Deadly Force. Beverly Long

a news flash, Cruz. It’s your arteries that are getting clogged. When you eat that stuff, you’re not hurting her.”

      Cruz pulled a file from the stack. “Practice your amateur psychology on somebody else,” he said. He flipped the file onto Sam’s desk. “The report on the robbery at Claire’s apartment is on top.”

      Sam opened the file and skimmed over the information. When he got to the list of items taken, he slowed down. One flat-screen television. Three necklaces. One ring. Approximately ten pairs of panties. He raised his gaze and looked at Cruz. “Did you read this?”

      Cruz nodded. “I don’t remember Claire mentioning the panties yesterday.”

      Sam shook his head. “No. I’m pretty sure Sandy Bird and Claire wouldn’t wear the same size.”

      “You’re right. I called the morgue this morning and they checked her personal items. White cotton, size eight. Claire’s were a size five. And truthfully, Claire doesn’t look like a white cotton girl to me.”

      Neither one of them had any business thinking about Claire’s underwear. “Did they get any prints from Claire’s apartment?”

      “There was one set of prints that didn’t belong to Nadine or Claire. They aren’t Sandy’s either. So, A, if Sandy was the thief, she was careful and wore her gloves like a good girl. Or B, the prints belong to the thief, but he’s a new thief with no record. Or C, the prints belong to some jerk they had over for beers one night who had nothing to do with the robbery. Basically, we don’t know squat, except that the thief likes women’s underwear.”

      The thought of some sick idiot running his hands over Claire’s stolen panties made Sam think his coffee might make a return appearance. He swallowed hard and focused.

      “Eat fast. We need to go talk to Sandy Bird’s neighbors. If we’re lucky, we’ll get to the people who work at the drugstore by early afternoon.”

      A half hour later, they were walking down Sandy and Fletcher Bird’s street. It was edged with trees, just blocks away from the train line that ran through downtown Arlington Heights. The houses were two-stories, there was an abundance of swing sets and the neighbors were naturally curious.

      They had known Sandy and liked her. At the third house, the one directly across the street, Sam and Cruz heard something interesting from the thirty-something woman who answered the door with a toddler on her hip.

      “Sandy and I used to go to the gambling boat. It was a quick twenty-minute drive. And the buffet was delicious.”

      Sam almost laughed. Of course. The slot machines had nothing to do with it.

      “How often did you go?” Cruz asked.

      “Once a month, maybe. We’d get a sitter for the kids. It was fun.”

      And probably pretty harmless unless she was losing big. “What’s the most you ever saw her lose?”

      The woman shrugged. “Maybe a hundred dollars.”

      A hundred bucks a month? Didn’t seem like much of a gambling problem. But Sam recalled what Claire had told him. She wanted to know how much money we had.

      “Do you think she ever went by herself or with another neighbor?”

      “I don’t think so. She was pretty busy with her kids. Fletcher worked a lot of hours and was gone a lot.”

      They thanked her for the information and left. Three houses later, the consensus was that Sandy Bird was a good mom, a willing volunteer and a poor golfer. None of that helped them understand why she’d stormed her way into a stranger’s apartment and started shooting up the place. They did not go to see Fletcher Bird. His car was in the driveway, but they kept their distance out of respect. There’d be time to talk with him later.

      They headed back downtown, toward the South Loop. Because it was Sunday, and the office buildings were mostly empty, they had no trouble finding a place to park right in front of the drugstore.

      They flashed pictures of Nadine and Claire. All three of the clerks, all women in their forties or fifties, shook their heads. Pretty girl, said one woman, pointing to Claire’s picture.

      Flat-out beautiful, really, Sam thought. Voluptuous. Not stick-skinny like so many women aspired to be. A man wouldn’t lose her in the sheets.

      He stopped walking so suddenly that Cruz almost ran into the back of him.

      “What?” Cruz asked.

      “Nothing.” He waved a hand. “Let’s go.”

      What the hell was he doing thinking about Claire Fontaine wrapped up in nothing but a silk sheet?

      ON MONDAY MORNING, before Claire had a chance to stuff her purse in her desk drawer, Victor’s secretary was knocking on their cubicles, letting the creative staff know that Victor wanted to see them—post haste.

      The buzz immediately started. Finalists for the Chicago Advertising Association’s Design of the Year contest were supposed to be announced today. Victor was the contact for all the entries. Was it possible that one of them had been nominated as a finalist?

      “What’s this about?” she heard Pete Mission ask.

      Juanita, who, just the week before, had roared past sixty without blinking an eye, sighed. “Who knows? For having a degree in communications, he doesn’t share much. All I know is that he’s been pacing around his office like a little kid waiting for Christmas.”

      Claire and the others took the elevator from the seventh floor to the ninth floor, where all the executives had corner offices. One by one, they filed into the conference room and took their respective chairs. There were no name plates or assigned seats, but still, everybody had a spot. And if somebody tried to shake things up by taking a different chair, no one was very happy. Several had brought work with them. Others were just content to let their brains relax. They were prepared to wait. Victor hadn’t started a staff meeting on time since the beginning of staff meetings. There had been lots of jokes that he couldn’t actually tell time.

      They almost fell over when Victor arrived within minutes. His cheeks were pink and his small eyes were bright. He was smiling. It was the first time Claire had ever seen him happy.

      He didn’t waste any time. “We were notified this morning that two of our entries are finalists in this year’s contest.”

      Two. Wow. The competition was incredible. If an agency had one finalist, they were generally ecstatic. Even the more nonchalant staff members were sitting up straight in their chairs.

      “I’m delighted to share that both Pete Mission and Claire Fontaine will be competing for this year’s grand prize.”

      Oh, my God. She’d only been at Alexander and Pope two weeks when the memo went around, encouraging everyone on the creative staff to get their entry completed and submitted. She’d reviewed the guidelines and worked like a crazy person to develop something.

      Hannah stood up and pumped her arm in the air. “Two. Amazing. Congratulations, Pete and Claire.”

      Everyone clapped and cheered. At least Claire thought it was clapping and cheering. Maybe it was just her heart clanging in her chest. She made eye contact with Pete. Even he looked stunned.

      Victor held up his index finger, attempting to bring order to the room. “Their designs will compete against the other four finalists. The committee will announce the winners exactly one week from today at the awards dinner. This is big, people, really big.”

      As they filed out of the room, there were more private congratulations. Claire looked for Pete to offer her congratulations to him, but he was gone.

      “Where’s Pete?” she asked Hannah.

      The woman shrugged. “Probably out arranging for a tux and a limo. He’s entered for ten years straight and this is the first time he’s been a finalist.”

      Ten