“Little bit wired,” Jo said.

“What?”

She hooked a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the front office. “Your sidekick.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t deny it, so he said, “You have to know Wy’s already here.”

She nodded. “We texted.”

“So. You’re checking out my new post instead of our new house, because…?”

“Mostly I’m down here for a story.”

“Swell. Can I call Wy for you?”

“We’re meeting for lunch out on the Spit. What’s hopping at your new post, Sergeant?”

“I’m not even officially here until next Monday.”

“Barton cracking the whip?”

He looked at her and she laughed. “Yeah. That would have been way too easy.” She stood up. “See you later.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t Wy tell you? I’m your first houseguest.” And she was gone.

Great. Although he supposed he should be grateful Jo hadn’t shown up yesterday. Possibly indicative of some small smidgeon of tact on her part.

He thought about it. Nah.

There was a tap at the door and he looked up to see Ms. Petroff standing in the doorway. “Who was that, sir?”

“That, Ms. Petroff, was an example of the species known as Homo americanus diurnaria.” She looked confused, as well she might, and he relented. “She’s a reporter for the Anchorage News. Jo Dunaway.”

“Dunaway?” Her brow smoothed. “I’ve seen her byline. She wrote about Gheen.”

“She did.”

“There was another trooper—”

“Prince.”

“Is she still in Newenham, sir?”

“No. So far as I know she’s in Florida.” Because she had eloped with Liam’s father, that incorrigible womanizer otherwise known as Colonel Charles Bradley Campbell. Might be Brigadier General or Major General or even Lieutenant General by now. Probably never General, though, for which Liam sent up his heartfelt thanks to the United States Air Force. As a voter he thought his tax dollars could be better spent.

All of which Jo Dunaway knew full well, and with which information she used to needle him.

Ms. Petroff came all the way into the room. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

At least she wasn’t going to dig around for the details of the Gheen murders as so many did when they found out he’d been the investigating officer. He nodded at the screen of the desktop computer. “Can you set this up so it answers to my password?”

“Of course, sir.” He traded places with her and she busied herself at his keyboard. “There you are. Enter your password, confirm it, and you’re good to go.”

“Thank you, Ms. Petroff.” He sat down again. She picked up his phone and handed it to him. “Please enter your passcode, sir?”

“Certainly.” He did and handed the phone back.

She tapped away industriously and set it back down on the desk. “‘Post’ rings the landline on my desk. ‘SP’ is my cell number.”

“Thank you,” he said again, and studied her for a moment. She was of medium height but her erect posture made her seem taller. She was dressed in a neat two-piece pantsuit in dark blue with a white button-down underneath. She wore small silver hoops in her ears, no watch, no rings. Her nails were cut straight across and unpolished. She was very nearly a case study in professional anonymity. “You studied in Anchorage, you say?”