“Oh.” The chief sat down behind her desk. So much for the personal feel. “I’m sure you’re aware we can’t release the files from an open investigation to anyone, let alone a member of the press—not without a court order.”

“That said,” Renton continued, “I understand Doris Chapman has asked you to look into Angela’s disappearance, and I’d like to help keep that woman’s spirits up.”

“Chief, I told her I saw little chance I’d find anything your detectives haven’t, but she sounded desperate.”

Renton’s concern seemed genuine. “After two years, we all are.”

Her office phone rang. The conversation ended after a few words.

“They’re ready for you, Miss Bergman. Let me show you the way.”

Caitlin rose. “Thanks for your time. And thanks”—she tapped on her assault file—“for this.”

Renton squinted. “I’m not proud of what’s in that folder. I wasn’t here at the time, so I can’t pass judgment, but I can say my department works in a very different way.”

Caitlin nodded. “Hopefully, we all work in different ways now.”

*   *   *

Detective Greenwood had his own desk in a four-cubicle bullpen. Besides a framed picture of himself with his arms around an attractive brunette, his workspace looked clean and efficient: no kids, no headlines. Caitlin felt the urge to open drawers, see if the man’s interior matched his exterior, but he popped in behind her.

“We’re good to go, Miss Bergman.”

She rose from the visitor’s chair. “Where to?”

Once again, he looked good in a fitted dress shirt, navy-blue slacks, and smooth brown dress shoes. “Crime lab.”

“Seriously? The ‘crime lab’?”

“Sounds cooler than ‘conference room,’ right?”

Caitlin followed him into the uncool conference room. A squat woman in a BPD polo and slacks worked a laptop, her hair in a ponytail so tight it gave Caitlin a migraine. The enlarged image of her computer’s desktop appeared on a wall-mounted television.

Greenwood did the honors. “Caitlin Bergman, this is Detective Jane Maverick.”

“That’s a great name.”

Maverick looked up like she smelled dog poop. “Need me to spell it?”

Caitlin guessed Maverick was in her fifties. “Did someone get that wrong?”

Greenwood lightened the situation. “Jane’s not a big fan of the press.”

“Vultures,” Maverick muttered, reaching for an empty coffee cup. “I’m getting a fresh one.” Her walk out the door blew a day’s worth of cigarettes Caitlin’s way.

Greenwood motioned toward the chairs.

Caitlin sat. “You two partners?”

“There are eleven of us on rotation. We all work together.”

“Chief Renton said you have twelve detectives.”

Greenwood shook his head. “Should be back to twelve next month. We’re down one, and the vetting process is extensive.”

“You lost someone in the line of duty?”

“No, just everyday life.”

Behind them, Maverick swore through a mouthful of fresh coffee. “Bullshit. Shepherd ate his gun. Nothing everyday about that.”