burning. “Just so you know, Swift, we don’t usually go in for that overly familiar flirtatious stuff.”
“Lighten up, Kate. We’re just joshing.”
“There’s nothing funny about inappropriate office conduct. Sexual harassment is not a joke.”
“Sexual harassment?” Swift looked at Mike. “Did I harass you? I don’t recall you complaining.” She helped herself to a chair. “Why don’t one of you tell me what you’ve got on this case so far?”
Mike wanted to sit behind his desk, but that would leave Baxter standing, and that was too rude, even for him. “We don’t know much about the victim. Not even his name. We checked the mug shots. Didn’t find a match.”
“Check the DEA records?”
An interesting question. “No. We’ve been interviewing people who knew him, neighbors and such, but there aren’t many. They say he mostly kept to himself.”
“But you’re not buying that, right?”
“Right. No man is an island, entire of itself.”
Swift turned to Baxter. “Don’t you get shivers when he does the poetry thing?”
“Love it,” Baxter deadpanned.
“I appreciate you two being so reasonable about this,” Swift said. “Sometimes local law enforcement just goes ape when we Feds come in. Get more territorial than most jungle primates.” She checked her watch. “Wanna go somewhere for a cup of java?” She smiled in a way that was uncommonly inviting. “We could catch up.”
“Yeah. I think I’m about finished here.” Mike fiddled absently with the stapler on his desk. “Baxter, care to join us?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got some paperwork to take care of. Why don’t you call me when you’re actually ready to work? Partner.”
“No problem.” Swift grabbed his arm. “So, isn’t there a Java Dave’s within walking distance?”
10
Ben came home from the office as depressed as he remembered ever being. That’s what you always say, he told himself. Which said something about his life. Something fairly pathetic.
He had stopped by Weber’s for takeout—cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate milk. Comfort food. With luck, he would make it up the stairs of his boardinghouse without being accosted by tenants complaining about the air-conditioning or explaining why they couldn’t possibly pay their rent this month. Sometimes both at once.
He entered the boardinghouse where he lived—which he now owned—and walked up the stairs to his room without interruption, dropped his food on the kitchen table, then stopped to check in on the felines.
A big wicker basket with a cushion was the current home of Giselle, the huge mama cat, and her kitten Melisande. Ben had eventually given away the rest of the litter, but he couldn’t bear to part with them all, regardless of what people said about two cats in a small apartment.
He opened several cans of Feline’s Fancy and scooped it into their individual bowls, stroked their fur, talked baby talk—then heard a sound coming from his bedroom.
He stiffened.
He removed his shoes so he could walk more quietly on the squeaky hardwood floors. He tiptoed across the living room, then slowly made his way down the corridor.
What he found in his bedroom was a beautiful young woman wearing nothing but a pink string bikini.
“I thought you’d never get home,” the woman said, brushing her curly brunette locks behind her round and radiant shoulders.
“Joni?” Ben said, almost choking on the words. Of course he’d seen her many times before. She did live here, and had been serving as his building superintendent to work her way through college. But she was normally wearing baggy overalls or jeans with holes in the knees.
“I tracked down the plumbing problem,” she said, pointing to the hole where floorboards used to be. “Leaky pipe. Just below your bedroom.”
“So . . . I assume you’re working on it?”
“Like, you thought maybe I was going for a swim under your bed?”
“Well . . . I didn’t . . . I—”
“Yes,
“Lighten up, Kate. We’re just joshing.”
“There’s nothing funny about inappropriate office conduct. Sexual harassment is not a joke.”
“Sexual harassment?” Swift looked at Mike. “Did I harass you? I don’t recall you complaining.” She helped herself to a chair. “Why don’t one of you tell me what you’ve got on this case so far?”
Mike wanted to sit behind his desk, but that would leave Baxter standing, and that was too rude, even for him. “We don’t know much about the victim. Not even his name. We checked the mug shots. Didn’t find a match.”
“Check the DEA records?”
An interesting question. “No. We’ve been interviewing people who knew him, neighbors and such, but there aren’t many. They say he mostly kept to himself.”
“But you’re not buying that, right?”
“Right. No man is an island, entire of itself.”
Swift turned to Baxter. “Don’t you get shivers when he does the poetry thing?”
“Love it,” Baxter deadpanned.
“I appreciate you two being so reasonable about this,” Swift said. “Sometimes local law enforcement just goes ape when we Feds come in. Get more territorial than most jungle primates.” She checked her watch. “Wanna go somewhere for a cup of java?” She smiled in a way that was uncommonly inviting. “We could catch up.”
“Yeah. I think I’m about finished here.” Mike fiddled absently with the stapler on his desk. “Baxter, care to join us?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got some paperwork to take care of. Why don’t you call me when you’re actually ready to work? Partner.”
“No problem.” Swift grabbed his arm. “So, isn’t there a Java Dave’s within walking distance?”
10
Ben came home from the office as depressed as he remembered ever being. That’s what you always say, he told himself. Which said something about his life. Something fairly pathetic.
He had stopped by Weber’s for takeout—cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate milk. Comfort food. With luck, he would make it up the stairs of his boardinghouse without being accosted by tenants complaining about the air-conditioning or explaining why they couldn’t possibly pay their rent this month. Sometimes both at once.
He entered the boardinghouse where he lived—which he now owned—and walked up the stairs to his room without interruption, dropped his food on the kitchen table, then stopped to check in on the felines.
A big wicker basket with a cushion was the current home of Giselle, the huge mama cat, and her kitten Melisande. Ben had eventually given away the rest of the litter, but he couldn’t bear to part with them all, regardless of what people said about two cats in a small apartment.
He opened several cans of Feline’s Fancy and scooped it into their individual bowls, stroked their fur, talked baby talk—then heard a sound coming from his bedroom.
He stiffened.
He removed his shoes so he could walk more quietly on the squeaky hardwood floors. He tiptoed across the living room, then slowly made his way down the corridor.
What he found in his bedroom was a beautiful young woman wearing nothing but a pink string bikini.
“I thought you’d never get home,” the woman said, brushing her curly brunette locks behind her round and radiant shoulders.
“Joni?” Ben said, almost choking on the words. Of course he’d seen her many times before. She did live here, and had been serving as his building superintendent to work her way through college. But she was normally wearing baggy overalls or jeans with holes in the knees.
“I tracked down the plumbing problem,” she said, pointing to the hole where floorboards used to be. “Leaky pipe. Just below your bedroom.”
“So . . . I assume you’re working on it?”
“Like, you thought maybe I was going for a swim under your bed?”
“Well . . . I didn’t . . . I—”
“Yes,
Similar Books
