"Maybe they have news."
My dad's focus immediately shifted.
Honed.
"I'll let them in."
Ireland helped me clear up.
We'd just dumped the cups into the sink when the doorbell rang.
I wiped my hands with a dish towel and went out to the living room.
The two detectives who entered weren't the ones I expected, because they weren't the ones who'd questioned Cary at the hospital on Monday.
Gideon appeared out of the hallway, shoving his phone into his pocket.
I wondered who'd been calling him all night.
"Eva Tramell," the female detective said, stepping deeper into my apartment.
She was a thin woman with a severe face and sharply intelligent blue eyes, which were her best feature.
Her hair was brown and curly, her face clean of makeup.
She wore slacks over dark flats, a poplin shirt, and a lightweight jacket that didn't hide the badge and gun clipped to her belt.
"I'm Detective Shelley Graves of the NYPD.
This is my partner Detective Richard Michna.
We're sorry to disturb you on a Friday night."
Michna was older, taller, and portly.
His hair was graying at the temples and receding at the top, but he had a strong face and dark eyes that raked the room while Graves focused on me.
"Hello," I greeted them.
My father shut the door, and something about the way he moved or carried himself caught Michna's attention.
"You on the job?" "In California," my dad confirmed.
"I'm visiting Eva, my daughter.
What's this about?" "We'd just like to ask you a few questions, Miss Tramell," Graves said.
She looked at Gideon.
"And you, too, Mr.
Cross."
"Does this have something to do with the attack on Cary?" I asked.
She glanced at him.
"Why don't we sit down."