D.D. felt mollified by that, which was just plain stupid. “Yeah, well, I’m at the house tonight, seizing the computer, yada, yada, yada, and get this, in the middle of the forensics foreplay, the husband took a nap on the love seat.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Just closed his eyes, put his head back, and went to sleep. You tell me, when was the last time you saw a family member of a missing person take a nap in the middle of the investigation?”

“I’d consider that odd.”

“Exactly. So I call him on it, and get this: He gives me some SWAT team song and dance that when you’ve been activated, but not deployed, the sensible thing is to sleep, so you’re ready for action.”

There was silence. Then, “What’s this guy do for a living again?”

“He’s a journalist. Works freelance for Boston Daily.”

“Huh.”

“Huh what? I didn’t call you for grunting, I called you for expertise.”

She could practically see him rolling his eyes in bed. “Well, here’s the thing: For most tactical unit situations in policing, you are activated and deployed pretty much simultaneously. But I know what he means—couple of guys on my team were former military special forces. Navy SEALs, Marine Force Recon, that kind of thing. And yeah, I’ve watched those guys fall asleep in the middle of cow fields, school gymnasiums, and flatbed trucks. There does seem to be some kind of rule for military types—if you’re not doing, you’d better be sleeping, so you can do later.”

“Shit,” D.D. said, and chewed her bottom lip.

“You think he’s former military?”

“I think he could play poker with the devil himself. Son of a bitch.”

A yawn now. “Want me to take a run at him?” Bobby offered.

“Hey, I don’t need no state suit nosing into my investigation,” D.D. bristled.

“Easy, blondie. You called me.”

“Here’s the kicker,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “The wife is AWOL, and of course we suspect him, so we seized his trash. We found a pregnancy test. Marked positive.”

“Really?”

“Really. So I decide to ambush him with it tonight. See how he responds. Because he’s never mentioned this, and you’d think a husband would tell you if his missing wife was pregnant.”

“Speaking of which …”

She paused. Blinked. Felt her stomach drop away. “Holey moley,” she said at last. “I mean, when, how, where?”

He laughed. “How and where probably aren’t necessary, but Annabelle’s due August first. She’s nervous, but doing well.”

“Well, crap. I mean, congratulations. To both of you. That’s … awesome.” And it was. And she did mean it. Or would mean it. Goddamn, she needed to get laid.