Stolen Memory. Virginia Kantra

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СКАЧАТЬ rushed to explain. “It’s not a conflict of interest. We haven’t spoken in years. I wouldn’t even have brought it up, except—”

      “Except if you hadn’t and I found out about it, I’d have your ass,” Denko said.

      She winced. “I can promise you, it won’t affect my ability to do my job at all.”

      “You’re right. It won’t. I’m reassigning this case to Palmer.”

      Dan Palmer was the detective on the swing shift, 2:00 p.m. to midnight. Laura liked him—respected him, even—but for reasons she wasn’t prepared to examine, she didn’t want this case snatched away.

      “I conducted the investigation of the scene,” she argued. “I interviewed Ford. I can remain impartial. I can…”

      Get her father to talk to her? Hardly. She hadn’t been able to accomplish that in ten years.

      She switched tactics. “Let Dan take Swirsky’s statement. One interview. I don’t have a problem with that.”

      “If it stops at one interview,” Denko said. “What if we establish that a crime was committed? What if Swirsky becomes a suspect?”

      “It’ll never happen,” she said with conviction.

      “Why not?”

      “Because he’d never commit a crime. Pete Swirsky doesn’t break the rules. He doesn’t even bend them.”

      He never deviated, never doubted, never forgave. His inflexibility made him a lousy father. But it didn’t make him a suspect.

      “People change,” Denko observed.

      She certainly had. But the old man never would.

      “Then I’ll live with that,” she said. “Let me do my job, sir.”

      The chief rubbed his jaw with his thumb. “‘Swirsky,’ huh?”

      “Maiden name. I was married. Briefly.”

      Nine weeks. That’s how long it had taken her to figure out she’d made the second biggest mistake of her life. But by the time her marriage to Tommy Baker ended, her estrangement from her father was complete.

      “Good Polish name,” the chief said.

      Laura relaxed a fraction. She was forgiven, then. “Yes, sir.”

      “All right, thank you,” Denko said. “You did a good job processing the scene. But you’re off the case. Turn your notes over to Palmer.”

      She owed him.

      Laura gripped the wheel of the battered police boat as it chugged across the lake. She didn’t owe him her loyalty. Or even an explanation. But the memory of Simon Ford’s clear, light eyes lingered at the back of her mind like a question. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she owed him…something.

      A warning, maybe. Or a goodbye.

      Around her, the water teemed with inner tubes and motor boats, wind surfers and sails, as tourists and townspeople took advantage of the three-day weekend. She was working harbor patrol, answering radio calls for service, checking permits and boating licenses, keeping an eye out for inebriated fishermen and inexperienced sailors.

      When she was a rookie, Laura used to bust her hump on patrol. As if the number of citations she wrote for open alcohol containers or out-of-date landing permits somehow proved she was the baddest, best cop on the force.

      She knew better now. Good cops didn’t get hung up on busy work when a fellow officer requested backup on the other side of the lake. But a discretionary detour to Angel Island wouldn’t interfere with her doing her job.

      She hoped.

      The wind tugged at the curled brim of her EPD ball cap. She set her feet against the swell of a passing speedboat. Behind her, the marina faded to a smudge of red brick and gray shingles. The town slid away to her left, the spire of St. Raphael’s Catholic Church like a mast against the horizon.

      Her heartbeat quickened as she headed out to open water. Nerves, she told herself firmly. It had to be nerves. It certainly wasn’t anticipation at seeing Ford again.

      His private pier jutted into the water, aggressively new, the treated wood standing out like dental work against the tumbled shore. Laura looped a line around a post and hopped onto the dock, ignoring the posted warning: No Trespassing. Shrugging, she started up the service road that wound through the trees to the house.

      A surly Quinn answered the door and stomped ahead of her up the steps to Ford’s office. Climbing the long, curving staircase made Laura feel like she was in some fairy tale, braving the tower to rescue the princess. Except she made a lousy Prince Charming.

      And the man at the top of the stairs was definitely no Sleeping Beauty.

      He hunched over his desk, a wide slab of pale, polished wood. The light from the surrounding windows cast his face in light and shadow: his deep, focused eyes, his cheeks carved with concentration, his mouth fixed in a determined line. He looked like a wizard king brooding over the fate of his kingdom.

      Laura gave herself a mental shake. This was no time for her to develop a fantasy life. She’d spent too many years fighting the prejudices of her male colleagues and her own feelings to get all moony-eyed and stupid now.

      Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she glanced around the room. She’d climbed up here the day before, testing locks, checking for broken windows. It was all spare lines and blank surfaces. Outside, the lake sparkled with light and life. But inside, the walls sealed out all sound. Despite the sun that poured through the glass, the air was cold.

      Quinn’s voice dropped into the silence like a rock on an ice-filmed puddle. “It’s Baker. She’s back.”

      Ford’s concentration broke. He blinked at her, recalled from his spell.

      “I, uh… Sorry,” Laura said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your—” What did he do? Laser research. Good God. “—your work.”

      He raised his hand, palm out. Cutting off her apologies? Or dismissing Quinn? The butler tromped back downstairs.

      “You’re not interrupting,” Ford said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if he was tired. She squelched her instinctive sympathy. “And I’m not working. Any news?”

      I’m off the case.

      That’s what she’d come to tell him. But when she opened her mouth, what actually came out was, “So, what are you doing?”

      “I’m writing a computer program that will let me hack into my own system and create a new password.”

      “Oh.” Right. She’d forgotten he was a freaking genius. He definitely didn’t need her pity. “Sounds complicated.”

      He smiled faintly. “Not particularly. Most hacking is a simple matter of repeating steps that exploit common system weaknesses.”

      “Simple, СКАЧАТЬ