“Detective Jerry Greenwood from the Bloomington Police Department, returning your call.”

That made it Caitlin’s turn to chuckle. “Good afternoon, Detective.”

“Couldn’t help but wonder why a Los Angeles–based reporter would be in Bloomington and looking for me on a Saturday.”

“Sorry about that—dialed a wrong number.”

“’Course,” the man said, nothing but charm in his voice. “Since you’ve got me, anything you want to talk about?”

Caitlin tapped on the steering wheel. By five short minutes, poor Lakshmi had missed a chance to grill the detective who sent every one of her calls to voicemail. Couldn’t hurt to meet the man, maybe feed the girl some insider info before leaving town. Plus, Caitlin needed to do something about the pool of acid attacking her stomach, or she’d never make the drive south without barfing in her rental car.

“I was about to grab a bite to eat, Detective, and cops always know the best places. Have a recommendation?”

Greenwood took a second. “Lennie’s on Tenth. Gourmet pizza and microbrews.”

Caitlin smiled. “Interesting choice. I used to wait tables there.”

“What’s that word,” he asked, “Serendipity? I figured a big city reporter had called through the switchboard to see if I was in the office and assumed the next step would be a surprise interview; thought I’d call you back and beat you to the punch before I ducked out for a salad. Care to grab lunch with a man you met from a wrong number?”

*   *   *

Detective Jerry Greenwood scanned the room for less than two seconds before approaching Caitlin’s table with a smile. From the slight gray in the temples of his otherwise full head of short brown hair, Caitlin guessed the tall, decent-looking man was in his early forties. She saw a cell phone holstered on the belt of his slacks, but no badge or gun.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he said, taking a chair. “I hate eating alone. How long are you in town?”

“Short trip,” she said. “I leave tomorrow afternoon.”

A waitress stopped by. Caitlin ordered a beer and a sandwich. Greenwood went for an Arnold Palmer and a teriyaki chicken salad.

“No pizza, Miss Bergman?”

Caitlin shook her head. “Late night only. What’s your excuse?”

“Spend a lot of time on the phone at my desk. Not a great way to work off dough.”

Caitlin didn’t see any spare dough on the man.

He reached for a water in front of him. “About that wrong number.”

“Meaning you didn’t leave a cell phone at a tire store?”

“Not lately, though wouldn’t have put it past me two years back.”

“Angela Chapman?”

Greenwood’s dark eyebrows went up. “No, another reason entirely. To tell the truth, Miss Bergman. I’ve been expecting your call for years.”

Before Caitlin could parrot his years, the waitress returned with the necessary liquids. Greenwood laced his fingers on the tabletop, waiting for her departure.