How the hell were you not supposed to get a little emotional about something like that? Especially when the music started and everyone was dancing to Etta James’s “At Last” except you, of course, because you’d been working so damn much you never got around to finding a date?

D.D. sipped more latte, gazed down at busy little lives, and scowled.

Bobby Dodge had gotten married. That’s what this was about. He’d gone and found someone better than her, and now he was married and she was …

Goddammit, she needed to get laid.

She’d just gotten her running shoes laced up when her cell phone rang. She checked the number, frowned, placed the phone to her ear.

“Sergeant Warren,” she announced crisply.

“Morning, Sergeant. Detective Brian Miller, District C-6. Sorry to bother you.”

D.D. shrugged, waited. Then when the detective didn’t immediately continue, “How can I help you this morning, Detective Miller?”

“Well, I got a situation….” Again, Miller’s voice trailed off, and again, D.D. waited.

District C-6 was the BPD field division that covered the South Boston area. As a sergeant with the homicide unit, D.D. didn’t work with the C-6 detectives very often. South Boston wasn’t really known for its murders. Larceny, burglary, robbery, yes. Homicide, not so much.

“Dispatch took a call at five A.M.,” Miller finally spoke up. “A husband, reporting that he’d come home and discovered his wife was missing.”

D.D. arched a brow, sat back in the chair. “He came home at five A.M.?”

“He reported her missing at five A.M. Husband’s name is Jason Jones. Ring any bells?”

“Should it?”

“He’s a reporter for the Boston Daily. Covers the South Boston beat, writes some larger city features. Apparently, he works most nights, covering city council meetings, board meetings, whatever. Wednesday it’s the water precinct, then he got a call to cover a residential fire. Anyhow, he wrapped up around two A.M., and returned home, where his four-year-old daughter was sleeping in her room but his wife was MIA.”

“Okay.”

“First responders did the standard drill,” Miller continued. “Checked ’round the house. Car’s on the street, woman’s purse and keys on the kitchen counter. No sign of forced entry, but in the upstairs bedroom a bedside lamp is broken and a blue-and-green quilt is missing.”

“Okay.”

“Given the circumstances, a mom leaving a kid alone, etc., etc., the first responders called their supervisor, who contacted my boss in the district office. Needless to say, we’ve spent the past few hours combing the neighborhood, checking with local businesses, tracking down friends and families, etc., etc. To make a long story short, I haven’t a clue.”

“Got a body?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Blood spatter? Footprints, collateral damage?”

“Just a busted-up lamp.”

“First responders check the whole house? Attic, basement, crawl space?”

“We’re trying.”

“Trying?”