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know me as a woman holding a microphone. It’s important the audience comes to know me as an approachable presence. Someone they want to spend time with. Someone they trust. It’s like a relationship with the viewer, something you give them.”
    It sounded like the kind of hoo-hah she’d always laughed at in the past. I was wondering what I’d missed and who she’d been talking to about viewer relationships and approachable whatevers.
    â€œWhat’s this lead to?” I said.
    â€œRegular hours, at least for this biz.”
    â€œAll we have now are weekends, and only sometimes at that. Didn’t you just say that’s when you’ll be—”
    â€œA trial period, that’s all. Break-in period. Things will change.”
    â€œSeeing less of each other is better for each other?”
    â€œI can’t help it, Carson. This is my chance to try a high-profile position. Plus the money is almost double.” She changed subjects. “You already rented your tuxedo for Saturday, right?”
    I slapped my forehead. Channel 14 was having their annual to-do on Saturday night, a formal event. I guess I’d figured if I didn’t have a tux, I didn’t have to attend; sartorial solipsism, perhaps.
    â€œGet it tomorrow, Carson. This is the big wingding of the year and all the honchos from Clarity will be there. I’ve got to make an anchor-level impression.”
    We sat on the deck and I listened as Dani told me things I probably should have heard weeks back. Her job change seemed rational and good for us in the long run: more time, regular hours. But somewhere, behind the hiss of the waves and gentle blues drifting from the deck speakers, I heard a faint but insistent note of discord, like my mind and heart were playing opposing notes.

CHAPTER 8
    I arrived at the department at eight the next morning. It was quiet, a couple of dicks on the phones, digging. Most of the gray cubicles were empty. Pace Logan was sitting at his desk and staring into the air. I didn’t see Shuttles and figured he was out doing something Logan didn’t understand, detective work maybe. After grabbing a cup of coffee from the urn and tossing a buck in the kitty for a pair of powdered doughnuts, I headed to the cubicled, double-desk combo forming Harry’s and my office.
    I walked into our space, saw Harry on his hands and knees on the floor, looking under his desk.
    â€œThat’s right. Crawl, you miserable worm,” I snarled.
    He looked up and rolled his eyes.
    â€œThere’s a couple photos missing from the murder book. I figured they dropped down here.”
    The murder books—binders holding the investigational records of cases—had sections with plastic sleeves to hold crime-scene and relevant photos, trouble being the sleeves didn’t hold very well.
    â€œWhat’s in the pix?” I asked.
    Harry stood, brushed the knees of his lemon-yellow pants, and cast a baleful eye at the wastebasket beside the desk. It wouldn’t be the first time something disappeared over the side, got dumped by the janitorial crew.
    â€œI dunno. I got the file numbers. I’ll call over and get some reprints.”
    I looked at the pile of materials on his desk. Harry had been checking records and information removed from Taneesha Franklin’s office, adding potentially useful pieces to the book.
    â€œFinding anything interesting, bro?” I asked.
    â€œFunny you should ask. I was going over Ms. Franklin’s long-distance records. Here’s a couple calls caught my eye.”
    He tapped the paper with a thick digit. I looked at the name.
    â€œThe state pen at Holman?” I said. “What’s that about?”
    â€œEight calls in two days. Seven are under a minute. The final one lasts for eleven minutes.”
    I nodded. “Like she finally got through to someone.”
    Harry jammed the phone under his ear, tapped in the numbers.