It Happens in the Dark by Carol O'Connell Page A

gloves.”
    Oh,
crap
and
aha
!
    Now he knew why Heller had come. This visit was all about damage control—Clara Loman’s damage. “Let me guess. The CSIs only collected what people were wearing during the blackout. Am I right? Yeah, all they’d care about is bloodfly. Well, too bad our suspects’ gloves never got tested for blood . . . or chalk residue. I suppose the killer’s pair walked out the door with him—before Loman even got around to hunting for the chalk. And
she’s
pissed off at
my
guys?”
    Heller shrugged, and this was tantamount to waving a flag of surrender. “Clara’s off your case. She’s taking some sick days . . . and I owe you one.”
    Jack Coffey smiled and bit back his favorite adage for dealings with this man:
Some days the bear gets you. And some days you get that bear—by the balls.
    •   •   •
    The Herald
’s drama critic was still not at home to the police, nor was he responding to messages left on his answering machine. The newspaper’s editor had sympathized with Riker and explained that, on principle, Leonard Crippen never opened his eyes before noon.
    The detective had concluded one more follow-up call, this one to the stage manager, and then he slammed down the receiver of his desk phone and said to his partner, “Bugsy hasn’t turned up yet.”
    Mallory’s attention was focused on some point behind him, and he turned to see Clara Loman, queen of the CSU night shift
.
When the lady stepped up to the demarcation line between their two desks, she was missing her attitude of one who owns the earth beneath her feet. This morning, her place in the world seemed more tenuous.
    And Loman’s voice cracked when she said, “I’m not working your case anymore. Nothing personal. I’ll be taking some time off.” She stared at Mallory, maybe looking for some sign that the young detective had heard the other version, the rumor that Heller had removed her from the case because she had botched the job.
    And yes, twenty minutes ago, that rumor had been phoned in by a snitch at CSU, and Heller’s visit to Coffey’s office had given it some weight. But Mallory gave away nothing. Her face was a mask.
    “I don’t like loose ends,” said Loman. “Now . . . about the night-vision goggles. They’re kids’ toys, but old models, discontinued years ago. So you can scratch the toy stores, and I’ve already checked eBay. But the boxes were in a manufacturer’s carton, and the shipping label should lead to a liquidator or a stolen-goods report.” Now she laid down a thick sheaf of paper bound with a rubber band, and she did it with something approaching ceremony. “
This
is a copy of the play.”
    What were they supposed to do with that?
Read
it?
    As for the goggles, it had taken his partner ten minutes to match the carton to a robbery for the year when the goggles were brand-new. Mallory could even name the day when the box was boosted off the back of a delivery truck. Yet Loman stood there waiting for their thanks—thanks for nothing. However, never one to keep a lady waiting, Riker was prepared to do the gallant thing.
    Mallory beat him to it. She rose from her desk and extended her hand to the older woman, saying, “Thanks.”
    When Clara Loman shook hands, she did not smile. No one had ever seen her do that. But she squared her shoulders and made a curt nod before marching away.
    Riker watched the woman’s retreating back, which was straighter now, as she passed through the stairwell door with her dignity restored—by Mallory of all people. His partner could still surprise him, and he toyed with the idea that she might have a heart.
    Now you see it—now you don’t.
    He snapped back to reality when he saw Heller standing outside of Coffey’s office—
watching.
So Mallory had only been building up currency in the CSU favor bank. That unit’s commander had always looked out for Clara Loman, who, by temperament, by age and grating personality, would never find