He sighed. “They probably would. All right, I’ll feed it two new cartridges when I get back.” He paused at the door and looked at her over one broad shoulder. “But I’m not talking to it!”

He went out and slammed the door behind him.

Clancey went back into her own office and chided herself for almost spilling the beans about Morris.

It was a good thing that she and her grandfather didn’t share the same last name as Morris and Ben Duffy. As it was, her grandfather’s last name was on that police report that Banks was going by. It wasn’t the same as Clancey’s, either.

She felt guilty about not mentioning it. It made her feel good, that Banks was looking for her grandfather’s assailant. He probably assumed that Clancey’s grandfather was dead. She imagined it was true.

Morris had almost certainly killed the old man, who was trying very hard to connect Morris with a group of local drug dealers. Clancey agonized over what had really happened to him. She hoped that it was quick, at least, and that he hadn’t suffered.

But she knew that he was never coming back home. She hoped that Banks could dig up enough evidence to charge Morris, even if he was never convicted. It was a shame that the kind old man was gone without a trace, and that nobody was held accountable for his disappearance.

Banks came back much later, with two ink cartridges—the right kind—and Clancey put them in for him. But when he started the print command, the printer promptly ate two sheets of paper and jammed.

“Not a word!” he said, pointing a finger at her.

“I didn’t say anything!” she said defensively.

He stood in front of the printer and his black eyes narrowed.

“It’s just a paper jam,” she said, easing around him to open the printer and unstick the papers inside. She fixed them in the paper holder and stepped back. “Try it now,” she said.

He went to the computer, muttering to himself.

She leaned over. “You’re a very nice machine,” she whispered. “Come on, now, make me proud.”

He pushed a button and the letter was printed and dropped into the tray.

He picked it up and studied it. “Not bad,” he murmured.

“I told you,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest.

“It worked because I threatened to shoot it,” he told her.

“It worked because I told it how nice it was,” she retorted.

They glared at each other. Slowly, the glare became a deep, hot exchange of wordless expression that made Clancey’s heart run away with her. She flushed.

Banks was feeling something similar, and it made him angry. He turned away and went back to his desk. He didn’t say another word.