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“Okay, so far so good.”
    I pressed Columbian Roast, the strongest offered, and hit the big blue Start button. Beans dropped into another window and bounced up and down until they were ground to perfection. The machine whirred and hummed. Noise from the machine working drew the detectives from their table to come over and watch.
    “That thing making coffee?” Detective King asked.
    Hank watched the process over my shoulder. “Looks like it.”
    I heard a rush of water. “Someone must have fixed it.”
    We looked on in awe as the machine went through its process and released caffeinated goodness into my waiting cup. A bell dinged, and the blue light under the cup flashed. I snatched up my coffee and went to the counter to add two creamers. Hank and the detectives shouldered each other for position to be the next to get a cup. Hank won, sticking his cup in and hitting the buttons. The machine dropped the beans and whirred again.
    “About damn time,” Hank said.
    The sound of water rushed again, and steam rose from Hank’s cup as the liquid flowed into it. Ding!
    Hank pulled the cup from the machine. “Ha!” He brought the cup to his mouth, blew on the top, and took a sip. “What the hell?” He gargled his words around the mouthful of hot liquid. Hank ran over to the sink and spat out the contents of his mouth. “It’s filled with grounds!” He grabbed a few handfuls of water to rinse his mouth.
    The detectives chuckled.
    “Let’s see if I have better luck,” King said.
    He stuck his cup into the machine and let it go through the process. Twenty seconds later, disappointment crossed his face as he pulled his cup from the machine. “It poured me a cup of water.” He stuck his finger into it. “It’s not even hot.”
    I smiled and leaned against the counter, taking a sip of my perfect coffee. “Maybe you can add some of Hank’s hot grounds?”
    The crowd didn’t find the humor in my joke. I turned to leave.
    Hank poured his cup of wet grounds into the sink, tossed the cup in the garbage can, and followed me back toward the bullpen. He headed off to his desk. I headed back to my office.
    I spread the contents of the file across my desk to go over it again. We needed to put a line of questioning together that would hit the points we needed to discuss. We needed to know what she was doing in town and who she knew in the area, and we needed to confirm her husband’s whereabouts over the last few days. My office phone rang a couple minutes later. I picked up the receiver. “Lieutenant Kane.”
    “We have a positive. Her name is Sarah McMillian. Her husband will be here within the hour.”
    “Thanks, Cap.”

Chapter 7
    His eyes locked on the pickup area, watching the people come and go. He’d been working straight through the night with no hint of what he sought. Then, up ahead, he spotted a potential candidate. She waved for a taxi. The car in front of him started to creep forward. He wouldn’t let her take another cab—not after waiting a full night. He yanked the wheel, pulled out, and cut off the cab in front of him. The cabbie next in line slammed on his brakes to avoid the collision. The guy honked and flashed him the bird out his window. He dismissed the angered driver and pulled his taxi up to the woman on the curb. He opened the door and pulled himself out. “Need a ride, ma’am?”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    From the curb, he carried her two bags to the trunk. His excitement spurred a coughing attack. Flecks of blood covered his fingers—he wiped it away on the back of his faded jeans before she could see it. He moved quickly to the cab’s back door and opened it for her. She ducked inside.
    He took his seat behind the wheel and looked over his shoulder to see her. “Where to?”
    “Channelside Towers, downtown.”
    “It should be ten minutes or so.” He stared at her and waited for a response.
    She nodded and went about looking at a paper.
    His eyes covered every inch of her in the