Free The Guise of Another by Allen Eskens

photographer in an expression of relaxed bliss. Her green eyes, a smoky gray in the black-and-white photo, peered wistfully from behind weighted eyelids. The corners of her lips tipped up only slightly in a knowing smile.
    Alexander stared at this picture for a long time. The beauty of the lines and the grace of Ianna's form captivated him. But it was her eyes that drew him in. The way she looked at the camera—the way she looked at him—it was as though she knew something about him, something he had kept secret from the rest of the world. He closed the file and moved away from the computer, walking to the window to find a view that might clear his head.
    The city glowed with lights as far as the eye could see. He glanced at the clock-radio beside his bed and saw that it read 10:30 p.m. He'd been in that room for over nine hours, reading computer files, and he'd barely dipped a toe into that water. He decided to call it a day. If it was 10:30 in New York, it would be 9:30 back in Minnesota. Desi would be getting ready for bed about now.
    He dialed their home number, a landline that they kept so that they could keep their cell numbers private. The phone rang…and rang again…and rang three more times before it clicked over to an answering machine. He hung up without leaving a message. The air in the room seemed to turn stagnant as troublesome images forced their way in. The thought of Desi not being home nearly made him nauseous. He pulled up her cell-phone number but then hesitated before hitting send. He paused long enough to feel the weight of what he might learn if he pushed that button. The good and bad churned in his head, muddying his thoughts. He closed his eyes and tapped send to call her. She answered on the third ring.
    “Where are you?” he asked.
    “What do you mean?” She sounded winded.
    “I called the home phone and no one answered.”
    “I went for a walk.”
    Alexander didn't know what to say next. He listened for the sound of cars or dogs barking or the sound of the breeze ruffling the microphone on her cell phone—the sounds that should surround someone on a walk. Nothing.
    When he told her about the breakthrough he had on the case, she didn't respond by asking what he had learned. Instead, she asked if the breakthrough meant that he would be traveling home on an earlier flight. Alexander sighed, told her that it didn't mean that. He told her about his upcoming meeting with Detective Louise Rider. They talked for another ten minutes, dancing around the distance that separated them, their words as dry and hollow as desert bones. In the end, they wished each other a good night and ended the call.

The building that housed the Tenth Precinct was much smaller than Alexander had expected—this was, after all, Manhattan. It had been wedged into a tight slot between two other buildings as though it were just another book on the shelf. A handful of window air-conditioners punched out from the smooth stone façade, giving the building the feel of an old office that should be filled with insurance agents and accountants. Alexander stepped through the front door and announced himself to the duty sergeant, and in a minute or two he was shaking hands with Detective Louise Rider, a bouncy woman with a garden of freckles on her face and long, paprika hair that fell in tight curls. She stood about five foot five, but her purposeful movements and unflinching eye contact made her appear taller. She wore a white button-down shirt tucked into khakis, and she topped the ensemble off with a Yankees baseball cap.
    “Minnesota, huh?” she said. “Never been there. You're the one with all the lakes, right?”
    “And a few cities too,” he said.
    She smiled. “Home of the Minnesota Twins…my condolences.”
    Alexander tipped his head toward her Yankee's cap and said, “Well, I could never figure out how cheering for the Yankees was any different than going to Vegas and cheering for the house.”
    “Don't hate the