Page 3 of Misadventures in Blue
She is sophistication embodied.
And all of this refined dignity is coupled with a direct, determined stride and quick, efficient assessments of her surroundings. She exudes confidence. Independence. Power.
I don’t know about the ice part, but the queen?
Yes. I can sense it from here.
In the thirty seconds it takes her to tuck her leather portfolio against her stomach and walk into the building, Catherine Day obliterates any thoughts of boredom or disappointment, and I feel a strange jolt of unhappiness when she walks out of my sight.
I close out my tablet with a few impatient stabs and get out of my car. Talking to her is the only thing I want to do.
Chapter Two
Cat
I’ll never concede that crime scenes and high heels don’t mix.
I duck under the yellow tape to find the on-duty sergeant and notice a spray of broken glass on the ground. With a rueful glance down at my nude Manolo Blahniks, I pick my way carefully through the sparkling debris to the woman facing away from me, talking into the radio on her shoulder. I’ve never been more grateful for my years of ballet and yoga as I am when I make it to her with my balance and dignity intact.
Sergeant Russo gives me a friendly—if slightly disbelieving—once-over as I reach her, eyeing my silk blouse and tailored pencil skirt. A sleek leather portfolio is tucked under my elbow.
“Just rolled out of bed like that, huh?” she asks, letting go of her radio and gesturing for me to follow her through a doorway to the real crime scene.
I smile as we walk in, but I don’t answer. Nicki Russo and I went through academy together, and while we’re friends, her remarks about my clothes have always been more than a little pointed. Detective Dry Clean Only is her favorite nickname for me—which I suppose is nicer than the one they call me when I’m not around.
Officer Ice Queen.
They’ve been calling me that since Frazer’s funeral twelve years ago. The funeral where I didn’t cry, didn’t mourn, didn’t expose a single sliver of the raw, howling pain I actually felt.
“Tell me what we’ve got,” I say, setting aside the sharp memories and taking in the scene. “Same as last time?”
Russo nods. “Even down to the timing. Doctor’s office, hit after ten. The window around the door is broken—likely what triggered the alarm. We had a uniform here within seven minutes. He searched the office and the rest of the building. No one in sight.”
I look around the half-lit waiting room. There’s glass from the broken window out on the sidewalk and a spray of shards glinting on the carpet. The usual array of pointless, uninteresting magazines are still neatly arranged on the tables, and the corner houses a collection of wooden toys. Except for the glass, it could be any well-kept, undisturbed waiting room, all but—
“The television again,” I murmur, finding what I was looking for. A bare TV mount on the wall, random wires and cords dangling from the ceiling above it.
“Yep,” Russo agrees. “My guy saw it right away. He was the one who told me to call you, by the way. Actually read your email about it all.”
“And you didn’t read my email?” I ask absently, walking up to the wall and examining the mount.
“Do you know how many emails I get in a day?” asks Russo.
It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t bother answering, but I do say, “That was attentive of your officer to remember it. I’d like to speak with him, if I may.”
“Sure. And the office manager is here too. She might be able to give you a preliminary report of what’s missing.”
“Nothing else will be missing,” I say, more to myself than Russo, still looking at the mount. It was poorly installed, and drywall dust litters the carpet below, as if dislodging the television from the mount sent a shower of the stuff everywhere. “They just want the TVs.”
A string of similar robberies has plagued the city for the past two months. It’s always doctors’ offices, it’s always TVs, and it’s always at night.
I normally work in crimes against persons—homicide, stalking, assault—but my experience working a similar case for the Kansas Bureau of Investigation a few years back had my sergeant pulling me to work this one. I don’t mind, since my usual caseload is a lot grimmer than stolen televisions, but it has been unexpectedly frustrating.
I have one of the highest case clearance rates in the department; I’m not used to failing. Yet I’ve been on this one for four solid weeks with nothing to show for it.
It’s galling, and an unfamiliar itch of restlessness works its way down my spine. It’s everything I can do to maintain my poise as I turn back to Russo.
“The scene techs are taking pictures?”
