The Witness

company.
    Privately owned, he discovered. Founded by one Cora Fiense, age thirty-three. No photo on file, not that he could find. But he scanned a couple of articles describing the small, exclusive company launched by a media-shy agoraphobic.
    The website offered no real information on the owner or the employees, but simply stated that Global offered security system analysis and design.
    He sat back, asked himself why he persisted. She hadn’t done anything, as far as he could tell. He liked her, but there was an itch, he couldn’t ignore it. One that told him if he kept scratching he’d uncover something … else.
    He toggled off when he heard the knock at his door.
    “Yeah.”
    “I’m off,” Alma told him. “Calls routed to your cell. Ash is on the desk till eight, Boyd’s on the road.”
    “That works.”
    “Sylbie and Grover came in together, paid the fine.”
    “Good.”
    “I don’t know if the cookie was worth it. Anyway, you were off shift ten minutes ago. Go home.”
    “Might just. Thanks, Alma.”
    He checked his calendar, noted he had his monthly meeting with the board of selectmen on Monday—joy. And he’d need to complete his quarterly reviews and inspections by the end of the month. He could go home, get some of that done. It wasn’t like his social calendar was bursting with activity.
    His own fault, he admitted. He could go by the pub, or just make a call to one of his friends, see what was up. And he wasn’t in the mood.
    The incident with Sylbie had left him mildly depressed, irritable. And horny. And the horny portion just pissed him off.
    Because after his baffled shock and annoyance, he’d been tempted. Just a little tempted.
    Hard to blame himself for it, he thought, as he rose, wandered to the window. A man would have to be dead a year not to be tempted by a naked Sylbie.
    Now he was edgy and itchy, and up until that walk down to Ozark Art, he’d been in a pretty damn good mood. Soured now, he thought, as he’d deprived himself of quick, hot sex, fancy coffee and a cookie.
    But Sylbie was right. He had changed. He hoped he never lost his taste for quick, hot sex, but he no longer wanted the price of guilt and emptiness that came after it when it just didn’t matter a damn.
    What he needed was a distraction. Maybe he’d drive out to Mya’s, mooch some dinner, hang out with the kids. Nothing drove sex out of a man’s mind surer than a couple of wild kids fighting over the Wii or PlayStation.
    He shut down, once again grabbed his jacket. He called a good night to Ash on the way out. On impulse, he jogged over to the florist, nipped in with five minutes to spare till closing.
    A bunch of tulips was a good trade for a meal and distraction, he figured.
    He drove out of the town proper, started to make the turn toward his sister’s big, noisy house near the river. He didn’t know until he’d turned the other way that he’d changed his mind.
    A BIGAIL HAD A NICE FIRE CRACKLING. On the stove, a pot of
pasta e fagioli
soup simmered. She’d baked a pretty little round of olive bread, put together a mixed salad she intended to toss with raspberry vinaigrette.
    All the work she’d earmarked for the day was complete. She’d spent ninety minutes on weights and cardio, exercised Bert.
    She was going to treat herself to dinner and a movie—maybe even a double feature, with popcorn for the follow-up.
    Considering all the interruptions, she’d had a very good, very productive week. Her fee for the job she’d just completed would fatten her bank account and add to her peace of mind.
    And Sunday? She’d give the computer a rest. She’d clean her weapons, work in her garden and greenhouse, maybe get a little hiking in. Then settle down with her leftover soup and read the evening away.
    For her, it encompassed a perfect weekend.
    “I think action/adventure with a comedy to follow,” she said to Bert as she gave the soup another stir. “And wine. The chief of police was right. It’s a very nice one. It won’t be cool enough for a fire in the evenings much longer, so we should take advantage. I think we should—”
    They both came to alert when her system beeped. “Someone’s coming,” she murmured, and rested her hand on the weapon at her hip.
    Her brows drew together when she saw the cruiser coming up her drive. “Why is he here again?”
    She moved to her computer, zoomed in to make certain Brooks was behind the wheel, and alone. After a moment’s thought, she