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was that she reminded Nikki of someone; she just couldn’t remember who.
    Now she said, “I just thought I’d check the news feed.”
    “You’d probably get more info from Reed,” Swan advised, raising his thick eyebrows.
    “Not likely.” That was the problem with this place. Everyone assumed she had a quick link to more information because she was engaged to a detective, but as she’d already told Ina, Reed was decidedly close-lipped about all his cases or anything to do with the department. She couldn’t count the times she’d tried to gain a little info from him. Only three days ago, at the breakfast table in his apartment, she’d asked what she’d thought was an innocent question about a current case, and he’d just kept right on reading his paper, taking a sip of his coffee, even a bite of his toast, before saying, “Talk to Abbey Marlow,” without so much as making eye contact with her. “She’s the department spokesperson.”
    “I know who she is,” Nikki had grumbled, tossing down the rest of her orange juice and biting back her frustration. “I just want the—”
    “Inside scoop.”
    “Nothing like that.”
    He’d actually folded his paper onto the table and cocked his head, as if sincerely interested. Brown eyes, light enough to show gold glints, assessed her. “Exactly like that.”
    “It’s just that you’re the lead detective on the Langton Pratt case.”
    “And you’re fishing again.”
    “I just want an angle.”
    “Seems to me you’ve got plenty.” His razor-thin lips had twisted into a bit of a smile, that same self-mocking grin she’d found so intriguing when she’d first met him.
    Infuriating, that’s what it was, she thought now, as she knew she’d get no further with him than any other reporter on the street. “Reed’s on lockdown, too,” she said and headed for the cubicle she shared with Trina Boudine, who worked with human-interest stories and was her best friend at the office.
    The two desks inside the cubicle faced each other and were separated by a thin panel with a few shelves. Trina’s was neat as a pin, the desk clean, even her trash can empty.
    Nikki’s area was more cluttered and, as she called it, “lived-in,” even though she worked only part-time. Pictures of her and Reed were pushed into a corner, along with a framed photograph of her niece Ophelia, known as “Phee,” who Nikki could barely believe had started kindergarten two months earlier.
    Plopping down, she unbuttoned her raincoat and let it drape behind her on the back of the chair as she logged onto her desktop computer and checked her e-mail. Sure enough, there was a quick memo from Tom Fink asking her to handle the Blondell O’Henry case as Metzger wasn’t available.
    “Yes,” she said under her breath, happy that her name would finally appear in a crime-story byline again. It still bugged the living hell out of her that she was the second go-to for the crime beat, even after nearly being killed by the Grave Robber. It just went to show that, as far as editor in chief Tom Fink and the owners of the newspaper were concerned, it was still a “good ol’ boys” network. Such a load of garbage, she thought, but she intended, once again, to prove herself and get paid while researching her next blockbuster. Smiling to herself, she started perusing the feeds.
    The trouble was, she thought, as she scanned the bits of news that came through, Bob Swan was right. No doubt Reed had a lot more information on Blondell’s release. “Bother and blood,” she muttered under her breath, repeating a phrase she’d often heard from her late father, Judge Ronald, “Big Daddy” or “Big Ron,” Gillette. Known for his sometimes salty phrases of exasperation in the courtroom, he’d been held in high esteem by both prosecution and defense teams. Big Daddy had been a fair judge who put up with little nonsense in his courtroom.
    So maybe there was a way to get information out of her fiancé, she