Gibson scratched his chin. “Murphy’s whole list was eliminated, based solely on the age-range. None of the people on his list were over the age of thirty. I don’t know about Lasco, but I’m pretty sure the others are about where you’re at. What about Frost? Do you think she’s going to find it was one of us?”

  Cordy shook her head. “I don’t think so, but she still has to look. I don’t think her profile is wrong, but I don’t think it was a cop, either.”

  “Why not?” Gibson asked, intrigued.

  “Well,” Cordy said, leaning forward in her chair. She didn’t want the whole bullpen to hear her disagree with the FBI. “It’s really just a feeling. The profile says The Confessor is a woman. How many women do you think are in this department, who volunteer with the CRBC? I went over that list, Gibs, and there were only nine police officers on it, including myself.”

  Gibson listened patiently, waiting for his partner to get to her point.

  “Here’s the thing, though. Even taking into account that the officer could be from a different department, none of them are blonde. There were others on the list, who do fit the profile, and are within the law enforcement community. I’m leaning more toward a lawyer or judge. Even with our clearances, it would be easier for one of them to get the information The Confessor is using.”

  Gibson stared at his partner as he digested her explanation. Her reasoning was sound, but he couldn’t quite understand why she was so adamant. Hadn’t Chavez said he wasn’t sure about the suspect’s hair color?

  “Did you try a photo line-up with Chavez?” he asked.

  Cordy nodded. “Wasn’t much help. He pointed to several different women, some blonde, some not, but kept changing his mind.”

  The pair were silent for a time, each engaged in their own tasks, until something on Cordy’s computer caught her eye. “Well, that’s interesting,” she mumbled.

  “What is?” Gibson asked.

  “I’m doing the records search on Frost’s wife. There’s a hit, but it’s been sealed.” Cordy frowned at her screen and scribbled on her ever-present notepad.

  “Maybe try searching Frost’s name? Maybe the sealed record is the reason they don’t have the same last name.” Gibson suggested.

  Cordy shrugged and altered her search. The search for Oakley Frost revealed the same result.

  “I don’t know, Cordy. Talk to Brandon, maybe he can get ahold of the transcript.”

  Cordy chewed her lip and pressed her thumb between her brows. She didn’t want to jeopardize her budding friendship, or Jenica’s rekindled friendship, with the Agent. On the other side of that, she had a job to do, and she needed to remain biased. If the sealed record had belonged to anyone else, she wouldn’t have even hesitated to talk to Brandon.

  With a sigh, Cordy stood and crossed the bullpen, to knock on Brandon’s door.

  “Hey, Cap,” she said, when the Captain beckoned her inside, “Do you think you can get a restricted override on a sealed record for me?”

  Captain Rick Brandon arched his brow. “What kind of record, and who does it belong to?” he asked suspiciously. “If it belongs to anyone in the Davis-Walker family, forget it. There’s no way I will be able to get an override.”

  Cordy shook her head. “No, it’s not any of them,” she said quickly, “it’s for Stormie Carter. I just need to see if the case would exonerate her from the suspect list. I don’t need the details.”

  Brandon scratched his chin. “Tread very carefully here, Weston,” he warned, “If Frost thinks you’re poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, it could cause some serious tension. Get her permission, and Stormie’s, and I will have Creekmore talk to a Judge.”

  Alana Creekmore, the current District Attorney, was always happy to help when needed, but she was strictly by the book.

  Cordy huffed out a sigh and nodded. Great, wonder how Frost is going to react to that.

  On her way back to her desk, Cordy grabbed her notepad and switched off her monitor. “I’ll be back, Gibs,” she said to her partner, “I’ve got to go talk to Frost.”

  Gibson gave his partner a wave, before going back to his own work. Having finished with the people on his list, Gibson was doing his best to handle a separate case on his own.

  “Hey, Price,” Lasco called from his desk, “your partner leaving you with all the work? That’s women for ya. You need to ask Cap for a male partner, at least another guy wouldn’t keep taking off on you.”

  “Suck my nuts, Lasco,” Gibson spat, waving a one-finger salute, “You couldn’t handle having Weston as a partner.”

  “Ouch, Price,” Lasco feigned a wounded heart, “retract the claws. You’re awfully testy these days, fixing to start your period?”

  “Lasco!” Captain Brandon’s voice forestalled Gibson’s retort, and made the asinine detective jump.

  “I was just joking with him, Cap,” Lasco groaned, “Just ask him.”

  Brandon’s eyes swung to Gibson. He was tempted to set the record straight, but Gibson simply nodded and went back to his work. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Lasco today.

  Brandon narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. He could tell Gibson was lying, but if the man wasn’t willing to make a formal complaint against Lasco, he wasn’t going to force the issue.

  Without another word, Brandon returned to his office, and Gibson and Lasco went back to their work.

  I’m glad Cordy wasn’t here, Gibson thought, she’d have lit Lasco’s ass up. On second thought, that might have been the best part of today.

  ***

  Cordy stood outside the conference room, rubbing her sweaty palms on her pants. She wasn’t nervous about confronting FBI Agent Frost about a business matter. She was worried about confronting her friend, Oakley, about a personal one.

  She’ll understand, she’s with the FBI for Christ’s sake! I’m sure she’s dealt with delicate situations more than I have.

  With a reluctant groan, Cordy lifted her hand and knocked on the closed door. For several moments, there was no answer, and Cordy hoped the Agent was at lunch. Just as she was about to leave, the door opened.

  “Hi, Cordy,” Stormie greeted her with a wide smile, “Come on in. Oakley and I were just finishing lunch.”

  Cordy smiled and stepped hesitantly into the room. She glanced quickly at the two blondes, who were cleaning up the remains of a meal.

  I wonder which of them was lunch, she thought, battling the smile that wanted to spread.

  Stormie’s skirt was rumpled, her blouse untucked, and her bun had several loose tendrils. Oakley’s clothing was mostly intact, except for her blouse, where the three top buttons were misaligned.

  “What can I do for you?” Oakley asked, motioning for Cordy to take a seat. “I’ll see you at home, babe,” she said, kissing Stormie quickly as the woman grabbed her purse.

  Stormie blushed, and waved at Cordy on her way to the door.

  “Stormie, wait,” Cordy said, “I need to talk to both of you.”

  Stormie’s hand hovered over the doorknob, and she turned back to the detective with a look of curiosity. “Is everything alright?” she asked, exchanging a nervous glance with her wife.

  Cordy caught the look, but didn’t address it. Instead, she ran a hand through her hair and gestured for Stormie to take a seat.

  “I’m not sure,” Cordy said, once Stormie sat, “I need your permission for something very personal. As you know,” Cordy kept her attention on Stormie, “I’m the one handling your interview.”

  Stormie nodded and looked up at Oakley again. Cordy could feel the hesitation radiating off her, but Stormie’s face was a mask of nonchalance.

  “In running a standard background, I came across a sealed record. I need your permission to have it unsealed. I don’t need the details of the case,” she assured quickly, when Stormie’s mask faltered and fear crossed her face, “I just need to make sure it’s nothing that will keep you on the suspect list.”

  Stormie’s mouth worked, but no words came out. Her hand shot to Oakley’s thigh, and Oakley covered the hand with her own. Cordy could see the color had drained from Oakley’s face, giving her a sickly, pallid look.

  “I don’t want to be nosey,” Cordy tried, unnerved by the obvious discomfort of her friends, “I won’t even read the transcripts, if you don’t want me to. I can have the DA go over the case, and determine if it fits the profile criteria.”

  Oakley and Stormie stared at each other for several tense moments. Cordy watched them closely, marveling at the way they could communicate without speaking.

  “Honey, I know you don’t want to,” Stormie said softly, breaking the heavy silence, “but, it’s just Cordy. She won’t say anything to anyone.”

  Oakley’s eyes filled with tears, and Stormie pulled her wife against her chest. Cordy’s heart dropped. Oh God, she thought, what am I going to find?

  She cleared her throat and stood, stepping several paces away from the pair. “You two take some time to make a decision. Just let me know what you decide. I need your permission to get it unsealed, for my eyes only, of course.”

  Cordy didn’t wait for a response. She made a hasty exit, not breathing until she was back at her desk. In her chair, she let out a sigh that seemed to drain all her energy.

  “Didn’t go over well?” Gibson asked.

  Cordy groaned and rubbed her eyes. “I don’t think so. Frost was crying.”

  Gibson grimaced. He hated to see a woman cry, and knew that Cordy was the same way. A few years earlier, one of Jenica’s co-workers, a woman she had grown incredibly close to, passed away suddenly. Jenica was devastated, and cried for hours in Cordy’s arms. Gibson and Nora had been at the Weston’s home, for a previously scheduled dinner, and had helped his partner comfort her sobbing wife.

  “Damn,” he said, scratching the top of his head, “that’s rough. Be prepared for her wife to be a little on the stormy side for the rest of the day. I’d be pissed if you made my wife cry.”

  Cordy glared at Gibson’s attempt at levity. He was trying to make her feel better, which she appreciated, but she thought the play on words a little childish.

  “Wow, Gibs. You think that one up by yourself?” she asked, a small smile twitching her lips.

  Gibson shrugged. “I’ve been practicing. Nora suggested I have a go at that comedy club in Salem.”

  Cordy rolled her eyes and chuckled. Gibson was a handsome man, and had a great sense of humor, but the man was horrible at making and delivering a joke. He’d even managed to mess up simple knock-knock jokes, that left Jenica concerned about the comedic talent of Americans.

  “So,” Gibson prompted, “what do you have on the illustrious Stormie Carter?” He was trying to keep his partner’s mind on something productive, and figured work was the safest bet.

  Cordy flicked on her computer screen. She brought up the word processor and read from her notes.

  “Stormie Sky Carter. I’m not telling you her age,” Cordy said playfully, “Parents, Milton and Fawn, one brother, Malibu. Parents and brother live in SoCal. She’s lived in Marilynn for roughly twenty years, and attended law school at Willamette University, in Salem.”

  Cordy caught the look on Gibson’s face. “What?” she asked, unsure how to describe the distortion of his features.

  Gibson struggled valiantly to suppress the laugh that wanted to bubble from him. He lifted his hand, indicating that he needed a minute, and closed his eyes.

  Cordy watched with confusion as Gibson covered his face with his hands, and sucked air between his fingers. “Gibson, dammit, what is wrong with you?” she demanded.

  Gibson lowered his hands and took a deep breath. “Stormie Sky? Malibu?” he asked, his voice squeaking with the attempt to hold back a laugh, “Were her parent’s Hippies?”

  Gibson lost the battle and held his sides as he laughed. Cordy’s jaw dropped, and her eyes stared over his shoulder. “Gibson, shut up,” she hissed under her breath.

  Gibson didn’t hear her. He continued to laugh, repeating Stormie’s name, until a sharp kick to his shin caught his attention.

  “Ouch!” he said, tears of laughter still in his eyes, “what the hell was that for?”

  Cordy narrowed her eyes at her partner. “Hello, Agent Frost,” she said, louder than necessary.

  A cold chill ran down Gibson’s spine, and all amusement fled as he turned toward a stony-faced Agent Frost.

  “Uh, I, um,” Gibson stammered, “I’m sorry.”

  Agent Frost’s expression didn’t change as she simply ignored the detective.

  “What’s up?” Cordy asked, hoping to dissipate the tension. She couldn’t read the Agent’s expression, but there was something in her rigid posture and clenched fists, that made Cordy uneasy.

  Agent Frost held out a piece of paper to Cordy. “It’s signed,” she said flatly, “For the DA’s eyes only. She can decide if the case meets the profile.”

  With that, Agent Frost whirled on her heel and swiftly exited the bullpen. Cordy shot her partner a death glare, and followed the blonde.

  “Oakley, wait!” Cordy called, running to catch up before the elevator closed. She stepped into the car, just as the doors shut.

  “Don’t let Gibson get to you. He’s not a bad guy. His sense of humor could use some work, but he’s a really good man.”

  Oakley’s eyes blazed, and Cordy wondered what the woman was thinking. She could tell that Oakley was protective of Stormie, and she couldn’t condemn the woman for being upset. She’d be angry, too, if someone was making fun of Jenica’s name.

  “For some people,” Oakley said, her breathing deliberate, “A name is more than just something to be called. Sometimes, it is given out of reverence for a special place or event, that has meaning for the parents. Stormie was born on the side of the road, during a rainstorm that washed out the highway.”

  Cordy listened intently. There was something about Oakley’s eyes, swirling with emotions that Cordy couldn’t name, that kept her from wanting to interrupt.

  “She was born premature, and the ambulance arrived just in time to cut the cord. The doctors weren’t sure she would make it. Her parents didn’t name her, right away. Once she made it out of the danger zone, they decided to mark the miracle of her survival. She made her entrance into the world, under a stormy sky, and her parents felt it was the perfect name for her.”

  “I think it’s a beautiful name,” Cordy offered softly, when she was sure the agent was finished.

  A ghost of a smile crossed Oakley’s features. “Stormie and I are alright with you reading the case transcripts, Cordy. But, we don’t want anyone else to know the details. Not even Jenica.”

  The elevator dinged, and Oakley made a hasty exit. Cordy stared after her for a moment, before glancing at the paper in her hands. The form was a standard consent for records release, signed by both Stormie Carter and Oakley Frost. There was a stipulation that the case be read only in the District Attorney’s office, and only by Alana Creekmore and Detective Cordelia Weston

  ***

  “How was your weekend?”

  I look up to see the smiling face of my friend. She’s a wonderful woman, with a kind and compassionate heart. Long black curls cascade over caramel-colored shoulders. Beautiful soft brown eyes shine, and the wide smile reveals perfect white teeth.

  “It was alright,” I reply with a smile, “We spent most of it doing yard work. She ended up with a sunburn on her legs, so she’s miserable.”

  “Oh no!” she says, a look of sympathy crossing her features, “Tell her to put vinegar and water in a spray bottle. Spritz herself every fifteen minutes, that should help with the pain.”

  “I’ll do that,” I say, “Thanks, Jenica. How was yours? How’s the wife?”

  Jenica smiled again, a brilliant smile that lit up her entire face. Anyone who knows her, knows that Jenica Weston is absolutely in love with her wife.

  “It was glorious, we spent the whole of it in bed,” Jenica replies with a wink

  I smile and nod. I’m glad she has someone who makes her happy. While not my type, Jenica is the kind of woman that is easy to fall in love with. And I do, I love her. I don’t love her as much, or in the same way, that I love my own wife, but I’d be devastated if something ever happened to her.

  I glance across the office, to where my wife is sitting at another desk. I realized, just then, that Jenica and my wife had never been in the office at the same time. Hell, with our schedules, my wife and I are rarely in the office together. Sometimes, our other obligations will keep one of us from volunteering for days, or even weeks.

  Jenica only started working out of this office today. Normally, she works out of the CRBC main office. Since we are short volunteers this week, Mr. Barnes asked her to work from here.

  “What’s the plan today?” Jenica asked, moving to stand beside me and glance down at the schedule.

  “You’re working the clothing center, and I’ll be working at the garden,” I reply, pointing to our names and assignments.

  “Alright,” she says, “Tommy, the young man with the scar over his eye, wants to learn how to prune the tomato vines. Will you teach him?”

  “Of course,” I say, “I’d be happy to. He’s got a real knack for gardening. Do you think Barnes will approve taking him on as an apprentice?”

  Jenica shrugged and stood, tucking her delicate hands into the pockets of her slacks. Even doing volunteer work, Jenica is always dressed professionally.

  “I don’t see why not. It will keep him out of trouble, and teach him a marketable skill. It might also help him deal with his depression.”

  I had to agree. Tommy was only nineteen, and had been homeless for nearly three years. Kicked out of the house for being gay, the young man had turned to prostitution to support himself. Thanks to our program, and the help of the Callie Rae Baxter Center, he hadn’t turned a single trick in over a year. He was gearing up to be one of our greatest success stories.

  “I have a meeting with him in an hour, I’ll bring it up then,” I say.