“I wish I knew,” I said slowly. “I haven’t got a clue. I’ve been looking for some papers—Mitch Kruger had them at the boardinghouse he lived in. But Mrs. Polter says his son turned up the next day and took them. Anyone who’s talked to her knows I don’t have them.”

Of course, I’d also been looking for papers at Mrs. Frizell’s, and Todd and Chrissie didn’t know whether I’d found them or not. It would be easy for them to know I was gone—but would they have had the enterprise to break in?

“Any ideas about the ladder?” I asked.

“New, probably. Its safety feet left a good impression and they still had the little grooves on them—hadn’t been used enough to wear them out.” He finished his coffee and put the cup on the floor. “I’m asking a squad car to drive by here every now and then. Just to make sure your visitors don’t come back.”

“Thanks.” I hesitated, trying to pick my words. “I appreciate that—I really do. And you staying the night—I was dead to the world. But, well, I didn’t ask for a bodyguard, and I don’t think I need one. The day comes I can’t look after myself, I’m retiring to Michigan.”

Light glinted on his gold front tooth. “That’s probably why I like you, Ms. W. Because you’re so ornery. I just love to watch you get on other people’s nerves.”

“You didn’t seem to be liking it too much over at Lotty’s last week.”

“I said other people’s, Warshawski, not my own.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “That your hobby?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t had too much chance to practice it lately.”

I put my own coffee cup on the bedside table and stretched an arm out to him. My muscles suddenly didn’t feel as heavy as they had ten minutes ago.

“Thought you’d never ask, Ms. W.” He leaned across the bed and slid strong fingers under my sweatshirt. “I’ve been wanting to do this for three years.”

“I never figured you for a shy guy, Sergeant.” I traced the long line of a scar across his torso up his back. “You don’t have a wife or girlfriend or someone I should know about, do you? I thought you were seeing a lot of Tessa Reynolds.”

Tessa was a sculptor we both knew.

Conrad made a face. “It’s been a while. She needed a shoulder to lean on after Malcolm’s death and mine was handy. I don’t know—maybe a cop isn’t classy enough for a lady artist. How about you? What’s with you and that newspaper boy I see you with every now and then?”