catherine at the elevator. Catherine elicited a physical response so intense it was actually painful. She was hard and throbbing, again. It was all she could do to keep her mind on the traffic.
A visit with Flanagan ought to cool me off.
She walked through the first floor of the station house, moving deftly around a small clump of people trying to get the attention of the duty sergeant behind the tall counter just inside the door. The hallway itself was nearly blocked by the feet and legs of people waiting for visiting hours or for someone to hear their complaints and who had stretched out on the benches lining the wall. Avoiding the obstacles, she pushed through the steel fire doors at the end of the hall and started down the stairs to the basement. Dee Flanagan, the senior criminalist, her crime unit lab, and by way of a series of underground tunnels, the morgue could all be found on that lower level.
Stopping first at Dee’s small, windowless office, Rebecca noted the usual clutter of journals, model reproductions, and containers of yogurt in various stages of consumption piled on the oversized metal desk in the middle of the room, but no Dee. She was probably in the lab.
At forty, with twenty years of experience and a degree in forensic analysis, Dee didn’t have to do bench work. She didn’t have to get her hands dirty or her feet wet in the field. And she didn’t have to work nights. But she did—routinely—because she was a perfectionist and something of a control freak.
Rebecca loved it when Dee handled her cases. She found the Crime Scene Investigation chief bent over a series of plaster footprints lined up on a bench in the wet room—a long, narrow, brightly lit space where the crime scene techs processed the gross evidence from a crime scene. Bags of trash, clumps of dirt, torn clothing, abandoned cigarette butts, gum wrappers, and discarded condoms all sat in labeled boxes and clear plastic evidence bags. Representative samples of the debris would undergo more definitive examination under the microscopes, in the spectrographs, and via the gas chromatographs in the adjoining high-tech lab.
“Those mine?” Rebecca asked, pointing to the shoe casts. She put her hands in her pockets to curry good favor as she walked up to the small, trim, tomboyish woman
“I know, Rebecca. Of course.”
The detective stopped in front of the elevator, at a loss for words. She didn’t want to say goodbye, and she wasn’t sure she should do anything else. The bell rang, announcing that the elevator had arrived. Catherine was so close to her she couldn’t seem to think. Then Catherine’s hand was on her arm, her fingers softly caressing, her green eyes holding Rebecca’s with a tenderness she could drown in.
“About last night…” Catherine began. “I didn’t mean to rush—”
“I want to see you again,” Rebecca interrupted. “Not here, and not about the case.”
Catherine realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out with a soft sigh as the elevator doors slid open. It took all her willpower to step back and let go of Rebecca’s arm. Touching her was such an unexpected pleasure. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that, too. Very much.”
Rebecca stepped in, then held the door back with one hand to keep it from closing between them. Several people in the rear stared. “Tonight? I’ll come by…”
“Yes…dinner…”
The elevator bell chimed with annoying regularity while the door bounced against Rebecca’s palm. She grinned at Catherine, who was smiling faintly, her eyes searching Rebecca’s face—memorizing every detail.
“I’ll call when I’m through,” Rebecca said as the doors closed.
“Just come,” Catherine called, hoping her voice carried through the metal. “Any time.”
*
Rebecca drove back to the station with her thoughts divided between Janet’s scanty recollections and the exchange with Catherine at the elevator. Catherine elicited a physical response so intense it was actually painful. She was hard and throbbing, again. It was all she could do to keep her mind on the traffic.
A visit with Flanagan ought to cool me off.
She walked through the first floor of the station house, moving deftly around a small clump of people trying to get the attention of the duty sergeant behind the tall counter just inside the door. The hallway itself was nearly blocked by the feet and legs of people waiting for visiting hours or for someone to hear their complaints and who had stretched out on the benches lining the wall. Avoiding the obstacles, she pushed through the steel fire doors at the end of the hall and started down the stairs to the basement. Dee Flanagan, the senior criminalist, her crime unit lab, and by way of a series of underground tunnels, the morgue could all be found on that lower level.
Stopping first at Dee’s small, windowless office, Rebecca noted the usual clutter of journals, model reproductions, and containers of yogurt in various stages of consumption piled on the oversized metal desk in the middle of the room, but no Dee. She was probably in the lab.
At forty, with twenty years of experience and a degree in forensic analysis, Dee didn’t have to do bench work. She didn’t have to get her hands dirty or her feet wet in the field. And she didn’t have to work nights. But she did—routinely—because she was a perfectionist and something of a control freak.
Rebecca loved it when Dee handled her cases. She found the Crime Scene Investigation chief bent over a series of plaster footprints lined up on a bench in the wet room—a long, narrow, brightly lit space where the crime scene techs processed the gross evidence from a crime scene. Bags of trash, clumps of dirt, torn clothing, abandoned cigarette butts, gum wrappers, and discarded condoms all sat in labeled boxes and clear plastic evidence bags. Representative samples of the debris would undergo more definitive examination under the microscopes, in the spectrographs, and via the gas chromatographs in the adjoining high-tech lab.
“Those mine?” Rebecca asked, pointing to the shoe casts. She put her hands in her pockets to curry good favor as she walked up to the small, trim, tomboyish woman
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