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belonged to. It showed her bouncing from a one-horse station in Georgia—which accounted for that faint and fascinating Southern drawl—to a major player in Atlanta, then on to Richmond, St. Louis, Chicago, Dallas, before landing—feetfirst, obviously—in Denver at KHIP.
    The lady likes to move, he mused. Or was it that she needed to run? That was a question of semantics, and he intended to get the answer straight from the horse’s mouth.
    The one thing he could be sure of from the bald facts typed out in front of him was that Cilla had pulled herself along the road to success with a high school diploma and a lot of guts. It couldn’t have been easy for a woman—a girl, really, at eighteen—to break into what was still a largely male-dominated business.
    “Interesting reading?” Althea settled a hip on the corner of his desk. No one in the station house would have dared whistle at her legs. But plenty of them looked.
    “Cilla O’Roarke.” He tossed the résumé down. “Impressions?”
    “Tough lady.” She grinned as she said it. She’d spent a lot of time razzing Boyd about his fascination with the sultry voice on the radio. “Likes to do things her own way. Smart and professional.”
    He picked up a box of candy-coated almonds and shook some into his hand. “I think I figured all that out myself.”
    “Well, figure this.” Althea took the box and carefully selected one glossy nut. “She’s scared down to the bone. And she’s got an inferiority complex a mile wide.”
    “Inferiority complex.” Boyd gave a quick snort and kicked back in his chair. “Not a chance.”
    With the same careful deliberation, Althea chose another candied almond. “She hides it behind three feet of steel, but it’s there.” Althea laid a hand on the toe of his boot. “Woman’s intuition, Fletcher. That’s why you’re so damn lucky to have me.”
    Boyd snatched the box back, knowing Althea could, and would, methodically work her way through to the last piece. “If that woman’s insecure, I’ll eat my hat.”
    “You don’t have a hat.”
    “I’ll get one and eat it.” Dismissing his partner’s instincts, he gestured toward the files. “Since our man isn’t letting up, we’re going to have to go looking elsewhere for him.”
    “The lady isn’t very forthcoming about her past.”
    “So we push.”
    Althea considered a moment. Then she shifted her weight gracefully, recrossed her legs. “Want to flip a coin? Because the odds are she’ll push back.”
    Boyd grinned. “I’m counting on it.”
    “It’s your turn in the booth tonight.”
    “Then you start with Chicago.” He handed her the file. “We got the station manager, the landlord.” He scanned the sheet himself. He intended to go far beyond what was printed there, but he would start with the facts. “Use that sweet, persuasive voice of yours. They’ll spill their guts.”
    “Thousands have.” She glanced over idly as an associate shoved a swearing suspect with a bloody nose into a nearby chair. There was a brief tussle, and a spate of curses followed by mumbled threats. “God, I love this place.”
    “Yeah, there’s no place like home.” He snatched up what was left of his coffee before his partner could reach for it. “I’ll work from the other end, the first station she worked for. Thea, if we don’t come up with something soon, the captain’s going to yank us.”
    She rose. “Then we’ll have to come up with something.”
    He nodded. Before he could pick up the phone, it rang. “Fletcher.”
    “Slick.”
    He would have grimaced at the nickname if he hadn’t heard the fear first. “Cilla? What is it?”
    “I got a call.” A quick bubble of laughter worked its way through. “Old news, I guess. I’m at home this time, though, and I— Damn, I’m jumping at shadows.”
    “Lock your doors and sit tight. I’m on my way. Cilla,” he said when there was no response. “I’m on my way.”
    “Thanks. If you could break a few