Dance With Me (With Me in Seattle 12)

“I can see that,” Joy says, the hurt leaving her eyes. “How do you feel?”

“Still a little messed up,” I admit. “But I like her, and I want to get to know her better.”

“Well, I think it’s fantastic,” Joy says. “I’ll keep MaryLou as a backup, just in case.”

“You’re a meddler,” I say, pointing at her with my toast.

“Thank you for noticing.”“Jesus, why does the paperwork pile up over the weekend?”

I stare at my inbox, both on my desk and on the computer, and sigh.

“Because everyone missed you, Crawford,” Anderson says from the doorway of my office just as my phone rings.

“Crawford.”

“This is dispatch. We have a burglary call at 7720 North 77th Street.”

“On my way.” I stand and reach for my leather jacket. “Paperwork will have to wait. We have a call. You’re with me.”

“I’m ready,” Anderson replies and falls into step behind me. Anderson’s a rookie. He’s been in my division for less than a year, but I like him. He has strong instincts, and a solid work ethic, which I’ve found is sorely lacking in the young guys coming through the academy these days.

The drive to the address in question takes ten minutes. When we pull up, there’s already a cruiser there with its lights flashing, and the front door of the house is open. Neighbors stand outside and on tiptoe to peek through windows, trying to see what’s going on.

I approach, calling out my name and rank.

The patrolman on scene steps to the door.

“A woman named Francesca Smith called it in,” he says, quickly briefing me. “She insists that she’s missing property but can’t tell me exactly what’s gone.”

“Tape off the perimeter,” I instruct him. “I don’t want neighbors walking on the property in case we need to look for footprints in the grass.”

“Will do.”

He nods and steps out, and Anderson and I walk in to find a crying woman on the couch.

“Hello, Miss Smith, I’m Detective Crawford, and this is my partner, Officer Anderson.”

“Hello,” she whines, sniffing at her tears. “Thank you for coming.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Well, like I told the other guy, I woke up and just knew someone had been in my house.”

“How do you know?” I ask as Anderson takes his phone out of his pocket and starts taking notes. I survey the scene, looking over the windows and doors to the outside.

Aside from the front door, it doesn’t appear that anything is open.

“I could feel it,” she says. “And I know you’re going to tell me I’m crazy, but I’m not. I have women’s intuition.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”

Yet.

“Were any of your doors or windows open?”

“No,” she says and sniffs again. “But my mother’s wedding ring is missing.”

This piques my interest.

“Can you describe it?”

“I have a photo of it,” she says and brings it up on her phone to show me. “It’s a simple gold band.”

I look at Anderson, who looks back at me.

“Is it engraved inside?”

“No.” She sniffs once more.

“Is anything else missing? Any other jewelry?”

“No. That’s why it has to be Jeremy that did it.”

“Jeremy?” I raise a brow. “You know who did this?”

She nods and starts to cry again. “He’s obsessed with me. He won’t leave me alone.”

Anderson and I share another look.

“Is he stalking you?” I ask.

“Absolutely. We work together, and I’ve told him I don’t want to jeopardize my job. I mean, he’s cute and all, but it’s not worth losing my job over. He just won’t take no for an answer, and he knows that ring means a lot to me, so he took it just to hurt me.”

I frown. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it won’t hurt to have a conversation with Jeremy.

“Fran, what’s Jeremy’s last name?”

“My name is Francesca,” she bites out, glaring at me. “I didn’t give you permission to call me Fran.”

“My apologies.” I glance around the room again. “Do you mind if I look around?”

“Why? I told you what I’m missing.”

“Someone was in your home without your permission,” I remind her, watching her closely. “I’d just like to take a quick look.”

“Fine.”

She dissolves into another puddle of tears, and I know Anderson won’t like babysitting her, but I leave him with her while I walk the space. The house is small and simply decorated. Nothing fancy. The woman who lives here is tidy but clearly doesn’t make a ton of money.

There’s nothing here that screams foul play.

When I return to the living area, Francesca is snapping at my partner.

“I saw the way you looked at me.”

“I wasn’t looking at you, ma’am.”

“Now I’m a ma’am?” She stands and pokes her finger into his chest. “I don’t like you.”

“You don’t have to like him,” I interrupt, pissed now. “And you’d best not touch him again, or I’ll arrest you for assault of a police officer.”

“He was looking at me.”