‘Might be?’

‘That’s what she said. Roommate’s name is Rachel Otis. She attended a frat party Saturday night and never returned to the dorm. Ms. Kazminski’s been trying to reach Rachel’s parents, but has thus far been unsuccessful.’

‘If she went missing Saturday, why wait until today to report it?’

‘You’ll have to ask her that when you interview her. Get back to me as soon as you have some answers.’ His eyes shifted back to his computer, which was their cue to leave.

Alyssa closed Hammond’s door behind her before turning to Cord. ‘I just need to drop something off first.’ She didn’t wait for his response before weaving her way around cubicles and desks and making a beeline for the office, which was actually an ancient supply room, barely larger than a walk-in closet, that she and Cord had repurposed as their own personal workspace. It was a tight fit, but they didn’t complain. It was an improvement over the cubicles that most of the detectives were still forced to use in this cold, industrial building that housed some of the city’s finest.

They had been given permission to use the space after the news broke detailing the true identity of Evan Bishop. The chaos and chatter it had created within the department forced a rare act of mercy from the captain who was not well-known for his generous, understanding nature – he wasn’t nicknamed Captain Hothead for nothing – and he’d allowed Alyssa and Cord to use the derelict space as their own.

In their office, she pulled out her rolling chair that had nowhere to roll and leaned down to unlock her bottom desk drawer. From the inside pocket of her jacket, she removed a copy of the authorization she’d signed for Timothy Archer’s organs to be donated to science, dropped it inside, and then closed and locked the drawer once more. ‘Ready,’ she said, pretending not to notice the question in her partner’s gaze.

Thirty minutes later, Alyssa parked her government-issued Chevy Tahoe in one of the few available spaces not designated for residents outside the apartment complex where Angela Kazminski lived with her parents when she wasn’t staying in the dormitories of the University of New Mexico.

Alyssa stepped out of the vehicle into the heat of what was promising to be another scorching day and glanced around. ‘Which building?’

Without looking at his notebook, Cord pointed to the third building on the right. ‘C. Number 1102.’

Being on the ground floor, the apartment was easy to find. At the door, Alyssa knocked, setting off a thunderstorm of angry, excited barking by what sounded like very large dogs, followed by a woman’s irritated voice. ‘Shut the hell up! Sit!’ Two seconds later, a dark-haired woman in her late forties or early fifties, who had to be ready to top six feet tall in her bare feet, opened the door, an unlit cigarette dangling from her fingertips. When she realized it was there, she pushed it behind her ear. ‘Sorry. I just quit. Sometimes it helps if I’m just holding it.’ Her eyes dropped to the badges clipped to their hips. ‘Are you here to speak to my daughter about Rachel’s disappearance?’