Keith’s voice became a few notes more unfriendly. “This isn’t a public service line, ma’am.”

“This is an emergency. Please?”

Deep, put-upon sigh. “It’s always an emergency. Yeah, what do you need.”

“Can you tell Gary Muldoon that Joanne called, and she needs him to go by her apartment, get her drum and come to the police station as soon as he’s off work?”

“A drum is an emergency?” Keith mumbled, but I could hear the tap of a keyboard as he took the message down. “Joanne, get drum, police station. He gets off work at two.”

I looked for a clock. It was three minutes to two. “I hope you can catch him, then. Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what they all say, but does anybody ever send chocolate? I got work to do, lady.”

I grinned at the phone and hung up instead of asking if employees of Tripoli Cabs were contractually obliged to call women “lady.”

“Bruce?”

“Yeah?” He sounded relieved that I remembered his name. Linda put something that boiled on the back of my head and I shrieked. Bruce jumped, then glared resentfully at Linda, saving me the trouble of doing it again.

“Where do you order flowers and chocolates from when you’re in the doghouse with Elise?”

He pointed at the phone. “Speed-dial number nine,” he said in a voice that dared me to laugh.

I laughed. It made my head hurt more, but it was worth it. Linda swore again and reached over my shoulder to grasp my jaw in her hand. “Hold still,” she said impatiently, and swabbed the boiling painful stuff onto the back of my head again.

“Ow! What is that, battery acid?”

“Hydrochloric,” she corrected as I dialed Bruce’s flower shop. “There’s all kinds of gook in there. Stop whining.”

“Gook,” I said. “Is that a technical term?”

“Thanks for calling Forgiven Again Flowers. Hi, Bruce,” the woman on the other end of the line said. I laughed again, flinching away from Linda.

“Not Bruce,” I said. “Just borrowing his phone.”

Three minutes later a vase of wildflowers and a box of chocolates were set to be delivered to Keith at Tripoli Cabs, the ibuprofen was starting to kick in, and I was feeling slightly better about the world.

“I faxed that sketch over to Blanchet High,” Jen said from behind me. I turned around. Linda swore yet again and stalked off, muttering disclaimers of responsibility for me. I watched her go, nonplussed, then blinked at Jen.

“And?”

“And there are a thousand students there. The office didn’t recognize her off the bat, but they offered to send the picture over to the yearbook staff to see if anybody knew her. I’m waiting for an answer back from them.” She shrugged and wandered back down the hallway.

“Thank you,” I said, not very loudly, but she threw a smile over her shoulder at me. I sat on the edge of Bruce’s desk and rubbed my eyes. Little stabs of pain winked back through my head, but comparatively it was like a soothing massage, so I kept rubbing.

“When was the last time you slept?” Bruce asked. I smiled lopsidedly.

“I donno. I slept in the shower. I’m fine.”

“You look like the walking dead.”

“Thank you.” I laughed. It didn’t make my head hurt as much, for which I was grateful.

“Why don’t you go take a nap until your drum gets here?” he suggested. I had to admire the perfectly calm collected way he said that, like it was completely normal for people to hang around police stations waiting for drums.

“With a head injury?” I asked, bemusedly echoing Morrison.

“I don’t think it’ll kill you.”

“Mmmph,” I said, and looked around the station. Truth was, I couldn’t think of a damned thing I was good for until Gary and my drum got here. My head hurt less, but still too much to concentrate through, and I was waiting on the yearbook staff at the school. “Yeah,” I said, nodding a little. “If Jen gets anything from the yearbook staff before Gary gets here, send her to wake me up, okay?”

“Sure. Now go on. You’ll only get a few minutes anyway.”

“Yeah,” I said again, and wove my way through desks toward the drop-spot nee broom closet. Much too small for an office, it was ventilated and kept fastidiously clean. Cops whose desks couldn’t be seen under the crap they had piled up were known to change sheets on the drop-spot cot, and it got swept out twice a day whether it needed it or not. It was the only really clean area in the whole station, and it stayed that way because everybody knew that sooner or later they’d be collapsing into the cot. Nobody wanted to sleep in someone else’s grunge.

I was asleep before my head hit the pillow, which was nice. I didn’t need another impact, no matter how soft, to make my head ache more than it already did.

I woke up to the scent of coffee under my nose. Gary sat on the floor beside the cot, Indian-style and grinning, holding a cup from The Missing O a few inches away from my face. I blinked at him slowly, then seized the cup and took a grateful slurp. Not just coffee. Mint-flavored mocha, heavy on the chocolate but with twice the caffeine.

“You are a god,” I announced as the first slug trickled down my throat and spread out to coat the lining of my stomach. “How’d you know about the mint?”

Gary chuckled. “Blond guy at the front desk said it was the best way to wake you up. I was polite and didn’t ask how he knew.”

I snorted. “I think Bruce knows the best way to wake everybody who works in the North Precinct, including Morrison.”

“Yeah? Whaddaya do, grab a bullhorn and bellow from far enough away that he can’t shoot you?”

I grinned sleepily. “Probably. I’ve never had to try. What time is it?”

‘“Bout two-forty. I got here fifteen minutes ago but they sent me for coffee. Said you needed the sleep and the caffeine. Some little Spanish lady has some papers for you.”

I sat all the way up, holding the coffee cup out. “Jen. She’s Hispanic, actually. She must’ve found the girl. Kick ass. Hold this, I gotta change the sheets.”

“You’ve got to what?” Gary watched in bemusement as I stripped the sheets off the bed and put new ones on. “You ever been in the army, lady?”

“Nope. Why do you keep calling me that?”

“You do corners like you were,” he said approvingly, then lifted his bushy eyebrows. “Calling you what?”

“‘Lady.’ I know it’s been over nine hours since you saw me and you’re old, but I did tell you my name.” I took my coffee cup back and grinned at Gary’s faint look of offense.

“Part of my charm,” he said with immense dignity.

“That’s what I told Marie,” I reminded him. “I was kidding.”

He spread his hands. “Turns out you weren’t. Who knew?”

“Are you decent in there?” Jen banged on the door and pushed it open, thrusting a handful of papers at me. I took another sip of my mocha and held the cup in my front teeth while I shuffled through the papers.

“You look like a rabbit,” Gary said. I spared a hand to flip him off.

The yearbook staff at Blanchet High had faxed over half a dozen pages of photos of the slender blond girl, most of them with her alone, often reading or drawing. She consistently wore her hair loose, tucked behind an ear when she was bent over a drawing pad.

“Fmmbmmy onna y’buk sfaff—”

Jen took the cup out of my mouth.

“Somebody on the yearbook staff has a crush on her, huh?” I repeated. Jen grinned and Gary looked startled.

“My guess is him,” Jen said, and pushed one of the faxed pages over to reveal a gawky kid with a camera leaning over one of the girl’s drawings. He had hair that fell over his eyes and good skin, for a teenager, and he would probably grow up cute. The girl was smiling up at him.

“Looks like true love.” I smiled and shuffled the picture away. At the bottom of the pile was a two line biography.

Suzanne Quinley, sophomore. Interests: art, drama, volleyball. Birthday: January 6. Goals: being Picasso.