by Blake Pierce
*
Long after dark, Riley paced the floor at home, replaying every detail of the case in her mind. She’d even fired off emails and text messages in an effort to alert members of the Bureau that Walder had brought in the wrong man.
She had driven Bill home and been very late yet again picking up April. Riley was grateful that April hadn’t made a fuss about it this time. Still subdued from the pot-smoking incident, April had even been rather pleasant as they put together a late supper and shared small talk.
Midnight came and went, and Riley felt as if her mind were going in circles. She wasn’t getting anywhere. She needed someone to talk to, someone to bounce ideas off of. She thought about calling Bill. Surely he wouldn’t mind getting called this late.
But no, she needed someone else—someone with insights that weren’t easy to come by, someone whose judgment she’d learned to trust from past experience.
At last, she realized who that someone was.
She called a number on her cell phone and was dismayed to hear yet another recorded message.
“You’ve reached the number of Michael Nevins. Please leave a message at the tone.”
Riley took a deep breath, then said, “Mike, could we talk? If you’re there, please pick up. It’s really an emergency.”
No one answered. She wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t available. He often worked all hours. She just wished this weren’t one of those times.
Finally she said, “I’m working on a bitch of a case, and I think maybe you’re the only one who can help me. I’ll drive up to your office first thing tomorrow morning. I hope that’s okay. Like I said, it’s an emergency.”
She ended the call. There was nothing more she could do right now. She only hoped she could get a few hours of sleep.
