The knock on Jane’s office door had her pen slipping, smudging the ink across the paperwork. She swore as she dabbed at the blot, making the mess worse. “Who is it?” she barked.
Hamish Gallagher stuck his head in, his face an unreadable mask. “If you have a moment, Agent Pinkerton?”
“You’re still here?” She sat back, schooling the regret and other questionable emotions flitting through her at the professor’s appearance. She hadn’t seen him since returning to Chicago more than two weeks ago. “I thought you would’ve gone back to Boston by now.”
“Mr. Pinkerton—your uncle, that is—had me consulting on a side case.” He glanced at the visitor’s chair, piled high with reports, and decided to remain standing. “I suppose he felt bad that I’d been dragged all the way out here for…nothing.”
“I su
