Night Shift by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B

and cleared her throat. “Coffee, Detective Fletcher.” She passed him a steaming mug. “Thea said black, two sugars.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I’m going to hang around,” she said, silently daring Cilla to argue with her. “They should be here in an hour or so to hook up the phone.” Then, she put her hands on Cilla’s shoulders and kissed both of her cheeks. “I haven’t missed a class this semester, Simon.”
    “Simon?” Boyd commented.
    “Legree.” With a laugh, Deborah kissed Cilla again. “The woman’s a slave driver.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cilla moved aside to gather up her purse. “You ought to catch up on your reading for U.S. Studies. Your Political Science could use a boost. It wouldn’t hurt to bone up on Psychology 101.” She pulled her coat from the closet. “While you’re at it, the kitchen floor needs scrubbing. I’m sure we have an extra toothbrush you could use on it. And I’d like another cord of wood chopped.”
    Deborah laughed. “Go away.”
    Cilla grinned as she reached for the doorknob. Her hand closed over Boyd’s. She jolted back before she could stop herself. “What are you doing?”
    “Hitching a ride with you.” He sent Deborah a quick wink as he pulled Cilla out the door.
    ***
    “This is ridiculous,” Cilla said as she strode into the station.
    “Which?”
    “I don’t see why I have to have a cop in the studio with me night after night.” She whipped off her coat as she walked—a bit like a bullfighter swirling a cape, Boyd thought. Still scowling, she reached for the door of a small storage room, then shrieked and stumbled back against Boyd as it swung open. “Jeez, Billy, you scared the life out of me.”
    “Sorry.” The maintenance man had graying hair, toothpick arms and an apologetic grin. “I was out of window cleaner.” He held up his spray bottle.
    “It’s okay. I’m a little jumpy.”
    “I heard about it.” He hooked the trigger of the bottle in his belt, then gathered up a mop and bucket. “Don’t worry, Cilla. I’m here till midnight.”
    “Thanks. Are you going to listen to the show tonight?”
    “You bet.” He walked away, favoring his right leg in a slight limp.
    Cilla stepped inside the room and located a fresh bottle of stylus cleaner. Taking a five-dollar bill out of her bag, she slipped it into a pile of cleaning rags.
    “What was that for?”
    “He was in Vietnam,” she said simply, and closed the door again.
    Boyd said nothing, knowing she was annoyed he’d caught her. He chalked it up to one more contradiction.
    To prep for her shift, she went into a small lounge to run over the daily log for her show, adding and deleting as it suited her. The program director had stopped screaming about this particular habit months before. Another reason she preferred the night shift was the leeway it gave her.
    “This new group,” she muttered.
    “What?” Boyd helped himself to a sugared doughnut.
    “This new group, the Studs.” She tapped her pencil against the table. “One-shot deal. Hardly worth the airtime.”
    “Then why play them?”
    “Got to give them a fair shake.” Intent on her work, she took an absent bite of the doughnut Boyd held to her lips. “In six months nobody will remember their names.”
    “That’s rock and roll.”
    “No. The Beatles, Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry, Springsteen, Elvis—that’s rock and roll.”
    He leaned back, considering her. “Ever listen to anything else?”
    She grinned, then licked a speck of sugar from her top lip. “You mean there
is
something else?”
    “Have you always been one-track?”
    “Yeah.” She pulled a band of fabric out of her pocket. With a couple of flicks of the wrist she had her hair tied back. “So what kind of music do you like?”
    “The Beatles, Buddy Holly, Chuck—”
    “Well, there’s hope for you yet,” she interrupted.
    “Mozart, Lena Home, Beaujolais, Joan Jett, Ella Fitzgerald, B.B. King …”
    Her brow lifted.