Page 20 of Girl, Fractured

‘Can’t believe he kept that,’ she said.

‘He must have been proud of you.’

Ripley came over and inspected the photo close up.‘I remember this well.It was the day after I closed my first case.Must have been ‘96.’

‘And Frank was right there with you.’

‘Couldn’t have done it without him.’She put the photo back on the shelf, then turned to Ella.‘Sorry about earlier.I didn’t mean to be a bitch.’

‘Forget it.’Ella waved a dismissive hand.‘You’re always a bitch.Barely registered as unusual.’

‘I’ll take that.Did Frank keep anything else other than old photos?’

‘He kept a lot.Textbooks, his cop badge, a couple of shell casings.’

‘I’m guessing he didn’t keep any clues to who killed him.’

‘Not that I can see,’ Ella said.‘But my question is; why does a retired detective need an office?’

‘You’re still thinking about that old case, aren’t you?You thought you’d find something about it in here.’

Ella couldn’t hide her curiosity.‘Yup.Thought I might find old police reports or something.’

‘Did you search the place top to bottom?’

She pulled open the drawers beside the desk.Stationary in one, a bundle of cables in the other.‘Now I have.There’s nowhere else to check.’

‘Well,’ Ripley crossed her arms, ‘are you not seeing what I’m seeing?’

Ella glanced around the office again, mapping it mentally.Desk: checked.Bookshelves: scanned.Low bookcase with photos: examined.Wastebasket: empty except for a crumpled tissue.What the hell was she missing?It wasn’t a big room.The hiding places were finite.

‘What?Unless Frank hid case files between the pages ofHelter Skelter, I’ve hit a dead end.’

Ripley tilted her head towards Frank’s mahogany desk.‘The footstool, Dark.’

Ella looked.A simple, square footstool, upholstered in worn brown leather, sat precisely where a footstool should be.Ready to receive tired feet after a long day of whatever retired profilers did.Maybe watching true crime documentaries and yelling at the screen.

‘Yeah?What about it?’

‘Look closer.’

Ella stepped forward and peered underneath the desk.The footstool rested on a metal base.Solid, thick metal, painted black.Not cheap tubular legs like most furniture.It was substantial.

‘It’s metal,’ Ella observed, still not getting it.‘So?’

‘Ever seen a metal footstool before?’

Then it clicked.The odd weight she hadn’t consciously registered when glancing under the desk.The way it sat perfectly flush with the floor, no visible legs, just a solid block.The slightly too-perfect alignment with the desk chair.It wasn’t a footstool.It wasn’t furniture at all.

‘Son of a bitch,’ Ella breathed, crouching down for a better look.She ran her hand along the side.Cold, heavy steel beneath the thin leather covering.No seams, no breaks, except for a faint hairline crack near the bottom on one side – the door.‘It’s a safe.How’d you see that?’

‘Hawk eyes.And Frank pulled the same trick with a fake radiator back in the day.’

‘Old habits and all that,’ Ella said as she knelt and slid the heavy object out from under the desk.It moved with a low scrape against the floorboards.She ran her fingers along the nearly invisible seam that marked the door.On the front face, disguised as a decorative stud in the leather upholstery, was a small, circular indentation.A fingerprint scanner?No, too low-tech for that.More likely a cleverly hidden keyhole or a pressure point to reveal a keypad.

Ella pressed it gently.

Nothing.

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