Got Your Number

case our man shows? Look, your clothes are already in my room, and I can keep an eye on you there."
    She stared.
    "And I won't...anything."
    She worked her mouth back and forth. "On one condition."
    "What?"
    "Help me break into Carl's house."

Chapter Twenty-nine

    "I CAN’T BELIEVE I'm doing this," he muttered, pulling next to the curb a few yards away from Dr. Seger's house. The weather had taken a nasty turn—cold and a steady drizzle of freezing rain. The truck's antenna was coated with ice, as were the parked cars.
    Roxann pulled on knit gloves and tugged a wool hat down over her ears. "We couldn't find Elise, so she's probably long gone. The only way we'll be able to connect her to Dr. Seger is if we find something in his files—a letter, a picture...something."
    "I could lose my badge over this."
    "Stop exaggerating and look small." She opened the door quietly and slipped out into the frigid darkness. She heard a click, then Capistrano was next to her. The murder had obviously frightened the neighbors because outside security lights blazed, which didn't help their cause. They moved carefully to the cover of the shadows cast by the trees between the sidewalk and the leaf-covered lawns, then walked in the ice-encrusted grass rather than taking a chance on the slick sidewalk. They passed a bundled woman walking a dog, but avoided eye contact.
    "Which door?" she asked as they neared the house, which stood out because it was the only residence in total darkness.
    "Front door," he murmured. "The trick to breaking and entering is to act as if you're supposed to be there." Then he frowned. "Scratch that—I forget who I'm talking to."
    When they approached the steps, a motion-activated light came on and she practically wet herself.
    "Relax," he whispered.
    Her heart beat double-time and an uncontrollable shiver traveled through her body. The front door was plastered with yellow "crime scene" stickers. Capistrano was through the ornamental brass lock in less than thirty seconds, then pushed open the door.
    "What if there's a security alarm?" she whispered.
    "The police wouldn't bother setting it." Then he frowned. "Scratch that, too. And stop asking questions."
    After he closed the door, they stood in the darkness until their vision adjusted, then slipped off their shoes. The air in the house was deadly quiet and cold, with a chemical tang, probably left by forensics. Creepy stuff.
    "His office used to be in the library," she whispered. "If I remember correctly, it's ahead and to the left."
    They found the room, and Capistrano gently removed the police tape across the door. Then he walked the perimeter with a penlight, closing doors and shutters before turning on a desk lamp. She scanned the room, skimming over the carpet where white tape crudely outlined the shape of Carl's body where it had fallen next to the ottoman. The disturbing crime scene photos flashed in her mind, but she inhaled and chased them away.
    The room was lined with bookshelves, and studded with nice furniture—a mohair couch, a leather club chair, a massive cherrywood desk. She thought she detected the faintest scent of Carl's cologne, but she might have imagined it. To think that only two days ago he was alive.
    "You take the desk drawers," Capistrano said, "and I'll start on the bookshelves. Leave your gloves on."
    She nodded, removed her hat, and set to work before she could think about the ethics of rooting through the personal papers of an ethics professor. The bottom drawer was filled with CDs and headphones, so she moved to the next drawer. Receipts and check registers, a calculator, and files for bills—nothing special, unless you counted the sizable charges on his phone bill to 900 numbers. The thought of Carl dialing for sex on top of exploiting female students put a rock in her stomach.
    The other drawers revealed nothing of import—files of class grades and minutes of faculty meetings. She closed the last drawer with a sigh. "Nothing here."
    "Nothing here yet, either," he said from the bookshelf. "Why don't you start on the other end?"
    She did, experiencing a pang of sadness that Carl's carefully collected volumes would have to be moved to a new home—probably the university library.
    "He had some nice editions," Capistrano murmured.
    Roxann lifted an eyebrow at his broad back. So his reading repertoire extended beyond commercial thrillers. The man had layers.
    Systematically, she removed each book and flipped through pages to