Hot Contact. Susan Crosby

got her moving. Fifteen minutes later they were settled in the dining room, the old maple table stacked with folders.

      She examined her father’s file. The tag was typed with his name, Mateo Alvarado, the date of his murder and another series of numbers. She thumbed through some other folders. “Look at this,” she said, pointing. “My father’s tag has an extra set of numbers typed on it. As far as I can tell, it’s the only one.”

      Joe made a quick check of the stack nearest him. “None of these, either. Just name and date.”

      Arianna puzzled over it for a few seconds then opened the empty folder again. Closed it. Opened it. “Wouldn’t a homicide investigation produce a lot of paperwork?”

      “Sure. Crime-scene analyses, witness reports, forensics. In the case of a cop within his own department? There would be extra interviews and copies of media coverage. Why?”

      “Look at the folder. The crease is still sharp-edged, as if nothing was ever placed in there at all.”

      He met her gaze. “I don’t know what that could mean.”

      “It’s odd, though, right?”

      “Yeah. Even for an open-and-shut-case, it would be odd.” He turned his attention back to the folders in front of him. “So we’ll go through all the files page by page. If it’s there, we’ll find it.”

      “Why wouldn’t it be there?” she asked, dragging a file closer.

      “I don’t know. Maybe my dad started as the primary but the case was given to someone else and he turned over his notes.”

      “Can you call and ask him?”

      “No.”

      His casual tone irritated her, but she knew she couldn’t push him. She did wonder what the big deal was.

      “I heard a rumor you were in the army,” he said.

      Arianna allowed the change of subject. “For eight years.”

      “You must’ve joined right out of high school.”

      “A week after graduation.”

      “Why?”

      Why? She wondered how to explain it so that he understood. “Do you know who my stepfather is?”

      “No idea.”

      “Estebán Clemente.”

      That got his attention. “The movie guy?” He frowned. “You weren’t…escaping him, were you?”

      His reaction took her by surprise. “Not in the way you mean. He is a loving man, although strict. Very strict.”

      She saw his shoulders loosen. “How did your mother meet him?”

      “After my father died, she started taking me to auditions for television commercials, something I’d wanted to do forever but which my father had forbidden. I landed a few spots and some print ads, as well, enough to keep me busy.”

      “Weren’t you only eight years old?”

      She nodded.

      “Was it something you wanted or your mother wanted?”

      “I wanted it. I did well, too. Then when I had just turned twelve I auditioned for a movie that Estebán was producing. I was cast in a small part. Maria Sanchez, rebel teenager,” she said, remembering the role fondly. “Estebán came to the set on a day I was working. He met my mother, and it was instant fireworks.” She put a file aside and grabbed another. “A couple of months later they were married, and the first thing he did was lay down the law. No more auditions. He said it was a bad business for children and he wouldn’t allow it. My mother supported him, of course. I was angry for years. Years.”