12th of Never

the back rooms, the supply closet, the administration bull pen.
    Meanwhile, Claire and Conklin took the AV tech, Ryan Perles, into Claire’s office, shut the door, and questioned him.
    “I came in at about eight this morning,” Perles said. He looked smug, Claire thought. Or as though he liked the attention, which he didn’t normally get.
    “I had a lot of things to do when I got in and I was busy doing them when Dr. Washburn paged me. I looked and saw that the cord to the video system was unplugged from the battery backup. When I left last night, it was plugged in and A-OK.”
    “Let’s see the disk from last night,” Conklin said.
    The young tech opened the CD drawer. It was empty.
    Claire put her hand on the back of a chair to steady herself. The conclusion was inescapable. Whoever took Faye Farmer’s body had access to Claire’s lab; most likely it had been someone who worked for her.
    She could already visualize a video of Faye Farmer in some obscene pose in a car or a Dumpster posted on YouTube, going viral.
    “Ryan, you came in this morning through the side door?” Claire asked him.
    “Yes. Same as always.”
    “It was locked?”
    “Yes ma’am. Of course it was locked.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Do you mind if I ask what’s wrong?”
    “Ryan, let’s take this conversation upstairs,” Conklin said. “Sometimes a change of scene can help a person remember something he didn’t know he forgot.”

BOOK II
off the bench

Chapter 19
    IT HAD BEEN a long, loud, fussy night, but Julie had finally worn herself out and gone to sleep on Joe’s chest. His clock projected the time on the ceiling in bright red digits. It was 4:54. I reorganized my blanket and settled in for what I hoped would be maybe forty-five minutes of deep sleep.
    But Joe was wide awake. He said, “Let’s talk about this again, Linds. I think in this case I know what’s best for you better than you do.”
    I yawned, fluffed my pillow.
    “I can’t go back yet, Joe. I’m only going to be thinking about you and Julie, anyway.”
    “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the oldest of seven. I have burped and changed a lot of nephews and nieces, and while it might hurt your feelings, I’m good with Julie. I can take fine care of her.”
    “Okay.”
    “Okay what?”
    “Okay, yes. I’ll go back to work.”
    “Wait.”
    “What am I waiting for?”
    “I had some persuasive arguments I haven’t used yet.”
    I started laughing. “I’m persuaded. You did a good job, Joe.”
    “But you said you didn’t want to go back to work.”
    “You won, sweetie. Don’t be a spoilsport.”
    He laughed and I fell asleep without saying another word. I woke up at seven, snuck out of bed, and showered. After that, I felt around in the dark for my blue blazer; I found it and my trousers in plastic wrap on hangers in the closet.
    Since my trousers seemed to have shrunk, I picked out a big shirt—one with pink pinstripes—and hung it out over my waistband, which I would have to do until I was a size 10 again.
    Get used to it, everyone.
    I buckled on my shoulder holster, got my gun out of the nightstand, then hung the chain holding my badge around my neck.
    I air-kissed Joe and Julie so that neither of them woke up, carried my shoes out to the hallway, and put them on as Martha did a happy dance.
    I took my dog for a short walk. I mean
short
. As soon as she did what she needed to do, I took her back home, then went back out to the street and looked for my car.
    Did I feel guilty leaving Julie?
    You bet I did. I thought of my baby girl, and it was like an umbilical bungee cord was connecting us, pulling me back toward home.
    But I had gotten a compelling, nearly irresistible call from my former partner, Warren Jacobi, now chief of police. He had said, “I’m not saying drop-kick the baby and come in right away. It’s like this. Brady is short-staffed and over-whelmed. He needs your help.”
    My old blue Explorer was parked a half block down from our apartment. I got in, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine started right up, almost as if it had been waiting for me.
    I pulled out onto Lake Street and the car shot away from the curb, tires screeching. I could not wait to get to the Hall.

Chapter 20
    BRADY’S GLASS-WALLED OFFICE is about the size and shape of a votive candleholder. He was sitting at his desk, dwarfing it with his bulk, his head bowed over an open file, phone clapped to his ear.
    I no longer felt steamed that this