D.D. had to wrestle for a tiny round corner table next to the front window. She got there early, mostly so she could enjoy a second cup of coffee in peace, while working her cell phone. She found the uncle’s outreach to be fascinating. Here she was thinking she needed to push harder on the husband, and the family of the teenage wannabe lover entered the fray. Were they feeling overprotective, or guilt-stricken? Interesting.

D.D. hit speed dial, holding the tiny phone to her ear. Just because she had a sex dream last night was not the reason she was calling Bobby Dodge.

“Hello,” a female voice answered.

“Morning, Annabelle,” D.D. said, without a trace of the anxiety she immediately felt. Other women didn’t intimidate her. It was a hard-and-fast rule she’d developed years ago when she’d realized she was prettier than ninety percent of the female population, and a hundred percent better with a loaded handgun. Annabelle, of course, would be the exception to that rule, and Annabelle had snagged Bobby Dodge. That made her D.D.’s personal nemesis, even if they were both properly civil to each other. “Is Bobby awake?”

“Didn’t you call him in the middle of the night?” Annabelle asked.

“Yep. Hey, I understand congratulations are in order. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“You, um, feeling okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“When are you due?”

“August.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Waiting to be surprised.”

“Nice. So is Bobby around?”

“He’s only going to hang up on you again.”

“I know. It’s part of my charm.”

There was a distant shuffle as Annabelle handed the phone over to her husband, then some male grunting as Bobby was no doubt prodded awake.

“Tell me I’m dreaming,” Bobby groaned into the phone.

“I don’t know. Am I naked and covered in whipped cream?”

“D.D., I just talked to you eight hours ago.”

“Well, that’s the thing about crime. It never sleeps.”

“But detectives do.”

“Really? Must’ve missed that class at the Academy. So, I have a question for you about another statie. Name of Wayne Reynolds. Ring any bells?”

There was a long pause, which was better than the usual click of Bobby hanging up. “Wayne Reynolds?” he repeated at last. “No, can’t think of any detectives by that name.”

D.D. nodded, remaining quiet. Both the BPD and Massachusetts State Police were sizable organizations, but they still retained a family-enterprise sort of feel. Even if you didn’t work directly with every officer, chances were you’d caught a name in the hall, read it on top of a report, even heard a juicy bit of gossip in the latest rumor mill.

“Wait a minute,” Bobby said shortly. “I do know that name, but he’s not with the detectives unit. He’s at the Computer Lab. He handled the forensic analysis of some cell phones for last year’s bank robbery.”