Joseph Morelli was a simple man.
He liked routine; coffee on his way to work, beer and football with the guys and nights spent tangled in sheets.
People often don't get what they want, he lamented, dragging his hands over his face with a sigh. He'd been awake since 3 am, at a grisly (and completely unhelpful) crime scene since four and the day was far from over yet.
There had been no sign of Stephanie for two weeks aside from relatively low level mutterings in the burg concerning which skip she was after this time and how intact her clothing was (which miraculously for once had been mostly).
They hadn't argued, there had been no fighting, no gossip machine whirling into action and no yowling whenever Lula passed his general vicinity. It was worrying.
Fobbing his car open he tried calling her before he headed for lunch. Her voice wheeled out from her voice mail, chirpily breathless tone cut off in frustration.
It was too quiet.
The last time he'd seen her had been pot roast at her parents. Everything had run as usual, a lack of the worst of the drama that usually followed her but nobody had minded that. Except maybe Grandmar Mazur.
He'd visit her later, considering it was Stephanie, silence probably meant neck deep in her own trouble.
He should pick up some Maalox just in case.