Page 53 of Her Only Hero

“Someone just called and asked for me. And then hung up.”

“A second hang up today?”

“It appears so.”

“Okay. I’m going to put a trace on those calls,” Patrick said. “June, could you come to my office? I’m not quite wrapped up for the day.”

“They’ll let me in?”

“Bring your badge, and you’ll be fine. I’m located close to the front desk.”

“Okay,” I said. “See you soon. I hope.”

I advanced down the corridor, connecting the police station to the forensic building. In the reception area, a uniformed male and a female officer sat behind a long counter.

I held up my identification. “I’m here to see Officer Verbeek.”

The female officer, sporting a tight bun, pointed to the hallway. “Go ahead.”

I continued until I found the right door number.

I peeked into the plain office. Patrick sat on a black padded chair at a desk besieged with folders. “You know, you really should try to get an office with a window. And maybe a plant.”

He gave me a weary smile. “I will put in a request. Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

I sank onto a sturdy wooden chair. “I’m good.”

He shuffled folders, put them aside, and clicked the computer mouse. “June, I traced the prank call you received this morning.”

“Already?” I said more to myself.

“Yes. I know people.” He winked. “That first call originated from St. Eugene’s hospital. But the tracing stops there. We’re unable to determine the extension from within.”

“That doesn’t really tell us anything. Does it?”

“Not really. I’m having the second call traced as we speak, and we’ll see if that search yields anything. On another note, I want to update you on the victim we found in the house.”

“You’ve identified him?”

“He’s still a John Doe.”

“What? He had no identification? No fingerprint matches? Or tooth records?”

“No none.” The side of Patrick’s mouth turned up. “You’re sounding more and more like a detective, babe. And you are irresistible. But I got to focus here.”

Butterflies flapped in my stomach.

“This guy, more than likely, came here illegally.”

“So why was he murdered?”

“Good question. My best guess is that it was an all-out brawl over something,” Patrick said. “The interesting find is the murdered man wasn’t the renter, or owner of the property.”

“Then whose house is it?”

“It belongs to Dr. Stanley Fulthorpe.”

“Wait,” I said. “The hematologist who disappeared? Whose card I found?”

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