LITMIR.BIZ

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make it till morning. But glancing at her cell, she saw the number was from the station. Steeling herself, she answered, “Rafferty.”

      To her surprise Lieutenant Aubrey D’Annibal himself was on the other end of the line. “There’s been a shooting,” he clipped out. “The victim was found shot to death on the top-floor balcony of a two-story apartment building. I need you to get down there. Can you get hold of Gretchen? She’s not answering her cell.” Quickly, he rattled off the address, which seemed familiar to September though she couldn’t immediately place it.

      It wasn’t like D’Annibal to call her, or anyone, directly. He normally left that to George, if other detectives were out of the office, or he just assigned cases to whoever was available when they were in the office. But George, apparently, wasn’t picking up, either.

      “Do we have a name?” she asked.

      “Not yet. One of the uniforms picked up the call. His name’s Waters. He’s on scene, so if you’ll just get there, he’ll fill you in.” D’Annibal sounded rushed and a little anxious. Totally unlike the put-together lieutenant with his smooth hair, creased pants and expensive shoes.

      “I’m on my way.”

      She tried to reach Gretchen but her cell went directly to voice mail. Failing that, September dug through her closet for a pair of jeans, a black shirt and a black vest. It wasn’t cold, but she wanted something to cover the Glock she was going to place in the small of her back, once she got to the scene and climbed out of her silver Honda Pilot.

      She was rolling in ten minutes, driving with controlled speed to the apartment complex. Something about the address . . . she thought.

      As she cruised onto a side street, she could see the red-and-blue reflection of a cop car’s light bar splashing against the sides of an L-shaped apartment building. She turned into the drive at the northwest corner and around the short end of the L into the parking lot, grabbing the first available spot she saw. Apartment numbers were visible in white paint on each asphalt slot. Too bad if the people from 14A came home, she thought, sliding her Glock under her back waistband and climbing from the vehicle into the dark, hot night. The uniform—Waters—was standing on the second-floor balcony and a group of people were hanging back at the base of the outdoor stairway on the far end away from him. September skirted the group to take the stairs and as she started to climb, Waters yelled at her, “Stay back.”

      “Detective Rafferty,” she called firmly, and, reaching the upper level, she held her ID in front of her as she walked toward him.

      “Thought Rafferty was a man,” he said, holding a flashlight beam into her eyes and then focusing it on her extended ID. Behind him, lying on the ground in front of an apartment door, lay a man, face down, in blue jeans and bare feet, his hair a dark, unkempt tangle to his shoulders.

      “The other Rafferty’s my brother,” she told Waters, her gaze still on the victim. “We’re both detectives.”

      “Huh.”

      She glanced around the place, noting the exterior concrete walkways and the line of doors, all closed. “Do we know who he is?” she asked, nodding toward the victim.

      “No ID. One of them might know.” He glanced to the gogglers down below. “He’s not wearing shoes.”

      “He either lives here, or he’s visiting someone he knows pretty well.” She turned to the group of bystanders and yelled down to them, “There’s been a shooting,” then began to walk their way.

      “Is he dead?” a young man yelled back, cupping his hands over his mouth. He had short, dark hair and it looked as if a tattoo of some kind were trying to escape the neck of his gray T-shirt.

      September stopped at the top of the stairs, getting a good look at them. “The medical examiner is on his way,” she said.

      “He’s dead,” the man beside the yeller stated positively. He was older, his face looking heavily lined in the illumination cast by the overhead light attached beneath the second-floor gallery. She could hear a moth beating itself into the glass.

      One of the two women shivered. She was young and skinny and held her arms hard around her torso like she was freezing even though the night was hot and surprisingly humid for Oregon. “God, I hope it’s not Trask. I think it’s him, but God I hope it’s not.”

      “Trask?” September asked.

      “He lives in the end unit. Just past where he—his body’s—laying.”

      “Check the end unit,” September called over to Waters but he was already on his way, having overheard.

      He knocked, then tried the door. “It’s open,” he yelled back.

      September headed back his way, skirting the sprawled victim. There was that pesky thing about walking into a place without a warrant. She shook her head to Waters, who reluctantly stayed outside the threshold. “Helllooooo. Police officers,” he called into the crack of the now-ajar door.

      “You’re certain Trask lives in the end unit?” September yelled back toward the crowd. She looked over the rail.

      “Well, maybe he lives at the unit he fell in front of,” another woman, older and more heavyset, said.

      “No! The end unit.” Skinny Girl was certain of it.

      “That single gal lives where his body is,” the older man said. “That’s her car over there.” He pointed to a blue Accord.

      September followed where he was pointing. And that’s when it hit her. Blue Honda Accord. The missing employee. This was Olivia Dugan’s address.

      Oh, my God.

      “Stay down there,” she ordered the group at the base of the stairs as the younger man had one booted foot on the bottom step. He instantly moved back and September hurriedly returned to the victim’s body. To Waters, she said quietly, “This could be the address of one of the Zuma Software employees. The one that was at lunch.”

      “You’re shittin’ me.” He moved from the end unit to September, staring at the door to 20B.

      “Give me a minute.” Impatiently, she tried Gretchen again. No answer. When the cell went to voice mail, she said tersely: “I’m at Olivia Dugan’s address. There’s been a homicide.” She rattled off the address, then hung up and re-called George. When she failed to rouse him, she phoned dispatch and told them who she was and that she needed to talk to D’Annibal directly.

      The lieutenant called her back in less than three minutes.

      “Detective?” he asked.

      “Who did you assign to Olivia Dugan?” she demanded. “Do we know where she is?”

      “The missing Zuma employee?”

      “Yes.”

      A pause. Then, “You’re at her address?” He inhaled a long breath.

      “Pretty sure. What the hell’s going on? Want me to pound on her door? Is she there? Her car’s here.”

      “She left earlier today. Walking. With a backpack.”

      “Lieutenant,” September asked carefully. “Who’s following her?”

      “Your brother.”

      “He’s undercover on the Cordova drug czar case,” she said automatically.

      “He’s out of that. Arrests are coming down and he needed to leave. I put him on Dugan’s trail this afternoon. I’m expecting his call.”

      “I’ve got a dead man lying in front of her apartment door.”

      “Okay. Okay . . . I’ll order a warrant to search her place and the victim’s. l’ll let you know when they come through. You think this guy’s connected to her?”

      “He seems to be the next-door neighbor.” September

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