Harm’s Reach. Alex Barclay

       11

      The following morning, Ren was in the office by seven. She sat at her desk in the small space where, over the years, the team-within-a-team had been cemented: Ren Bryce, Robbie Truax and Cliff James. There had been a fourth – Colin Grabien, IT and financial expert, and nemesis to Ren. He had resigned from Safe Streets five months earlier, not long after Ren had punched him in the face and told him she knew he had gotten his position by shafting the other candidate. She had kept it quiet; she didn’t want to ruin his career. She hoped he saw the error of his ways. He requested a transfer, and attributed it to the changing career of his soon-to-be-wife. Since then, Gary had drafted in different financial and IT experts from 36th Avenue, but he hadn’t made a decision on his permanent replacement.

      Ren could see Robbie Truax’s computer was fired up. He was the only one in. Robbie was ex-Aurora PD, a solid member of Safe Streets. If honesty, earnestness and goodness could take a physical form, it would take Robbie Truax. He walked into the bullpen and gave her a weary hello.

      ‘You know what I can’t help?’ said Ren, ‘when anyone else sits in Grabien’s chair, I’m kind of thinking that I’ll come in some day and they will have morphed into him … morphed into an asshole. Like the chair itself changes people.’ She started up her computer. ‘I think the chair has taken on an ominous vibe,’ she said. ‘Stephen-King style.’

      ‘So no matter who sits there, we’re in trouble,’ said Robbie.

      ‘Maybe,’ said Ren.

      ‘There’s a lot of darkness in there,’ said Robbie, pointing to her head.

      ‘Caused by the absence of lightbulbs.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Robbie. He never let her beat herself up too much, even when she was joking.

      Cliff arrived into the office, looking shattered. He mustered up enough energy to give Ren one of his gorgeous smiles and a wink.

      ‘Hey, big guy,’ said Ren. ‘Were you two pulling an all-nighter or something?’

      ‘Are you saying I’m fat?’ said Cliff. He stretched back on his chair. ‘Why is it that women can say to men they look like crap, but men can’t say it to women?’

      ‘Who said anything about looking like crap?’ said Ren. ‘Maybe I meant you smell like you slept in your clothes.’

      ‘I slept in the nudie, as always,’ said Cliff.

      ‘There is no greater gift than those intimate mental snapshots,’ said Ren.

      ‘Mental?’ said Cliff. ‘They can’t be better than the photo books …’

      ‘The pages are getting tattered,’ said Ren. ‘They’re worn through.’ She paused. ‘Now, speaking of pages, I am about to enter the Facebook world of Laura Flynn.’

      ‘Facebook …’ said Cliff. And his tone expressed exactly how he felt about it.

      ‘This is bizarre,’ said Ren after a few minutes’ trawling. ‘There is no mention of her pregnancy anywhere. She’s not a major poster of photos, but the ones she has put up are all head-and-shoulders shots.’ She scrolled down through the images. ‘Looks like this was a secret pregnancy … but from who? The father? The Princes knew … but they’re not Facebook Friends. So maybe the father is connected to one of these twenty-two Friends she does have. And this is also weird: there’s no Nessa Lally, the girl she was to have stayed with in Chicago. But then, I guess, not everyone is on Facebook.’ She paused. ‘Could this be a surrogacy situation? Could Laura Flynn have been acting as a surrogate for the Princes? Ingrid Prince could well have a Moonbump and a prescription for Prednisone.’

      ‘And I am going to ask you what the heck both of those things are,’ said Cliff.

      ‘Prednisone is an anti-arthritis drug,’ said Ren, ‘but it causes weight gain that mimics pregnancy weight gain – like water retention in the face and neck. And a Moonbump is a faux pregnancy belly – they’re used in movies or by women who are adopting or using a surrogate and would rather people not know for whatever reason.’

      ‘Gee whizz,’ said Robbie.

      ‘Let me Google Ingrid Prince and see whether there are any suspect baby bump photos …’ said Ren, ‘the kind that fold and the like.’ Ren typed, then paused. ‘Four months is probably a little too early for that … I was thinking six months.’

      ‘So there’s a two-month difference in their due dates,’ said Cliff.

      ‘That way the baby comes before the paparazzi start sniffing around,’ said Ren.

      She went back to scanning Laura Flynn’s Facebook posts.

      ‘Laura Flynn’s friends are almost entirely non-slutty,’ said Ren. ‘Low levels of selfies and duck face. And Laura – she looks like such a regular girl. Just a nice person. Like, she dressed as Little Red Riding Hood last Hallowe’en. A regular one, not an “adult” one. She volunteers at a soup kitchen …’

      Ren did another search. ‘Hold on … more weirdness. I just ran her “illegal” friend, Nessa Lally, through our databases and she is, in fact, one hundred percent legal. If her mother is dead, which I’m now thinking she is not, Nessa is free to go back to Ireland all she wants.’

      She sat back. ‘So, Laura Flynn. Almost-entirely-secret pregnancy, trip to Chicago with secret drive down to Colorado, phone call to Janine Hooks … there was lots of secret shiz going on.’

      ‘Let’s see what the autopsy tells us,’ said Robbie.

      ‘You know we’re also going to take in the ranch and abbey afterwards,’ said Ren. ‘We need to talk to a little old nun-like lady, who may or may not have seen a car being torched.’ She gathered up her things.

      ‘I can’t help feeling I’m drafted in for religious organizations and old ladies,’ said Robbie.

      Ren paused as she walked by him and held a hand to his cheek. ‘But look at that face …’

      He shook his head away from her.

      ‘You have a way about you,’ said Ren.

      People told Robbie things because he made them feel that whatever information they gave him, it was a blessing, he would cherish it, and he would use it to successfully fight the forces of evil. No matter where he’d been and what he’d seen, he truly trusted and he inspired trust. His bright blue eyes told them ‘We are going to solve this. I will take care of this.’

      Robbie Truax: Action Boy.

      Ren glanced at him.

       Tired-looking Action Boy.

      The little old ladies saw him as the ideal grandson. He was single, Mormon and virginal, because he never wanted to do what so many of his friends had done: marry so he could have sex. Robbie was waiting for the right woman to come along. He had long believed it was Ren. He had once broken his no-alcohol vow for one night