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“God save us,” Reed said, glancing at the pup, who thumped his tail against the side of his bed. “And who knows why the intruder came in. Was it about the investigation? Or something else? Random because the door was left unlocked, a burglar in the neighborhood, or something else?”
She leaned forward. “You tell me. You’re the detective.”
“And you’re impossible.” He glanced at the bedside clock and swore under his breath. “Call and text me if you decide to go out.”
“Um-hmm.” She listened to him hurry down the hallway, his feet clicking down the stairs, and she let out a long sigh. At least some of the tension—well, most of it—had dissipated. “I’ll be careful,” she whispered to the cat, and Jennings opened one suspicious eye as if doubting anything she said this morning.
* * *
When Reed walked into the office, he noticed things had changed. Delacroix had taken over M
orrisette’s desk and was sitting in the desk chair, leaning forward, her eyes glued to her computer screen as she used the mouse to scroll through images. Any reticence she’d felt about moving her things into the office had dissipated and she was working at the computer, a Diet Coke can unopened but sweating on a corner of the desk, a cup of pens and pencils, her cell phone and a few papers collected in a mesh basket.
The only personal items were a Loyola University cap turned upside down on the desk, her keys and small wallet tucked inside. She’d slung a lightweight jacket over the back of her chair and was wearing tight jeans and a black T-shirt.
“Hey,” she said, not looking up from the monitor as he settled into his own chair and it creaked from his weight.
He asked, “What’s up?”
“What’s up with you?” Still her gaze was fastened to the screen as the noise from the hallway, the buzz of conversation punctuated with laughter and the jangle of cell phones filtered in, colliding with the rush of air being pumped through the ducts from the air conditioner. “I heard there was a break-in at your place last night.”
“That’s right.”
“No one hurt? Nothing taken?” She finally glanced over her shoulder.
“No.”
“Your wife okay?”
“Yes.” He hoped so.
“She’s been through a lot lately.”
Amen to that. “Seems to be pretty commonplace with Nikki.”
“Yeah, I heard she gets herself into trouble,” she said, one eyebrow arching over the rim of her glasses.
“Occasionally.”
“How do you do that?” she asked, finally settling back in her chair and giving him her full attention.
“Do what?”
“Work with a reporter who’s always butting into your cases?”
He wanted to argue but saw no point. He was going to be working with this woman now, so they’d better clear the air and set some ground rules about privacy.
“It’s a work in progress,” he admitted, “but we handle it.” Like hell.
“A balancing act?”
“I guess.” But the scales always seemed tipped a bit. “What’ve we got?” He was hoping for a new lead because their interview with Ashley Jefferson hadn’t gone well. She’d stuck to her original statement and when they’d pushed her, she’d asked if she needed a lawyer. Delacroix had planned to crack her and have her admit her alibi for Owen Duval was bullshit, but Ashley Jefferson had held firm, all of which had pissed off Delacroix.
“We’ve got a couple of things.” She pointed to a graying box on the other side of her desk. “Original case files. You requested?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re dusty and I think I might be allergic.” She took off her glasses and set them on the desk, then found a tissue and rubbed her eyes. They did look a little red and she was blinking away tears.
