NO PLACE LIKE HOME

It was almost nine pm when Ed finally pulled the truck into the driveway of the ranch. He was able to cadge a power nap on the couch in his office during the afternoon before the press conference, but otherwise, he'd been on the go since getting the three am call. In the mudroom, he hung his coat on a peg and pulled off his boots, his feet thanking him for releasing them from their prison. Entering the small bathroom, he washed his hands and face. Looking in the mirror, he could see how exhausted he was.

"Ed, that you?" Sarah Brown called from the kitchen. "I saved you some dinner if you're hungry."

"Sure am, ma." His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since lunch, hours ago. He couldn't even remember what he had eaten, probably something cellophane wrapped with a half-life rivaling Uranium from the commissary vending machine. A bowl of stew and freshly baked bread met him as he sat down at the table.

"Where's Fran?"

"In the shed, said she had some work to do; she's been in there since after supper."

"I can imagine why." His wife had tried to do something good and had doors slammed in her face for her efforts. He devoured the bowl, using the bread to wipe it clean. Sarah ladled another large bowl for him and handed him a glass of milk. "She saw you on television. We both did. You did fine, but that Commissioner, what's his name?"

"Fisette."

"Mercy, he does seem to feel he's essential."

Ed laughed. "He does, ma, he really does." Owen Fisette had taken over the press conference and displayed a glaring lack of tack and stupidity. He hadn't had his facts lined up, and Ed and John had spent most of their time correcting the commissioner's comments. After the meeting, Ed took a couple of reporters aside and gave them the statement MacAllister had prepared. At least the Post and Rocky Mountain Journal would have the correct version of the story.

After finishing, he took his bowl, spoon, and glass to the sink, rinsed them out, and put them in the dishwasher. He kissed his mother, walked through the house, stopped in the bedroom to put on a pair of slippers, and exchanged his sweaty dress shirt and tie for a tee and a flannel shirt. He opened the room's French doors, walked out on the patio, and turned to the south where Fran's workroom was.

Though it was called the "shed," it was anything but with help from Mark, Mac, and Jerry, and under the Chief's supervision, he built it for her as a wedding present. It was large with lots of storage space and full of natural light with a good view of the fishing pond and the foothills. He found her outside sitting on the Adirondack style love seat he'd made, looking out on the mountains and the stars, the aroma of the strong Viennese blend coffee she got from Philz's Coffee wafting in the air.

"Hey." He bent down and kissed her. "You ok?"

"I'm fine," she returned his kiss. "Want to see what I've been working on?" Getting up from her chair, Fran took his hand, leading him inside. "It's something I've been working on at the museum, but I decided to bring my work home for a change. Considering the morning, it was a pleasure to work on this tonight." On an easel was a half-finished painting of a mountain scene. A snapshot of the scene was attached to the top right corner of the canvas. "It's a private commission. A local collector wanted me to paint their backyard in the style of William Metcalf."

"I've got no idea who William Metcalf is, but it's beautiful. Does know your boss know you're working on your own stuff during their time?"

"Yes, indeed George Duncan does, Chief Brown." She laughed. "It's lunchtime therapy only, so it's on my dime. The boss saw it the other day and asked if I would contribute it to the local artists' exhibit next spring."

"And, of course, you told him you would."

"Natürlich, with the owner's permission, of course."

Ed went over to the coffee pot and poured himself half a cup, and sipped. "Sorry, you had doors slammed in your face today."

"It's ok, Ed. I didn't have any authority to ask questions. The principal did the right thing in refusing me. I'm not a cop anymore. I checked out a few of the shelters in the area instead. No one's seen, Catalina. I let Jerry know where I checked." She drank more coffee. "I did get a tour of the school, and when I asked to see the art room. Mrs. Retter, the principal, became very nervous and pointed at a closet. That's where they stored the art supplies. In a closet. For the entire school. A school of three hundred students with no art room, not enough supplies, and no teacher."

Ed smiled; he knew what she was leading up to.

"So I talked with George, and Martine Salazar, she's the museum's education specialist, this afternoon. Ed, the museum has to help these kids somehow. The city prides itself on being an art community, but if we're not training the next generation, there's not going to be an art community in Denver, and.." the words spilled out of her like a torrent of water.

"We might also keep more kids out of trouble? Out of Juvie? The police department might be willing to partner up with something like that. Our officers need to have more community policing opportunities, and basketball only goes a little way. Not a bad idea, love."

Fran laughed. "I'm glad you like it because I'll be at Chavez two afternoons a week starting next month after George gives the green light for a pilot program. He meets with the Board of Directors next week. "

Sitting down next to her, he grinned. "That's great. I need a professional favor." He handed her the spiral notebook Cat had left in the truck. "Let's see what we can find out about her and maybe where our girl might have gone."

Fran got up "Not tonight, Ed. You're exhausted and need to sleep. Tomorrow's Saturday; we can tackle it then." She opened the workshop's small safe, slipped the book in it, closed the door, and spun the cylinder. "Even Superman has to call it a night some time."

Ed draped his arm around Fran and felt her lean into him as they left the shed. "Ok, Lois Lane, we'll deal with it tomorrow."