Ms. Simon Says Read Online Free PDF Page B

hurry-up-and-wait in your business,” she said, lowering herself to the floor.
    “Enough,” he said.
    “How long have you been a cop?”
    “A long time.”
    Hearing the plaintive note in his voice, Shelby looked up. The lieutenant wasn’t staring at the carpet anymore, but rather gazing down the corridor toward the huge plate-glass window that displayed a big rectangle of bright Chicago skyline. He didn’t seem to be focused on anything in particular. In fact, his gaze seemed to travel beyond anything actually visible beyond the glass. His forehead was furrowed. His mouth bore down at the corners. A muscle twitched in his cheek. He looked so incredibly sad. Just lost. Lost and so terribly, terribly alone.
    If he’d been a child on a street corner, Shelby would’ve stopped in her tracks to kneel down and take him in her arms, to whisper, “There. There. Everything will be all right.”
    But he wasn’t a child, of course. Far from it. And she hadn’t a clue about the origin of Mick Callahan’s sudden desolate visage, although she wondered if it might have something to do with Mo’s condolences, expressed earlier in the lobby. As someone who made her living giving advice, Shelby wasn’t used to holding her tongue when she encountered obvious sadness or visible depression. A soft and sincere “How can I help?” from Ms. Simon would usually elicit a lengthy tale of woe, and no matter the problem, she was almost always able to make the person feel better, even if only for a while.
    But, along with the sadness, there was also something forbidding in Callahan’s expression. Something cold. Something that warned,
Leave me the hell alone.
    She was debating whether or not to do just that when one of the bomb techs stepped out into the hallway.
    “We’re done in here, Lieutenant. It’s clean.”
    Thank God, Shelby thought. That meant she’d probably made her bed.
    “Okay. Thanks, guys,” Callahan said, his expression back to its normal severity. “After you,” he said to Shelby, gesturing toward her door.
    It was odd, stepping into her own living room and seeing everything just a bit different from the way she’d left it a few hours before. The chairs and sofa weren’t properly centered around the fireplace. Lamps and picture frames looked out of kilter on tabletops. A quick glance into the little kitchen revealed cabinet doors and drawers not quite closed.
    She put her handbag and laptop down on a table and immediately began to make adjustments to the decor, realigning a lampshade, sliding a small Waterford crystal vase from one side of an end table to the other, tossing a velvet throw pillow from a chair into a bare corner of the sofa.
    “We haven’t got time for that,” Callahan said, scowling at his watch. “Pack a bag and let’s go. I’d like to be out of here in ten or fifteen minutes, tops.”
    With her knee, Shelby shoved the sofa a few inches to the right. “Where are we going?” she asked.
    He shrugged and said, “That’s entirely up to you, Ms. Simon.”
    “Oh.”
    Oh, brother.
    Ms. Simon didn’t have a clue.

CHAPTER THREE
    M ick looked at his watch for the thousandth time while he mentally inventoried his patience only to find it rapidly waning, then decided to give Shelby Simon another five minutes to pack. Assuming that’s what she was doing in the other room. It sounded to him like she was just slamming doors and drawers, rattling hangers, dropping things, and swearing creatively.
    He gazed around her living room, wondering what sort of woman paid what must be a small fortune in rent and then chose to furnish the place in a single boring color. Beige. Or maybe sand was a better description of the carpet and drapes and walls. The chairs and the sofa where he sat were a similar neutral shade. The tables were chrome and glass, and the lamps were made of various metals, mostly copper. With the exception of a few brightly colored tapestry pillows, the place looked like the frigging