DAVID'S CONDO IS DOWNTOWN, A QUICK TEN minutes from our office. On the way, I call his cell. It's still turned off but I leave a message, though I suspect he won't pick it up when he sees who it's from. He's being such an ass. I'd certainly want to know if the police were searching my home. I hope I get there before they do.
I don't. Harris is coming down the front steps with three uniforms. I slide into a loading zone parking space and propel myself out of the car.
"Detective Harris."
He stops when he hears his name and meets me at the bottom of the stairs. The uniforms at his side step between us, frowning, until he waves them off. He says something to them and they move away toward the waiting police cars. Then he turns his attention to me.
"Ms. Strong."
I gesture toward the building. "What were you doing in my partner's condo?"
He smiles. "You aren't that naive." He reaches into a pocket and pulls out the search warrant. "I would give this to Mr. Ryan but he doesn't seem to be around. It's a copy of a search warrant. Duly executed. I left another in the apartment. Care to tell me where he's gone?"
I glance over the warrant. No surprises. It lists the same items as Gloria's. When I look back up, two more uniforms and another suit have come downstairs. Empty-handed.
Harris takes the warrant out of my hand. "Where is he, Ms. Strong?"
I put on an innocent face and shrug. "Don't know, Detective. He left town after you arrested his girlfriend. He was a bit upset."
Harris laughs. "I can imagine. You find out your girlfriend is unfaithful and a murderer all in the same evening. It would ruin my night."
The next instant the amusement is gone from his face. "That's assuming he hadn't learned about the affair earlier. If I find out he had, Mr. Ryan may have more to deal with than a broken heart."
He turns away then and rejoins the cop waiting by the patrol car. I watch them pull away. At least he didn't press me for information about David's whereabouts. Nor did he threaten me with obstruction. I guess Gloria is still number one on his hit parade.
I let myself into David's condo with my key. There are two ways to toss a place-the neat way if you don't want to make it obvious what you were looking for or the trash it way if you don't care.
Harris didn't care. Not that he broke anything or deliberately went out of his way to mess things up, but drawers and cabinets were left open, the clothes in the closet pushed to one side, items on David's desk rearranged. David, the neat freak, will not be happy.
I'm not going to straighten up. David should have been here to supervise instead of slinking away like a whipped puppy. Serves him right to come home to a mess.
On my way out, I do stop, though, to scoop up the newspapers accumulating on the doorstep. He hadn't bothered to stop delivery. David takes both San Diego and L.A. papers, and when I toss them onto the living room coffee table, a picture on the front page of the Los Angles Times catches my eye.
More than catches my eye. Trips that memory switch I'd been waiting for.
Rory O'Sullivan and his wife and son.
Jason. The kid I saw on the court steps with Gloria.
