violation."
"I'l bite."
"Improper disposal of a corpse. Look. Someone's probably missing this guy. If that someone is local, he or she may read the piece and make a cal. Admit it. You're just pissed that Winborne outwitted us."
I threw up a hand in an "I'm not believing this" gesture.
When puzzled, Boyd twirls his eyebrow hairs. He did that now, from the safety of the doorway.
"I'l see you tomorrow morning," Emma said.
Climbing the stairs, I went to my bathroom and rested my forehead on the mirror. The glass felt cool against my flushed skin.
Goddamn nosy, interfering reporters! Goddamn Winborne!
I breathed deeply and let it out slowly.
I have a temper. I admit that. Occasionaly, that temper triggers overreaction. I admit that, too. I despise such lapses. And I resent those able to trip that switch in my head.
Emma was right. The article was benign. Winborne was doing his job and he'd outmaneuvered us.
I took another deep breath.
I wasn't angry at Winborne. I was angry at myself for being outsmarted by plankton.
I straightened and stared at myself in the mirror, assessing.
Hazel eyes, bright, some would say intense. Crow's-feet at the corners, but stil my best feature.
High cheekbones, nose a bit on the smal side. Jaw holding firm. A few gray hairs, but the honey-brown stil in charge.
I stepped back for a ful body view.
Five-five. One twenty.
Overal, not bad for an odometer reading forty plus.
I locked on to the hazel gaze in the glass. A familiar voice sounded in my brain. Do your job, Brennan. Ignore the distractions and focus. Get it done. That's what you do. Get it done.
Boyd padded over and nudged my knee. I directed my next comment to him.
"Screw Winborne." The eyebrow hairs went crazy. "And the byline he rode in on."
Boyd shot his snout skyward in ful agreement. I patted his head.
After splashing water on my face, I applied makeup, twisted my hair into a topknot, and hurried downstairs. I was filing pet dishes when the front door slammed.
"Honey! I'm home!"
Pete appeared with yet more groceries.
"Planning a reunion of your entire Marine unit?"
Pete snapped a salute and replied with the Marine Corps motto. "Semper Fi. "
"How did it go with Herron?" I extracted a jar of pickled herring from Pete's bag and placed it in the fridge.
Reaching around me, Pete grabbed a Sam Adams and popped the cap on a drawer handle.
I bit back a rebuke. Pete's annoying habits were no longer my problem.
"Spent my time doing recon," Pete said.
"You couldn't get anywhere near Herron," I translated.
"No."
"What did you do?"
"Watched a whole lot of prayin' and making joyful sounds unto the Lord. When the show let out, I floated Helene's picture to a few of the faithful."
"And?"
"They are a spectacularly unobservant flock."
"No one remembered her?"
Pete drew a snapshot from his pocket and laid it on the table. I crossed to study it.
The image was blurry, a blowup of a driver's license or passport photo. A young woman stared, unsmiling, into the camera.
Helene wasn't pretty, though her features were even in a bland sort of way. Her hair was middle-parted and drawn back at the nape of her neck.
I had to admit. Helene Flynn had little to distinguish her from a thousand other women her age.
"Afterward I had a chat with Helene's landlady," Pete said. "Didn't learn much. Helene was polite, paid her rent on time, had no visitors. She did volunteer that the kid
"Afterward I had a chat with Helene's landlady," Pete said. "Didn't learn much. Helene was polite, paid her rent on time, had no visitors. She did volunteer that the kid seemed agitated toward the end. But Helene's leaving took her by surprise. Until the envelope with the final rent showed up, she had no idea Helene was leaving."
I looked again at the face in the photo. So forgettable. Witnesses would give unusable descriptions. Medium height. Medium weight. No recal of the face.
"Flynn had no other photos of his daughter?" I asked.
"None post-dating
"I'l bite."
"Improper disposal of a corpse. Look. Someone's probably missing this guy. If that someone is local, he or she may read the piece and make a cal. Admit it. You're just pissed that Winborne outwitted us."
I threw up a hand in an "I'm not believing this" gesture.
When puzzled, Boyd twirls his eyebrow hairs. He did that now, from the safety of the doorway.
"I'l see you tomorrow morning," Emma said.
Climbing the stairs, I went to my bathroom and rested my forehead on the mirror. The glass felt cool against my flushed skin.
Goddamn nosy, interfering reporters! Goddamn Winborne!
I breathed deeply and let it out slowly.
I have a temper. I admit that. Occasionaly, that temper triggers overreaction. I admit that, too. I despise such lapses. And I resent those able to trip that switch in my head.
Emma was right. The article was benign. Winborne was doing his job and he'd outmaneuvered us.
I took another deep breath.
I wasn't angry at Winborne. I was angry at myself for being outsmarted by plankton.
I straightened and stared at myself in the mirror, assessing.
Hazel eyes, bright, some would say intense. Crow's-feet at the corners, but stil my best feature.
High cheekbones, nose a bit on the smal side. Jaw holding firm. A few gray hairs, but the honey-brown stil in charge.
I stepped back for a ful body view.
Five-five. One twenty.
Overal, not bad for an odometer reading forty plus.
I locked on to the hazel gaze in the glass. A familiar voice sounded in my brain. Do your job, Brennan. Ignore the distractions and focus. Get it done. That's what you do. Get it done.
Boyd padded over and nudged my knee. I directed my next comment to him.
"Screw Winborne." The eyebrow hairs went crazy. "And the byline he rode in on."
Boyd shot his snout skyward in ful agreement. I patted his head.
After splashing water on my face, I applied makeup, twisted my hair into a topknot, and hurried downstairs. I was filing pet dishes when the front door slammed.
"Honey! I'm home!"
Pete appeared with yet more groceries.
"Planning a reunion of your entire Marine unit?"
Pete snapped a salute and replied with the Marine Corps motto. "Semper Fi. "
"How did it go with Herron?" I extracted a jar of pickled herring from Pete's bag and placed it in the fridge.
Reaching around me, Pete grabbed a Sam Adams and popped the cap on a drawer handle.
I bit back a rebuke. Pete's annoying habits were no longer my problem.
"Spent my time doing recon," Pete said.
"You couldn't get anywhere near Herron," I translated.
"No."
"What did you do?"
"Watched a whole lot of prayin' and making joyful sounds unto the Lord. When the show let out, I floated Helene's picture to a few of the faithful."
"And?"
"They are a spectacularly unobservant flock."
"No one remembered her?"
Pete drew a snapshot from his pocket and laid it on the table. I crossed to study it.
The image was blurry, a blowup of a driver's license or passport photo. A young woman stared, unsmiling, into the camera.
Helene wasn't pretty, though her features were even in a bland sort of way. Her hair was middle-parted and drawn back at the nape of her neck.
I had to admit. Helene Flynn had little to distinguish her from a thousand other women her age.
"Afterward I had a chat with Helene's landlady," Pete said. "Didn't learn much. Helene was polite, paid her rent on time, had no visitors. She did volunteer that the kid
"Afterward I had a chat with Helene's landlady," Pete said. "Didn't learn much. Helene was polite, paid her rent on time, had no visitors. She did volunteer that the kid seemed agitated toward the end. But Helene's leaving took her by surprise. Until the envelope with the final rent showed up, she had no idea Helene was leaving."
I looked again at the face in the photo. So forgettable. Witnesses would give unusable descriptions. Medium height. Medium weight. No recal of the face.
"Flynn had no other photos of his daughter?" I asked.
"None post-dating
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