Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe. Nancy Bush

      Rad had insisted he was the only one who’d gone in and out of the upstairs door that day other than Berelli, and September was inclined to believe him. Backgrounds were being checked but on first glance it appeared none of the computer geeks was connected to the grisly massacre that had taken place on the first floor.

      Gretchen’s desk phone rang and she swiveled around to answer it, smashing the receiver to her ear. September, who, at a request from Gretchen, had stopped at a deli on the way back, plopped the brown bag on Gretchen’s desk. Gretchen was tapping her fingers and staring up at the ceiling, clearly irked at some delay on the other end as September pulled out tuna fish sandwiches for herself and her partner.

      George said, “Nothing for me?”

      “You gotta put in an order,” September said.

      “Tuna,” he said, spying the sandwich and wrinkling his nose. He made a sound of disgust and turned back to his work.

      “Yeah, well, tell me something I don’t know!” Gretchen snarled into the phone and crashed the receiver into its cradle. She picked up half of her sandwich and waved it at September. “Everybody’s an asshole,” she declared, before taking a bite.

      “Everybody?”

      “Everybody,” she stated firmly.

      “What was that about?”

      “The lab. Nobody can get jack shit done unless it’s an act of Congress.”

      They munched on their sandwiches and Gretchen washed hers down with cold coffee. September got up, walked into the hallway and to the water cooler and poured herself a small paper cupful. She returned just as Gretchen demanded, “Where’s this Olivia Dugan person?”

      George spoke up, “D’Annibal sent someone to find her. Wes, maybe.”

      “Why hasn’t she called us?” Gretchen asked. “She should have called us by now.”

      September shrugged. “Maybe she’s scared? Maybe she still doesn’t know we’re looking for her.”

      “She’d have to live on another planet not to know, with all the press that’s come down. And she should know to wait for the police. Where’d she go after she left Zuma?”

      September shook her head. No one had that information.

      “Did you get through to the de Fores?” Gretchen asked George, who’d been tasked with finding the man’s family.

      “Finally,” he said, exhaling heavily. “Mom and Dad live in Medford and are flying up, so they’ll be here in an hour or so. You gonna be at the morgue when they arrive?” he asked Gretchen.

      She grimaced. “Yeah.” She turned to September. “How’d you do with Upjohn’s ex?”

      “I talked to Camille on the phone. Camille Dirkus. She was at the hospital earlier, maybe still is,” September answered. “She took back her maiden name, but Aaron was their son together. Camille’s beside herself about Aaron’s death, and I don’t know . . . I think if Kurt Upjohn lives she could actually try to kill him.” She was half-serious.

      George said, “Hmmm.”

      “She blames him?” Gretchen asked. At September’s nod, she said, “We’ll go see her tomorrow.”

      “What about the receptionist? Maltona?” George asked.

      “Maltona doesn’t appear to have anyone but the boyfriend, a Jason Jaffe who’s an artist of some kind,” Gretchen said in a tone that suggested what she thought of artists in general. “I started leaving messages on Jaffe’s cell phone this afternoon and he’s texted me back stuff like ‘ok’ and ‘at hospital.’ I don’t really know if he’s telling the truth; nobody at the hospital’s seen him. He’s first on my list tomorrow to track down.”

      “Upjohn’s first on mine,” September said.

      Gretchen stretched her arms over her head. “It’s six-thirty. After the de Fores, I’m done for today.” She scooted back her chair and gathered up the second half of her sandwich.

      “I hear ya,” George said and Gretchen shot September a sideways look. George did as little as possible when it came to dealing with people, especially bereaved people.

      September thought of her rented condo. She’d lived there for three years, ever since the owners had bought it, and a number of other units, out of foreclosure and turned them all into rentals. When she’d first moved in she’d painted all the rooms and bought new towels and an overly expensive couch, but since that first flurry of pride of house, she’d spent more time advancing her career than caring about hearth and home. Now, she didn’t really relish going back to her empty rooms.

      “I think I’ll stick around a little bit longer,” she said.

      “Suit yourself,” Gretchen responded as she took a left out of the squad room. George hefted his bulk from the chair and headed down the hall after her in the direction of the staff room.

      After they were gone, the squad room was nearly empty and had a strange echoey feel that didn’t exist during the rest of the day. She thought of her family—two brothers, one sister, her autocratic father and stepmother—and decided she didn’t want to talk to any of them, either.

      Detective Wes “Weasel” Pelligree stuck his head inside the squad room from the hall to the lockers. A tall, lean, black man, he had a killer smile, a slow-talking manner and a dry wit. He made September’s heart race a little faster whenever he appeared, but he was firmly entrenched in a long-term relationship with his high school girlfriend and had been for fifteen years or so, so the rumor went. He was also on a mission to arrest every crack and meth dealer he could find, a result of the death of his older brother, a user, who’d nicknamed Wes “Weasel” long before Wes had grown to his full six-foot-three height.

      “How ya doin’?” he asked her.

      “Been a long day,” September admitted.

      “Sandler’s a bitch, but she knows what she’s doing,” he said.

      “I guess that’s a recommendation of sorts.”

      He grinned. “Look forward to the day when someone says it about you. Then you’ll know you’re a detective.”

      “Oh, joy.” When he ducked back out, she yelled after him, “Aren’t you on the trail of Olivia Dugan?”

      “The Zuma employee? Uh-uh. Probably somebody D’Annibal thinks’ll look good on TV. Channel Seven’s all over this.”

      “All the stations are,” September said.

      “Well, try to stay away from Seven’s Pauline Kirby. That woman’s a barracuda.” He gave a mock shudder. “And a bitch.”

      “So, she’s good at her job?”

      He snorted. “You can be a bitch and a lousy detective,” he allowed. “You just don’t last long.”

      “How about nice, or at least personable, and good at your job?”

      He flashed her his pearly whites. “Never happen.”

      September was still smiling after he was gone. “Then I guess I’ll just have to be a bitch,” she said to the empty room.

      Trask Burcher Martin was a pothead. And a drunk, kinda. And definitely a slacker. But he was a good guy inside. Ya just had to look a little harder, sometimes, to see the good of it all. At least that’s what he told himself whenever he thought hard about the whole thing, like now.

      He exhaled a lungful of smoke, lost in a bit of a weed dream-state. He liked Jo. Loved her, maybe. She was his woman and they were together. Taking another toke, Trask relaxed into the couch cushions. A little MJ from time to time kept him from noticing that he and Jo didn’t have too much going for them, really. Not cash-wise, anyway. Making the rent payment every month