Page 4 of Misadventures in Blue
“Already done. They’re working on trying to lift prints now, but good luck with a fucking waiting room, you know?”
I make an agreeing kind of noise as we head back toward the scheduling desks, where a wan young woman stands next to a copier. She looks stunned, a confused kind of afraid, and a frisson of impatience skates through me.
There are far worse things than a stolen television—particularly one stolen when no one was around—and I want to tell her that. I want to tell her she doesn’t realize what horrors life can present. What fears. Even when Frazer died, I still managed to keep my pain and terror and guilt locked safely inside—
I stop the train of thought immediately. It’s not helping the strange restless itch burrowing deeper and deeper into my chest. An itch that seems to be equal parts vexation over the case an
d some indefinable physical need.
I take a subtle breath, remind myself that this girl is probably in her early twenties and that I don’t need to infect her with my jaded, thirty-seven-year-old weariness.
“I’m Detective Catherine Day,” I say, extending my hand.
She looks at it for a moment, lost, and then seems to remember what’s expected and shakes it. “Gia,” she replies.
Russo grins at her. “Good Italian name.”
“Uh, yeah. Pisani. Last name.” She lets out a huffy little laugh, as if realizing how wooden she’s being. “Sorry. This is just so weird.”
I give her a small smile. “We’ll need you to submit a complete list of everything missing or disturbed in the office, Gia, but whatever you can tell me now will be helpful for the initial report.”
She shakes her head, looking lost. “It’s only the television… It’s bewildering. It’s just gone.”
“But no one was hurt,” Russo tells her. “And in the grand scheme of things, a TV is not the worst thing they could have taken. They could have taken medicine to sell off or all sorts of expensive medical equipment.”
Gia chews her lip. “You’re right, of course. Absolutely right. It’s just this is my first real job out of college, and I have no idea what to do or if it’s somehow my fault…”
I catch her uncertain gaze, touching her elbow as I do. “It’s not your fault, and I’ll guide you through as much of this as I can.”
With Gia somewhat mollified, I manage to get a decent preliminary interview out of her, arrange for a follow-up later this week, and ask for a complete inventory of the equipment and other valuable items in the office. Then Russo and I head back outside to the parking lot to find the responding officer.
“Bewildering,” Russo echoes. “Can you imagine using the word ‘bewildering’ out loud?”
“The diploma over her desk was from Vassar,” I say a bit distractedly, feeling a short buzz from my phone and looking down to check it. Even with the parking lot lights sending a diffused glow over the pavement, the screen is painfully bright after I tap the notification open. “Maybe she’s simply well-spoken. Excuse me. I need to check this.”
Russo stops and politely waits for me to check my latest email. I register a small click of satisfaction when I see it’s something I’ve been waiting for.
“Boyfriend?” Russo asks, noticing my pleased expression.
“Crime Analysis,” I reply. “Extracted data from the license plate readers in the area of the last burglary.”
She rolls her eyes. “Day, you need a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. You can’t fuck extracted data, or at least so I’ve heard.”
“I’m fine, Nicki.”
She gives me a mock scowl at the use of her first name. “You seem fine, Cat. Really, really, superduper fine.”
We’re angling toward a clump of officers standing next to a patrol car. Even in the dark, they’ve all got the requisite patrol cop sunglasses propped on their heads, and every last one of them has a gas station coffee cup clutched in one hand—vital medicine for any officer on any shift, day or night.
“I am fine. I promise.”
She softens, going from friendly ribbing to the earnest tomboy I met fifteen years ago at academy. “Frazer would want you to be happy, you know,” she says quietly enough that the uniforms can’t hear her as we approach. “He wouldn’t want you to live like this…married to the job since you couldn’t marry him.”
My chest tightens uncomfortably.
It’s been twelve years since he died, and there’s been plenty of therapy and life between then and now—and still her words sting. I tuck my phone carefully inside my portfolio, swallow, and say, “I’m happy, Nicki. Truly.”
It’s a lie, but she doesn’t press me on it, for which I’m grateful. “Okay,” she says. “I just want to see you have a little fun is all. Live a little.”
