D.D.’s cell rang ten minutes later. It was barely seven, but she didn’t lead one of those lives where people called during normal operating hours. She took another sip of coffee, flipped open her phone, and announced, “Talk to me.”
“Sergeant D. D. Warren?”
“Last I checked.”
The caller paused. She took another sip of cappuccino.
“This, uh, is Wayne Reynolds. I work for the Massachusetts State Police. I’m also Ethan Hastings’s uncle.”
D.D. thought about it. The number on her display screen looked familiar. Then it came to her: “Didn’t you buzz me yesterday morning?”
“I tried your pager. I saw the press conference and figured we’d better talk.”
“Because of Ethan?”
Another pause. “I think it would be best if we could meet in person. What do you say? I could buy you breakfast.”
“You think we’re gonna arrest Ethan?”
“I think if you did, it would be a huge mistake.”
“So, you’re gonna throw your state weight around, ask me to back off? ’cause you should know up front, I don’t take those kinds of conversations well, and buying me a bagel with cream cheese isn’t gonna make a difference.”
“How about we meet first, and you can be hostile and indifferent second?”
“It’s your funeral,” D.D. said. She rattled off the name of a coffee shop just around the corner, then went to fetch an umbrella.
Mario’s was a locals’ establishment. Tiny, with the original Formica countertop from 1949 and an enormous glass jar of fresh biscotti next to the ancient cash register. Mario II, the son, currently ran the joint. He served up eggs, toast, pancetta, and the best coffee you could buy outside of Italy.
D.D. had to wrestle for a tiny round corner table next to the front window. She got there early, mostly so she could enjoy a second cup of coffee in peace, while working her cell phone. She found the uncle’s outreach to be fascinating. Here she was thinking she needed to push harder on the husband, and the family of the teenage wannabe lover entered the fray. Were they feeling overprotective, or guilt-stricken? Interesting.
D.D. hit speed dial, holding the tiny phone to her ear. Just because she had a sex dream last night was not the reason she was calling Bobby Dodge.
“Hello,” a female voice answered.
“Morning, Annabelle,” D.D. said, without a trace of the anxiety she immediately felt. Other women didn’t intimidate her. It was a hard-and-fast rule she’d developed years ago when she’d realized she was prettier than ninety percent of the female population, and a hundred percent better with a loaded handgun. Annabelle, of course, would be the exception to that rule, and Annabelle had snagged Bobby Dodge. That made her D.D.’s personal nemesis, even if they were both properly civil to each other. “Is Bobby awake?”
“Didn’t you call him in the middle of the night?” Annabelle asked.
“Yep. Hey, I understand congratulations are in order. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“You, um, feeling okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“When are you due?”
“August.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Waiting to be surprised.”
“Nice. So is Bobby around?”
“He’s only going to hang up on you again.”
“I know. It’s part of my charm.”
There was a distant shuffle as Annabelle handed the phone over to her husband, then some male grunting as Bobby was no doubt prodded awake.
“Tell me I’m dreaming,” Bobby groaned into the phone.
“I don’t know. Am I naked and covered in whipped cream?”
“D.D., I just talked to you eight hours ago.”
“Well, that’s the thing about crime. It never sleeps.”
“But detectives do.”
“Really? Must’ve missed that class at the Academy. So, I have a question for you about another statie. Name of Wayne Reynolds. Ring any bells?”
There was a long pause, which was better than the usual click of Bobby hanging up. “Wayne Reynolds?” he repeated at last. “No, can’t think of any detectives by that name.”
D.D. nodded, remaining quiet. Both the BPD and Massachusetts State Police were sizable organizations, but they still retained a family-enterprise sort of feel. Even if you didn’t work directly with every officer, chances were you’d caught a name in the hall, read it on top of a report, even heard a juicy bit of gossip in the latest rumor mill.
“Wait a minute,” Bobby said shortly. “I do know that name, but he’s not with the detectives unit. He’s at the Computer Lab. He handled the forensic analysis of some cell phones for last year’s bank robbery.”
“He’s an electronics geek?”
“I think they prefer the term ‘forensic specialist.’”
“Huh,” D.D. said.
“You seize some computers and ask for state assistance?”
“I seized some computers and asked for BRIC assistance, thank you very much.” BRIC was the Boston Regional Intelligence Center at BPD headquarters, basically BPD’s geek squad, because like all good bureaucracies, the Boston police believed they needed to have all their own toys and specialists. It went without saying.
“Well, call someone in BRIC, then,” Bobby grumbled. “They’ve probably worked with Wayne. I haven’t.”
“Okay. Good night, Bobby.”
“Crap, it’s already morning. Now I’ll have to get up.”
“Then good morning, Bobby.” D.D. hung up before he could swear at her again. She clipped her cell to her waist and contemplated her empty mug. Wayne Reynolds was a professional nerd with an amateur nerd nephew. She refilled her cup. Interesting.
Wayne Reynolds walked through the door of Mario’s at precisely eight A.M. D.D. knew it was him by his burnished red hair, not so unlike his nephew’s. All resemblance to a thirteen-year-old boy however, began and ended with the coppertop.
Wayne Reynolds was tall, six one, six two. He moved easily and athletically. Definitely a guy who worked in a daily run, despite the pressing demands of ripping apart various hard drives. He wore a camel-colored light wool blazer that set off a forest green shirt and dark-colored slacks. More than one head turned when he walked in, and D.D. felt a slight bit of thrill when he headed for her, and only for her. If this is what Ethan Hastings was going to grow into one day, then maybe Sandy Jones had been onto something.
“Sergeant Warren,” Wayne greeted her, extending his hand.
D.D. nodded, accepting the handshake. He had calloused palms. Short buffed nails. Positively beautiful fingers that didn’t wear a wedding ring.
Honest to God, she was going to need some bacon.
“Want food?” she asked.
He blinked his eyes. “Okay.”
“Great. I’ll get enough for both of us.”
D.D. used her time at the order counter to control her breathing and remind herself that she was a trained professional who absolutely, positively was
She returned to the tiny table with napkins and silverware for both of them, as well as a cup of black coffee for him. Wayne accepted the oversized white ceramic mug with his beautiful fingers, and she bit the inside of her lips.
