Free Skin Deep by Mark Del Franco

was fielding press inquiries for both the drug raid and the Archives ceremony. Nothing she couldn’t handle on her own. Saffin also sent a personal note that she had bought a sweater at the Talbots sale. A quick message from Resha thanking her for the advice. She shut the PDA down and slipped it in one of the larger cargo pockets on her pants. The duffel contained her handbag with her Laura identification and a pair of black dress slacks and a cream-colored blouse in case she had to go back to the Guildhouse before the end of the business day. Even though she doubted anyone would be audacious enough to rob a car in front of a police station, she slung the bag over her shoulder and entered the station house. No sense taking chances.
    She had been in the District 7 house a couple of times and knew where Foyle’s office was. After showing her badge, she skipped through security. Jonathan Sinclair was on the phone at a desk in the SWAT-team section. He flashed a pleasant smile and waved her to a vacant desk. Next to his. If he hadn’t smiled, she wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but given the tension they were all under, she couldn’t help being suspicious. Despite years of gender integration on the force, it was still a male-dominated operation and women were tolerated only after they had spent twice as long as men gaining respect. If another desk had been open, she might have ignored him and taken it, but there was none. She gave him a tight smile and dropped the bag.
    “Crawford,” Foyle barked.
    She looked over her shoulder at the open door to his office. Foyle sat at his desk reading, not looking at her. She went to the door. “Reporting for duty, boss.”
    He continued reading a file. “Sit.”
    She sat. And sat. So much anger surrounded Foyle, she didn’t need her empathic ability to feel it. He went through four more pages, then pulled another file to the center of his desk. It was her report, delivered that morning as promised. He stared at her. “There’s nothing in here I don’t already know.” She didn’t answer. “Why does that bother me?”
    “It bothers me, too, sir. I’m told my memory will return.”
    He leaned back and put his hands behind his head, staring again. The casual pose tightened Foyle’s shirt, showing off his biceps and chest. The regulation short haircut, sharp uniform, and piercing blue eyes were all meant to intimidate. Posturing was an old game, and Laura knew it. She played it herself, even now as she made a point of sitting upright and attentive.
    “You didn’t see who shot Sanchez, and you don’t remember who shot you.”
    She shook her head. That was her role. Submit. Acquiesce. Demonstrate that she would take crap from a superior officer but no one else.
    “Convenient,” he said.
    He was trying to provoke her, but she let it slide over her and didn’t respond. She could play the silence game, too.
    “Sanchez’s headset was damaged, and we lost contact. Did he say anything?” he asked.
    Another memory flash. Laura looked down at her hand. Sanchez had held it and pressed his finger into it. Why would he do that? Had he given her something that she’d lost and still couldn’t remember? “He couldn’t talk, I think. I seem to remember he couldn’t talk because of the wound.”
    “After Sanchez asked for help, there was a six-minute gap in which you did not speak. When you did, it was to call for a medic,” said Foyle.
    “That was when I was trapped under the table.”
    “And you didn’t radio for help?”
    She concentrated on the moment. Even though she remembered being trapped, the memory was not clear. “Sanchez was under fire. We called for backup, but it didn’t come. Help would have come from behind whoever was shooting at Sanchez. I thought I was on my own.”
    Foyle leaned forward and clasped his hands. “You can hear on the tape when Sanchez received his wound. At least that’s what it sounds like to me. You must have heard it, yet you