Chapter 10 — You are skating on thin ice.

Frank slowly turned the coffee cup around in his hands, waiting for Nancy to compose herself. If it had been Callie she would have expected him to wrap his arms around her until she'd stopped crying, to reassure her regarding the situation. Not that he'd minded. At least it was something to do, some way for him to be proactive in emotionally-charged situations. But he did not have that sort of place in Nancy's life, despite the fact that lately he'd been wondering if he'd like to step into that place.

Nancy sniffed and straightened up in her seat, taking a long, slow drink of her tea. "I'm well aware you are not supposed to discuss ongoing investigations," she finally said. "But I have noticed that officers are driving along this street far more often than they used to. And when I put the trash out at night there is always the same guy standing near the end of the alley. He scared the daylights out of me the first time I saw him, but then I realized he was the first officer to take my statement the night of the murder. So whatever else you may know, you think the dump site wasn't random."

"That is certainly a possibility," he said slowly. "Why might someone have picked this particular dumpster?" Oh boy. Joe and Chet would both wring my neck for this. Looking at Nancy out of the corner of his eye he caught a quick smile flash across her face and her long, slender fingers tapped thoughtfully against the side of her cup. And right at this moment I don't think I care.

"All right, cards on the table," she said, turning slightly to look at him. "If Micah Fernandez was still involved with Marisol, then I would be looking at him. Her spell was bound to wear off eventually."

"That's an interesting word choice," he replied.

Nancy sighed. "They were kids, kids that made really stupid decisions that hurt people. But Marisol was…cunning. Manipulative. She dragged Micah down further than I think he would have gone on his own. And when all's said and done she basically got a slap on the wrist and he got sent to prison. You know better than I do what happens to kids in there…he would have come out worse than he went in."

"And if he was still involved with her?" Frank asked, sipping his coffee nonchalantly. There was that quick smile of hers again. She was reading between the lines just fine.

"They might have cared for each other in their way, but he also might have felt like she owed him, or he might have found after a few years in prison the shine had faded. I don't know. I just know that it was a toxic relationship from the start."

"And wouldn't have aged well," Frank nodded. "But your dumpster?"

Nancy frowned. "Yeah, I don't like it either. I honestly wouldn't have thought Micah the type to make a symbolic gesture, and of what? Is he blaming me?" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and sighed. "I tried to forget it all, honestly. I sold everything we owned and tried to start over. I figured if I couldn't clean up people's messes in their lives then my penance could be cleaning their clothes," she added with a mirthless laugh.

"You were really able to walk away from it?" he asked, honestly curious. "The job, I mean." His own dad had been a cop and then private investigator; he and his brother had both gone into law enforcement. Thinking about giving that up…it would be like giving up who he was at his core.

She shrugged. "I thought I had, but lately… When you asked me to identify the body the first thing I did was analyze her, check to see if there was any visible jewelry and start imagining motives. And later…I remembered Ned telling me that I couldn't live without mysteries." Her voice broke and she took a shaky breath. "That seems kind of messed up. What sort of person am I that I put a job and…and what are basically puzzles above my husband?"

"I'm not the person to answer that," Frank said quietly. "My wife…ex-wife…wanted me to give it up and I couldn't. So she left. That drive makes me a good cop, but not a good husband." He felt a dull ache grow in his chest as he said the words. It was foolish of him to entertain any ideas about maybe pursuing a relationship with this woman. He'd just wind up in the same place again, not able to fully give himself to a wife, because he had to give so much of himself to the job.

They fell into an uneasy silence. Frank had thought by coming here he might give her an opportunity to share her own thoughts and ideas about the case, maybe even reassure her a little that he'd already thought about some of the same things and was taking steps to protect her. But all he'd done was unearth pain and insecurity for both of them.

Nancy finally stood up, the empty mug dangling from her hand. "I don't think even my therapist got that many words out of me. Your interrogation techniques are very effective."

"I wasn't trying to interrogate you," he protested, also standing. He tossed the empty paper coffee cup into the trash can and exhaled slowly, running an abstracted hand through his hair. His plan had started well, but had gone off the rails.

"I know," Nancy said, throwing him a glance that was part amused and part sad. "I was also going to say that you'd better buy me a drink before you expect me to talk that much again." Frank studied her, trying to decide if she was serious, and a wry smile crossed her face. "I'd say yes if you asked me," she added, "but you ought to wait until this case is wrapped up. If you're the kind of cop I think you are, you'd never cross any lines. And you have to admit this is getting pretty close to the line. Your brother clearly thinks so."

"I suppose that's just a good incentive to solve this case faster," he replied with a calm certainty he did not feel. What am I doing? Am I trying to flirt with her? But she indicated she was interested, right? Oh brother, it's been way too long since I had to worry about stuff like this.

"Well, you know where to find me if you have any further questions. But we'd better keep the lawyer involved from here on out."

And that was a dismissal. Frank nodded and unlocked the door, flipping over the out to lunch sign. The neon open sign blazed to life over his head as he walked out the door. He needed to get back to work and get his head in the game.

The station at least gave him the illusion of normality. Heads bent over paperwork or talking on phones, some punk yelling from booking that he was innocent, the Chief in his office dressing down whichever unlucky beat cop had messed up, Joe leaning against his desk as he studied their evidence board. Frank took a deep breath. This place was constant, no matter what chaos was happening in his personal life. What he needed was some routine police work. That was what really solved cases, not what adrenaline-fueled crime shows would lead you to believe. Most of what he did was simply the methodical collecting and logical evaluating of evidence. And the crimes they investigated often felt formulaic. Murders were committed for money or revenge or a twisted version of love. It was usually the most likely person who had done it, not the least. It might take a little time, but they would get there eventually. It was dogged determination that solved cases. Frank joined his brother, crossing his arms and staring at the notes pinned up mapping out the timeline. "Let's go over it again," he said, nudging Joe with his shoulder.

"We're looking at a two-hour window," Joe said, pointing toward the first marker. "Start time is when neighbors say they heard Fernandez and Williams arguing, end time is Ms. Drew calling in the discovery of the body. But according to the autopsy, the coroner thinks she was probably killed an hour or so before her body was dumped. So that means we're looking at a time of death somewhere between 6:30 and 7:30."

"Ok, I got the text reminder about picking up my laundry at 6:30 and George and Nancy were together at the cleaners until 7:00," Frank added.

Joe glanced at him. "If Marisol had come to the store after 7:00 and the two of them had had some kind of altercation, there is enough time for Nancy to kill her and try to heft the body into the dumpster."

"But the crime scene people have gone over the store and there was no evidence suggesting it was the murder site," Frank argued. "It might technically fit the timeline for Nancy to have left, killed Marisol somewhere else, brought her back to the store, and then pretended to find the body. But you can't tell me that feels right." Cops sometimes talked about following their gut, but Frank was convinced it was just following experience. Like Solomon had said, there was nothing new under the sun. Years of watching people commit the same type of crimes for the same type of reasons gave you an instinct about what to look for. And like he'd told Joe the other day, if Nancy were to commit a crime, he didn't think it would look like this.

Joe gave a noncommittal grunt. "Fine, let's go back to Fernandez. Neighbors heard them arguing, but also corroborated his story that he left the apartment alone. He was later seen at a bar on the other side of town. That all fits the timeline, but just barely, especially since witnesses at the bar described him as acting obviously high or intoxicated."

"He could have gone back and killed her, and then dumped the body in the dumpster," Frank sighed, "but he'd have to work fast. And why that dumpster? Was he trying to send a message or was it just a peculiar coincidence? And based on our interview he doesn't seem the type to have a well thought-out plan, especially if he was on something."

"And like the cleaners, there's no physical evidence that the murder happened in their apartment."

Frank shook his head and looked at third name. George Fayne. "Do we really think George could have done this?"

Joe shrugged. "She'd reluctantly admitted to knowing the victim and dating Micah until Marisol came along. Doubtful, but there could be a grudge. We're still working on her alibi after she left the store. She was supposed to meet up with friends."

Frank scratched absently at the stubble on his jaw and wondered what Nancy did with her evenings after work. He was starkly aware that he knew next to nothing about the woman. Did she go out with friends? Stay up watching old movies? Read? Have trouble sleeping? Or you should stop thinking about her and get to work, he told himself firmly, having missed something else Joe said. Frank gritted his teeth and turned his attention completely back to their notes.

A moment later his phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket and frowned down at the text message from Nancy:

I found the money that was taken from my register. It was in a drawer by the coffee station, behind the extra sugar packets.

Frank tapped the edge of the phone, thinking. Did whoever broke in suddenly feel guilty and try to return the money? Was it hidden as a distraction? If the break-in wasn't about money, what would someone steal from a dry cleaner?