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AHMM, July/August 2012
by Dell Magazine Authors
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Mystery/Crime

Dell Magazines
www.dellmagazines.com

Copyright ©2012 by Dell Magazines

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

Cover by Stanley Martucci/Images.com

CONTENTS

Department: EDITOR'S NOTE: DETECTION ON THE DOUBLE by Linda Landrigan

Department: THE LINEUP

Fiction: THE BEST THING FOR THE LIVER by Janice Law

Fiction: AUTUMN CHILL by John H. Dirckx

Fiction: MARLEY'S RESCUE by John C. Boland

Department: MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH

Fiction: DEATH ON THE RANGE by Elaine Menge

Fiction: ASSIGNMENT IN CLAY by Donald Moffitt

Fiction: BURNING DAYLIGHT by David Edgerley Gates

Fiction: TIGHTENING OF THE BOND by R. T. Lawton

Fiction: GHOST NEGLIGENCE by John Shepphird

Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

Fiction: 364 DAYS by John R. Corrigan

Black Orchid Novella Award: INNER FIRE by Jolie McLarren Swann

Department: THE STORY THAT WON

Department: COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2012

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Department: EDITOR'S NOTE: DETECTION ON THE DOUBLE
by Linda Landrigan

The July/August summer double issue is always a treat to assemble because it offers twice the usual space. We have a top-notch lineup this time with, appropriately for the season, a number of stories involving travel. A short getaway to Saratoga for Madame Selina and her growing assistant “Nip” fails to get them away from the taint of murder in “The Best Thing for the Liver” by Janice Law. John C. Boland's intelligence agent Charles Marley travels to Casablanca to deal with the death of an ex-CIA agent in the multi-layered “Marley's Rescue.” David Edgerley Gates's “Burning Daylight” takes us to the beautiful environs of the American Southwest, where gangs and meth make for an explosive mix. And poor Dewey, the perpetually terrified bail bond agent, is sent on another dangerous errand by his boss, the mysterious Cletis Johnston, in “Tightening of the Bond” by R. T. Lawton.

Meanwhile, Elaine Menge puts a deadly spin on a summer pastime in “Death on the Range.” Donald Moffitt brings back the Sumerian scribe Nabu-zir, whose discretion and perception make him a trusted amateur detective, only this time he is perhaps too close to the murder in “Assignment in Clay.” John H. Dirckx's Detective Sergeant Cyrus Auburn puzzles out an unexplained death that looks like murder in “Autumn Chill.” And John C. Corrigan writes about crime from the point of view of one left behind in his poignant “364 Days.”

We are also pleased this issue to welcome John Shepphird, whose “Ghost Negligence” introduces us to Jack O'Shea, a con man turned private eye with a knack for detecting scams.

The summer issue also features this year's Black Orchid Novella Award winner. The annual BONA contest is conducted in cooperation with The Wolfe Pack and honors original novellas in the classic Rex Stout/Nero Wolfe mold: detectives who rely on mental muscle to unravel complex puzzle mysteries. The program is now in its sixth year, and looking back at previous winners, we are pleased to report that Michael Nethercott, the second BONA winner, has landed a book contract with St. Martin's Press for a novel featuring the detecting duo from his prize-winning story, Lee Plunkett and his poetic and wise Irish friend Mr. O'Nelligan.

This year's BONA winner rings some changes on the familiar Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin model, and it offers a special puzzle for AHMM readers, who are advised to carefully consider the winning author's byline, Jolie McLarren Swann. You may be as surprised as we were.

—Linda Landrigan, Editor

[Back to Table of Contents]

Department: THE LINEUP

John C. Boland's story “Marley's Revolution” (AHMM, June 2011) is a finalist for an Edgar Award. His novel The Man Who Knew Brecht was published by Perfect Crime in May 2011.

John Corrigan is the author of the Jack Austin mystery series set on the PGA Tour. He is the English Department Chair at the Pomfret School in Pomfret, Connecticut, where he also coaches hockey.

John H. Dirckx is a retired physician. His last story for AHMM, “Calculus for Blondes,” appeared in the January/February 2012 issue.

David Edgerley Gates is a two-time finalist for the Edgar Award for Best Short Story. His last story for AHMM, “The Devil To Pay,” appeared in the April issue.

Booked & Printed columnist Robert C. Hahn is the former mystery columnist for the Cincinnati Post.

Janice Law's new volume of short stories, Blood in the Water and Other Secrets, is published by Wildside Press.

A retired federal agent, R. T. Lawton has publishedtwenty-sixstories in AHMM since 2001. His collections of short stories, including Nine Deadly Tales, are available for Kindle from Amazon.com

Elaine Menge makes her tenth appearance in AHMM with “Death on the Range.” Her story “Our Daughter Is in Heaven” was recently reprinted in AHMM's e-book anthology, Thirteen Tales of New American Gothic.

Donald Moffitt is the author of The Juniper Theft and The Jovian, which is being reissued as an e-book by Gollancz, a science fiction imprint of Orion Publishing Group. He is at work on a mystery novel set in rural Maine.

John Shepphird is the creative director of on-air promotion for TVG Network. He directed Jersey Shore Shark Attack for the Syfy Channel.

The winner of our annual Black Orchid Novella Award is Jolie McLarren Swann, a k a James Lincoln Warren. Mr. Warren's first published mystery story, “The Dioscuri Deception,” was published in AHMM in March 1998.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: THE BEST THING FOR THE LIVER
by Janice Law

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Art by Linda Weatherly

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You could have knocked me over with a feather when Madame Selina said, “I think we need a vacation, Nip.”

Back on the farm, you worked till you died, and the Orphan Home had no holiday notions, either. Of course, Madame Selina took Sundays off, and she'd made at least one visit to Newport that I knew of, but that was partly business and partly for her health. But a holiday for me was so wonderfully exotic that the cat not only caught my tongue but swallowed it whole.

“Well?” she asked.

“I've never had a vacation,” I said.

“New things enlarge the mind. We leave on the morning boat.”

That was quick. Later when I was polishing up the boots and helping Maddie with the rush of packing, I wondered if our departure had anything to do with a recent adventure involving a Tammany politico and a big street contract. Madame Selina certainly didn't look flustered, but that meant nothing. Though she could throw a fit that would loosen your hair, as a normal thing she was calm as a clam and any thing she gave away could safely have been written up in the evening newspapers.

Our tickets were booked as Mrs. Hiram Bickerstaff and Nip Tompkins, nephew. I saw them, for I was sent to pick them up. Now, I'm Nip Tompkins for certain, but far as I know, I was never Madame Selina's nephew, and she was only Mrs. Bickerstaff on certain special occasions. Maybe this really was to be that new thing, a vacation.

Certainly nothing could have been more festive than our departure up the Hudson on a fine, coal-fired side wheeler. We stood at the rail to watch the gulls and admire the wooded Palisades across the river and spy on the busy traffic of fishing boats and coasters. I'd have been happy to ruin any number of ward heelers for a trip like this.

“What are we to do in Saratoga?” I asked, for I still envisioned work of some sort.

“Why we'll enjoy ourselves. We'll eat at my old friend George's restaurant; we'll watch the races; we'll sit on the veranda and enjoy the carriage parade. You deserve some fun, Nip, you've been an invaluable assistant.”

She smiled. I should say that Madame Selina has a wonderful smile. It is not just her direct connection with Aurelius, that is Marcus Aurelius, late emperor of the Romans, that has made her the foremost medium in New York City. She has charm and good sense, and I was a lucky boy to be her assistant.

But that thought momentarily dampened the thrill of the steamboat. Thanks to three meals a day of Hilda's good cooking, I'd begun to grow. My efforts in the cabinet, where I produced the “ectoplasm” and other effects that make Madame Selina's trances so impressive, required me to fit into a very small space.

I was beginning to worry that one day Mrs. Hiram Bickerstaff would pay another visit to the Orphans Home and select another “likely boy” no more than five feet tall. To prevent this calamity, I worked hard at all my errands, and I dare say I could find my way around the city as well as any and quicker than most.

“There's another steamboat,” said Madame Selina.

“Will we race them?” I asked, my worries instantly forgotten.

“I surely hope not,” she said. “How many of the dear departed have left us via blown boilers and riverboat racing?”

I couldn't argue with that when, just the previous week, Madame had made contact with a young lady who'd gone down on the Cerebus. It took a full trance and all our effects to get Aurelius to speak. So maybe it was Aurelius who needed a vacation, and our trip had nothing to do with street contracts and Tammany Hall.

We landed at Schenectady and took the train on to the Springs. I was familiar with the omnibuses and the fast carriages of the city, but the train was great beyond anything. We sat on plush seats, refreshments available, and zoomed past fields and villages at thirty-five miles an hour.

At first the speed made me dizzy with everything flowing together. But before long, I got the knack of high speed looking, and though Madame complained of the smoke and cinders, I stuck my head out the window to feel the breeze. This was traveling!

You'd sure be envious, if I described all that happened before we got to the block-long Union Hotel with its three-story porches and its enormous interior garden with lights and flowers and fountains and gazebos. Not to mention the big dining room that could sit a thousand at once and boasted one hundred colored waiters with their noses in the air and big trays on their shoulders to bring on the food.

And such food! I got the hang of a vacation pretty quick when I saw the bill of fare. Madame was as good as her word. We ate, we admired the shops; we visited the track and enjoyed the bands that played afternoons and evenings. We watched the swells and the fancy ladies parade in their carriages.

About the only thing I didn't care for were the actual springs, though Madame Selina was enthusiastic. “Mineral water is the best thing for the liver,” she said. So every morning started with a promenade around the pavilions. At the springs she favored, dipper boys or girls poured glasses of water Pa would have questioned for a horse, never mind the gentry.

But maybe mineral water is an acquired taste. I saw a girl just about my age drinking the waters. She was thin and so pale that her cheeks had a curious bluish tint, but she was very prettily dressed, and she wrinkled up her nose and made faces at the water just like me. I waved at her one day and after that she tried to say hello, but any time I approached, her guardians drew her away.

“Her aunt and uncle, I believe,” said Madame Selina, for she missed very little and was always encouraging me to “be alert and notice everything.”

“Edith is the heiress of the van Boord fortune. Her guardians have brought her here for her health,” she explained

Nip Tompkins, late of the Orphan Home, was not considered a suitable companion. Pity. But mineral water, even with snobbery, was a small price to pay for the delights of the town. We had carriage rides, too, because although she was Mrs. Hiram Bickerstaff and encumbered with a nephew, Madame was still recognized. She had grateful clients all over Saratoga Springs and nearly every day she had to explain that she was “resting,” that the trip was for her health, that no séances were on tap.

The clients consoled themselves by driving us hither and yon in their carriages. That is how we came to eat at George LaLune's, where we were greeted as old friends and where we discovered that Aurelius would have to go back to work after all.

Where to start? I'm tempted to begin with the roast oysters and the woodcock in sauce, but Madame Selina always says it's best to get right to the heart of a matter. In this case, the heart of the matter was that the heiress of the van Boord fortune was at the next table over. She gave me a shy smile, as if she didn't give a toss about the Orphan House, which would have lightened my heart if she hadn't looked paler than ever. Even her hair, which had been thick and dark, now looked lank and thin.

I was glad to see that they had switched her treatment from spring water to the tasty dishes emerging from the kitchen. Though on closer inspection, I noticed that her aunt was still plying her with water which she poured, not from one of the restaurant's pitchers, but from a bottle of her own.

More of the wretched minerals, I reckoned. I stole looks at Edith all through dinner, and I couldn't help noticing that she seemed to be in pain. When we had reached the dessert stage and were tucking into pineapple and fancy cakes, she gave a little cry and stood up, knocking over her glass and literally falling against my chair.

I jumped up and caught her arm. She'd splashed water all over herself and she started frantically drying her blouse and skirt. I took out my handkerchief and tried to help, but, in an instant, her uncle picked her up bodily and carried her from the restaurant.

I was left holding her handkerchief and my own, both soaked. When I started to follow them to return hers, Madame Selina caught my arm and shook her head. Then she did an odd thing. She emptied her water glass, dropped in both handkerchiefs and put the glass into the vast carpet satchel that she carried everywhere.

The next morning, Madame Selina looked in at the chemist's before we began our usual round of the springs. Although I checked every pavilion, neither Edith van Boord nor her guardians were in sight. Back at the hotel, when Madame Selina sent up her card with good wishes for Edith's recovery, there was no response.

Still, I'm not sure anything would have happened if her restaurant friend had not sent a frantic summons. We met George LaLune on the veranda. He was a Mohawk with a long, stern face and wind-burned skin, who had put all his wives to work in the restaurant and found a genius of mixed blood to do the cooking.

Like Madame Selina, Mr. LaLune believed in getting right to the point. “The van Boords have accused the restaurant of poisoning their niece with a bad oyster.”

“The oysters were exquisite,” Madame Selina said.

“Of course. But it will be all around the Springs by this evening.”

“Or before. I do believe I heard something as I came down the corridor.”

“Such a rumor could ruin us.”

“It is nonsense,” Madame Selina said. “Dangerous nonsense.”

“I need your help.”

“What can I do? To prove a negative is impossible and all the delicious oysters were eaten.”

“The world is full of spirits,” LaLune said.

Madame Selina laid her hand on his arm and nodded in agreement.

“You might summon one for me,” he said, “and demand the truth.”

Madame leaned back in her chair and sighed. “A good plan, but I cannot give you an answer until later. We must have the truth, but we will still need evidence, and even the spirits can only do so much.”

LaLune raised his large, bony hands in a gesture of despair.

“I have some thoughts,” said Madame Selina. “I will send you a message later. And if we can have a séance, where should it be? And when?”

“Here, tonight,” said LaLune. “Where all the rumors live.”

Madame Selina nodded. “In the Rose Salon then. We must get the Rose Salon, for there will be a crowd for certain.”

As soon as LaLune left, she clapped her hands and sent me for writing paper, drafted a message, and dispatched me to the telegraph office. All of which told me that once again Aurelius needed help. You'd think a man who had managed the Roman Empire and was immortal to boot would never be needing assistance from such as Nip Tompkins.

Well, you'd be wrong. The Emperor was temperamental, and, worse, he didn't keep up with things. He was particularly weak on the stocks and bonds that were a big concern of Madame's clients, and the ins and outs of Tammany Hall would have baffled him without the assistance of various politicos and journalists.

I waited at the busy telegraph office and paid for a long message. Madame was gone when I got back, and she didn't tap on the door of my room until just before dinner, when she stuck her head in and said, “Look lively, Nip. We have work to do.”

When she opened her big satchel, I saw what looked to be the yellow paper of a telegram, but she said nothing about that and took out her purse. I was to hire a carriage and collect George LaLune and two other men. “George expects a message and I have spoken with the others. We begin at nine o'clock in the Rose Salon.”

Not only was this one of the biggest public rooms of the hotel, but we would be without our cabinet or the smoke machine or any of our props. Although I couldn't see how I could help her, I asked if I wouldn't be needed.

“Tonight we must rely on Aurelius,” she said, seemingly unconcerned.

I wasn't so sure. I blew hot and cold about the emperor. Sometimes I believed him square and honest and a fact of the universe. Other times I thought he was a bunch of phooey.

“He's our main hope of saving her,” Madame Selina said as if she detected my doubts. “A life's at stake.”

With that, I ran out to the street and found a carriage. At quarter of nine, I led our three guests along the immense veranda and down the long corridor of the hotel. The Rose Salon was already packed, as news of a séance by the famous Madame Selina had swept through the hotel and several of its neighbors. We pushed into the room. LaLune and I made our way to the front, leaving our other two guests standing inconspicuously at the back.

Madame sat facing the gathering, concentrating impassively as she always did before a séance. She was on a slight platform with nothing but the chair she sat in and a small round table with a single candle burning. When she saw me, she raised her head and I nodded. She motioned for me to come closer and whispered, “Whatever happens, get to her room. With our two guests if possible. If they baulk, go alone.”

She resumed her solitary and concentrated pose. The gas lights were brought down to the faintest golden glimmer and the candle beside her leaped up to seize all the light in the room. It was warm with the press of so many bodies. I could hear the rustle of crinolines and the papery sound of the ladies’ taffetas and the shuffle of the gentlemen's shoes and boots.

Madame slumped back in her chair. “We have one seeking knowledge,” she said in a faint voice.

No response. There was such a long pause that I began to fear Aurelius had taken his holiday elsewhere.

“We have one seeking knowledge,” she repeated.

Again, no answer and as the minutes stretched out, I felt LaLune stir beside me.

“It is George LaLune, Turtle Band, great nephew of the last Great Sachem of the Mohawks,” he said in a loud voice.

Whether Aurelius had been slumbering or whether he was pals with the Great Sachem in the afterlife, Madame's eyes rolled back in her head, and Aurelius spoke, a low, harsh, hollow sound octaves below Madame's normal voice. “What do you seek?” A ripple of sound went through the room, followed by whispers and shushings.

“I have been falsely accused of poisoning a guest. Who has poisoned Edith van Boord?”

Aurelius gave a groan and his voice dropped still further. “Those closest to her seek her death with the waters.”

Gasps of horror. If a restaurant could be ruined by a bad oyster, the whole town could be threatened by poison in the springs.

“Death in the bottle they carry. Death in the green jar on the dressing table. Death to the poor child.”

There was a shriek from the middle of the room and a man's voice shouted for the lights. My two companions shoved their way to the corridor and I followed. At the door, I glanced back. In the bright yellow flare of the gas, I saw that Madame Selina had collapsed, unconscious, her hair undone, her arms dangling over the sides of her chair. I ran for the stairs with my companions.

Behind us someone was shouting, “Stop, stop, you have no right!” Edith's uncle, no doubt.

And another, higher voice demanding, “Rupert, stop them! Stop them!”

No chance. I'd found my way to the van Boord's rooms earlier in the day, and I knew where to go in the vast maze of corridors. The constable forced the door and we surged into the suite. The curtains were all drawn and the light was low. The constable turned up the gas revealing a dressing table with—honestly my heart skipped a beat I was both so relieved and so surprised—a small green porcelain jar.

Our other companion lifted the lid, examined some white powder and nodded. “Arsenic, I am certain,” he said. That counted for a lot, since he was the local chemist.

I shouted for Edith and ran through the other rooms, startling an older woman, nurse or maid, who occupied the small room next to Edith van Boord. We found her lying in bed, sick, weak, and frightened.

“You're all right now,” I said. “You're safe now. Do you remember me?”

“The boy at the restaurant,” she said and fainted.

There is no need for me to tell you all the ins and outs of the case. The scandal was written up in all the public prints and retailed by every gossip at the Springs. Madame's Selina's prompt action was praised to the skies and even Nip Tompkins, late of the Orphan Home, came in for a paragraph or two and personal thanks from the heiress of the van Boord fortune.

I was pleased as you can imagine and Madame Selina noticed. “This holiday has done you good, Nip. Every man deserves to be a White Knight once. I daresay you've grown an inch or two since.”

But this brought back all my worries and almost spoiled my triumph. “I imagine you'll be visiting the Orphan Home sometime soon.”

“Whatever for?”

“I'm outgrowing the cabinet.”

“The new one should be ready when we return,” she said. “I am not about to lose you over a few feet of carpentry.”

I could have danced a jig, and I may have cut a caper or two, for Hilda's dinners and interesting errands and the delights of the city were still mine. But there remained one thing and when we were steaming down the Hudson, I asked her about it.

“You had the wet handkerchiefs tested somehow.”

“That's right. After you mentioned the bluish tint of Edith's skin, I noticed her pallor. That was very observant of you, Nip, and it made me think. The chemist ran the Marsh Test and detected arsenic. But the chain of evidence was unclear.”

I had to ask about chains of evidence, which are not physical like the chains around a strong box but have to do with how evidence is handled and who could tamper with it. Though there was no chance of that with us, Madame Selina said that any good lawyer would raise a lot of doubts.

“So we needed the séance.”

“We needed Aurelius.”

I could see that in a way, although I never liked to see Aurelius at work without the personal assistance of Nip Tompkins, who was only invaluable as long as the late emperor needed a hand. “But the green jar. How did you know about that?”

She turned to me as if genuinely surprised, for Madame always claims to remember nothing from her trances. “The green jar?”

“The one Aurelius mentioned. The one with the arsenic, hiding amid the cosmetics like a jar of face powder.”

“I'm surprised you need to ask, Nip. Of course Aurelius would notice such a thing. Unlike railroads and steamboats, arsenic is something old Romans know all about.”

Copyright © 2012 Janice Law

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: AUTUMN CHILL
by John H. Dirckx

Nobody received an invitation to Howard Rentz's last birthday party. His two sons and their families didn't need invitations because they were running the show. And it was more or less understood that his bachelor neighbors on either side would drift over and join in once the commotion started. The attendance of Howard's girlfriend Joy Lynn was also taken for granted.

The lots in Rentz's neighborhood ran back hundreds of feet toward the wooded slopes of an ancient cemetery. His rear deck commanded a view of oak leaves turning gold on distant heights under the fraternal kiss of an October sun. Nearer at hand, asters flourished and squirrels foraged among the unkempt ornamental borders that separated his place from his neighbors’ better-tended flower gardens.

Joy Lynn Robiche gathered up Styrofoam containers and plastic cups, the remains of a fast-food lunch for two, and dropped them into a waste can in a corner of the deck.

Rentz consulted a pocket watch on a chain. “What time's your conference?”

“Three.” The lie fell smoothly from her tongue.

“I hope you'll have time for ice cream and cake and some socializing before you have to leave.”

Joy Lynn nodded silently. If her manner was proprietorial and efficient rather than affectionate, Rentz didn't seem to mind, or even to notice. Her appointment was pure fiction, designed to allow for an early escape from the party.

At a little past one o'clock, Howard's two sons and their families mounted the steps to the deck in a semisolemn procession. Kevin and Virgil were copy-and-paste replicas of their father—rough hewn, beetle browed, obstinate as spring steel. Kevin's wife Sheeba, with skin and hair the color of chilled honey, leaned over Rentz's shoulder from behind and planted a noisy kiss on his cheek. “Happy birthday, Dad.” She deposited two wrapped presents on the table at his elbow.

Virgil's wife Cary added another package to the pile and headed for the door to the kitchen. She was dark, slow moving, and unabashedly plump. “I'll put you-know-what in the refrigerator,” she confided as she passed close to her father-in-law.

The adults seated themselves on an assortment of metal chairs and babbled desultorily about nothing in particular. A psychologist might have peeled away layer after layer of family pathology here without ever getting to the bottom of things. More telling than the laconic and barely civil exchanges were the periodic silences.

Cary and Sheeba were evidently at loggerheads over something that went deeper than their sharply contrasting temperaments. Virgil and Kevin's manner toward their father was a lumpy blend of filial awe and rude condescension. Everyone but Rentz displayed a savage coolness toward Joy Lynn. The men treated her merely as an unwelcome intruder, but the women's wry glances and curt asides expressed disapproval of everything about her, from hairstyle and shoes to demeanor and personal code of ethics.

The three preteen children each went their own way. Virgil and Cary's boy Jacob marched purposefully toward a weedy thicket in the middle distance, where anyone who was paying attention would have seen him slicing open milkweed pods with a stainless steel knife and examining their contents with a magnifying lens.

As for Kevin and Sheeba's son Devlin (a k a Speedo and Loco Boy), within five minutes of his arrival in his grandfather's backyard he had slid into a nonexistent home plate about thirty times, always with different sound effects. By the time his father called off the game, Devlin's jeans had accumulated enough grass stains to overwhelm even the leading brand of laundry detergent—not that it mattered, since he had also shredded the fabric beyond repair.

Devlin's sister Deirdre lingered on the deck, surreptitiously eavesdropping on adult conversations. She had an eyebrow ring, a rosebud tattoo on her left calf, and an alarmingly advanced vocabulary for a child of eleven.

“Hey, girl, come here,” Rentz summoned her in a stage whisper. “I got a job for you. This is just between the two of us.” He massaged her shoulder with a big bony paw while whispering a commission in her ear. She nodded compliance and made off for the kitchen. Just before she reached the door he called after her, “And, hey, girl—a big spoon, okay?”

A round-shouldered little man with a face like an owl appeared on the deck with his head tilted to one side, his gait an uncompromising waddle. “Happy birthday, Howard,” he said. “I guess no coffee today?”

“We've got coffee. Joy Lynn, get Wally a cup of coffee.”

“Just black,” said Wally with a shy glance at Joy Lynn. “No sugar.”

“I know.”

Rentz swung around to face his sons. “Everything okay at the shop?”

“No problems, Dad,” said Virgil. “But we've got to talk some more about that Wagner plant. It's just sitting there empty—”

“Okay, you mugs,” chirped Sheeba, “no business discussions today.”

“But next week could be too late,” objected Virgil, without meeting his sister-in-law's gaze.

Cary began dispensing ice cream and cake, pausing frequently to lick her fingers. Jacob was called in from the edge of the woods, where he was trapping insects in a plastic specimen bottle, and Devlin was persuaded to remain seated for a full five minutes with the promise of double rations of carbohydrates. For a few minutes a morose kind of tranquility reigned.

Sheeba took pictures of her father-in-law opening his presents—an imitation ivory backscratcher, a baseball cap with a mildly sleazy caption, the kind of gifts middle-aged people usually receive from family members instead of articles of intrinsic value. Rentz held a T-shirt adorned with a monkey face across his chest and mimicked the monkey's grimace for the camera.

“Kind of chilly out here this afternoon,” he remarked as he laid the shirt aside.

“Well, we are about three weeks into fall,” Joy Lynn reminded him.

“Hey, is it raining?”

His sudden exclamation was seconded by indignant outcries from the others.

Rentz leaned over the wooden railing of the deck. “Ricedale! What do you think you're doing down there?”

In the side yard of the house next door a wiry man in a checkered cap was watering the potted plants suspended from an awning by sticking his finger into the threaded metal fitting on the end of a garden hose so as to send a jet of water curving gently upward. “That's Mister Ricedale, if you don't mind. I'm irrigating the hanging gardens of Bangladesh, same like I do every day about this time.”

“Well, you're also irrigating the ice cream and cake.”

“So what is this, the Queen's birthday?”

“It's my birthday, you dingbat. And if you don't get out of here with that fire hose, I might decide to administer a kick to your southern hemisphere.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, if you did that, I might decide to run a sickle through your giblets.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, if you did that, some folks downtown might decide to hang you from a long pole with a short rope.”

“Well, in that case I better come up there and help myself to a last meal of iced Beam and steak, I think you said.”

Ricedale's arrival on the deck introduced a welcome note of joviality into the proceedings. Kevin and Virgil nevertheless finally managed to corner their father for some serious talk.

“Look, Dad,” said Virgil “we need to move fast on this Wagner plant deal. It'd be bad enough if somebody bought the place and junked all the equipment and turned it into a skating rink, but what if they started up another heating and cooling business?”

“They'd be crazy if they did,” said Rentz. “Wagner went bankrupt.”

Kevin moved his chair closer to his father's. “That's because he's an alcoholic. Another guy with some capital and both feet on the ground could come in there, take over that shop, and give us more competition than Wagner ever did.”

Virgil returned to the charge with a different line of argument. “Wagner just bought a couple of twelve-foot Dodge forming brakes last year. The beds and the rams both tilt. They can punch and notch at the same time. The dies that go with them would just about fill the back shed.”

Rentz snorted scornfully. “And then where are you going to keep the flatbed?”

“Dad,” said Virgil, “we sold the flatbed a year ago, remember? Now that Wagner is bankrupt, he'll have to practically give away all that gear to whoever buys his shop.”

Howard Rentz reared up in his chair with a flash of wrath. “Now look here, you two,” he stormed, “my brains haven't turned to mush yet. I'm still running the business, and I'm telling you to leave Steve Wagner's plant alone. Time we met his price and started paying tax and insurance on a whole ‘nother shop, we'd be bankrupt ourselves.”

“There's something else we need to talk about,” said Kevin, with the air of a man venturing onto thin ice. “We figure it's about time we had some stake in the business. We're making all the runs but we're still selling on straight commission, and both of the girls still have to hold down part-time jobs to keep shoes on our kids’ feet.”

“Yes, and your mother used to do the books and the bills at the shop and sling hash to keep shoes on your feet. When I go, it'll be soon enough for you two to find out how much fun it is to own a business. Then you can buy another shop or branch out into aluminum siding or do whatever other fool thing you want so you'll end up in receivership. Till then, this old boy is the top dog, and I don't need any little pups to tell me when to bark.”

He spoke with such vehemence and decision that Kevin and Virgil fell silent and moved away.

“Where's that pill-peddling buddy of mine?” roared Rentz, still excited. “Hey, Wally, have you got any of those stomach mints on you? The kind that take the hide right off your tongue and put a chill clear down to your gizzard?”

* * * *

The phone was ringing when Detective Sergeant Cyrus Auburn got back to his desk after lunch. The dispatcher put through a call from Nick Stamaty, the investigator for the coroner's office.

“You got a minute, Cy?”

“Sure,” said Auburn. “My manicurist isn't due until two. What's up?”

“I've got a funny kind of complaint to check out, and I thought you might want to be in on the preliminary investigation in case it turns out to be a homicide.”

“A funny homicide would be a nice change. What's the story?”

“Woman thinks her boyfriend was murdered by his sons so they could gain control of the family business.”

“Which business?”

“Rentz Heating and Cooling.”

“One of their guys replaced the coil in my air conditioner last summer. Murdered how?”

“Day before yesterday he didn't answer his phone. The girlfriend went to the house and found him unresponsive. It looked like a massive stroke, so the paramedics ran him to the Chalfont. He died about noon yesterday afternoon without ever regaining consciousness.”

“Autopsy?”

“This morning. Technically, any death within twenty-four hours after hospital admission is a coroner's case, but the coroner released this one to the hospital pathologist because the decedent was a heart patient.”

“How old?”

“Fifty-seven.”

“You said girlfriend. Is there an ex in the picture?”

“He was a widower.”

“What did the autopsy show?”

“When he first arrived at the hospital, a scan showed that he'd had a brain hemorrhage. The autopsy confirmed that as the cause of death. They didn't find any scalp wounds or cracks in his skull. He'd been taking a blood thinner for the past three years for heart trouble. You know how it is—one foot in the proverbial grave . . .”

“And the other on the proverbial banana peel. So why are we having this conversation?”

“Because Rentz's Quick time was infinity.”

Auburn pondered silently for a moment. “Is that poetry?”

“Not exactly. They measure the effect of blood thinners with a test called the prothrombin time, which was developed by a guy named Quick. The thinner the blood, the longer it takes to clot in a test tube. They're still waiting for Rentz's blood to clot.”

“Meaning an overdose of blood thinner?”

“Suggesting it, anyway.”

“Accident . . . suicide?”

“Possible, but not likely. Doc Valentine says it would probably have taken a whole fistful of pills, and maybe several overdoses given over a period of days, to thin his blood that much.”

Valentine was the forensic pathologist under contract to the coroner's office.

“So why is the girlfriend thinking homicide?”

“She says the day before Rentz suffered his stroke he had a violent argument with his two sons about some changes they wanted to make in the business. Rentz retired from active involvement a couple of years ago on the advice of his doctor, but he was still the sole proprietor.”

“Nothing more substantial than that?”

“She's coming here at two o'clock today. You're welcome to sit in. Then again, if you're really looking forward to that manicure . . .”

“See you in an hour or so.”

When Auburn reached Stamaty's office in the courthouse across the street from headquarters, Joy Lynn Robiche had already arrived. She was lanky, fortyish, and plain featured. Her fawn-colored hair was pulled back tightly into a bun. She wore little or no makeup and no jewelry. According to the photo ID clipped to her sweater, she was employed by county social services.

Stamaty made introductions. “I was just telling Ms. Robiche that Mr. Rentz's brain hemorrhage could have been a side effect of his blood thinner even at a normal dosage.”

“But the point,” retorted Ms. Robiche, with the doggedness and drive of a social worker standing up for the rights of a downtrodden waif, “is that somehow he got a massive overdose. He couldn't have made a mistake like that himself. He was as careful about his pills as he was about his money.”

“I understand,” said Auburn, “that you have some specific reasons for thinking his death was a homicide?”

“Tuesday was Howard's birthday, and his family all went to his place for a party. But celebrating the birthday wasn't the only thing on his sons’ agenda. They've been running the family heating and cooling business since Howard retired after his heart bypass three years ago, but he was still the legal owner and he made all the important decisions.

“They wanted to buy out another business that went bankrupt, and he absolutely refused even to discuss it. And when they told him it was time he made them partners instead of employees, he really blew up. He told them they were going to inherit the business when he died, and they could just wait. Two days later he was dead of an apparent overdose of medicine. Doesn't that look pretty suspicious to you?”

“How do you think they did it?”

“Howard had a sweet tooth. His blood sugar was normal, so the doctor said he could eat all the carbohydrates he wanted as long as he kept his weight down and stayed away from fat and cholesterol. One of his daughters-in-law, I'm not sure which, brought a chocolate pie just for him. Even before the party got underway, he kept sending his grandchildren into the kitchen to bring him samples. The rest of us had ice cream and cake.”

“Was anybody at the party besides you and Mr. Rentz's family?”

“A couple of neighbors—the men who live on either side of him, Mr. Ricedale and Mr. Snederle. I'm sure they'll both confirm that the atmosphere was . . . poisonous.”

“You're suggesting the family put an overdose of his medicine in the pie? But they would have had to do that in advance, before they had this argument you mentioned. And where would they get enough of the medicine to make up a fatal overdose?”

“Do I look like a detective? Maybe they foresaw how the discussion was going to turn out even before the party started. Maybe somebody else in the family is on a blood thinner. Heart disease is hereditary, you know.”

Auburn was finding it hard to preserve a cordial manner toward this dowdy, outspoken citizen. “May I ask why you brought this to Mr. Stamaty instead of to the police?”

She blinked hard. “I guess because I work for the county. That's how I knew about the autopsy results as soon as the hospital pathologist phoned them to the coroner's office this morning.”

She stood up to terminate the interview. “If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment in just a few minutes out on Whitney Avenue.”

Auburn and Stamaty, who had both been properly reared, also stood up, and Stamaty thanked her for coming in.

“What do you think?” asked Auburn after she had left the office. “Are you going to investigate this one?”

Instead of answering, Stamaty picked up the phone. “Art, this is Nick . . . Oh, real good. Yourself? . . . Listen, Art, this Howard Rentz you posted this morning . . . I know, subdural hematoma. But we're calling it a coroner's case . . . Nothing definite, just some questionable circumstances we need to look into. Don't release that body to the family's funeral director. Our guys will be there to transfer it to the county mortuary just as soon as I find out which pool hall they're smashing up this afternoon.”

Stamaty made two further calls while Auburn touched base with headquarters on his cell phone.

“Are you in on this one, Cy?”

“Provisionally. Where do you plan to start?”

“I'd like to see Rentz's private physician first, a Dr. Lamprecht. We can't do much else till we have control of the remains.”

Since Stamaty was nominally in charge of the inquiry, they traveled in the white van from the coroner's department. “How much can Dr. Valentine find by examining a body that's already been autopsied?” asked Auburn as they left the parking lot behind the courthouse.

“Only so much,” said Stamaty. “What I mainly want to do is make sure we get samples of Rentz's blood before some embalmer drains every drop of it into a hazardous waste container.”

“Can you still get good blood samples from somebody who's been dead this long?”

“You can't say that anymore,” said Stamaty, with a severe shake of his head.

Auburn glanced at him in bewilderment. “Can't say what anymore?”

“What you just said Rentz was.”

“I said he was dead—”

Stamaty jumped as if he had been shot. “I told you, Cy, you can't say that anymore. It's not politically correct.”

“So what do we call it nowadays?” asked Auburn, finally realizing that he was being put on.

“Vitally challenged. A person who is no longer living is said to be vitally challenged. According to my son Basil.”

“Is he the one who's going into sports medicine?”

“No, that's Elena. Basil wants to be a race car driver.”

“Well, I hope he doesn't get vitally challenged before he has a chance to get chronologically disadvantaged.”

* * * *

Stamaty parked the van around the corner from Dr. Myron Lamprecht's office to spare the doctor any embarrassment. The waiting room was full of disconsolate-looking oldsters and harried moms with blubbering babes in arms.

“Maybe we should have called ahead,” suggested Auburn in a murmur as they stood waiting near the reception desk.

“Not my style,” Stamaty murmured back.

At length, they were admitted to a small, tidy office where a plastic heart and a real skull sat side by side on the windowsill. Dr. Lamprecht, a heavy man with a bald crown and a monkey fringe of reddish beard streaked with gray, joined them almost immediately.

Before saying a word, he examined their credentials through a pair of steel-rimmed glasses clamped firmly on his squashed fig of a nose. His hands shook slightly as he sat behind his desk and opened Howard Rentz's medical record. An official inquiry into the death of a patient can be a prelude to a malpractice suit, not to mention criminal charges.

“All I have here are his office records and lab reports,” he said. “I don't have anything from the hospital yet, and the final autopsy protocol won't be available for a week or so. Dr. Noguchi was his neurosurgeon, but Mr. Rentz was gone before they could get him set up for a craniotomy.”

Stamaty asked, “How long had he been on an anticoagulant?”

“About three years.”

“Any recent change in dosage?”

“Not for more than a year.”

“How closely was the blood thinning monitored?”

Lamprecht handed Stamaty a thick bundle of slips held together with a spring clamp. “He went to the lab on Santa Cruz Boulevard every two weeks for a prothrombin time. As you can see, his results were consistently within the therapeutic range. That includes the last one, done a week ago Friday.”

“What other medicines was he taking?”

“A coronary vasodilator, a beta blocker—” He consulted a tabular medication record inside the cover of the chart. “—a mild tranquilizer, bedtime sleep medicine as needed. No recent changes in any of those.”

“You're aware that his pro-time at the hospital was off the charts? How do you think that happened?”

“Frankly, I think it's a lab error.” Lamprecht leaned back in his chair, palpably more at ease now that the worst seemed to be over. “Howard Rentz's coronaries might have been full of sludge, but his mind was as sharp as a college kid's. He would have had to swallow a month's supply of pills at one gulp to stretch out his pro-time that far. And he was too much of an egotist to take a deliberate overdose.”

“But he did die of a subdural hemorrhage,” Stamaty reminded him.

“Did he suffer a hemorrhage and fall?” asked Lamprecht rhetorically. “Or did he fall and suffer a hemorrhage? It's an age-old question, a recurring question. We'll never know.”

To his present audience the doctor's studied pose of mature wisdom and boundless benevolence carried no more conviction than that of an out-of-work actor in a white coat touting joint cream in a television commercial. They thanked him and returned to the van.

As expected, they found Howard Rentz's house locked and uninhabited. Stamaty took off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, donned rubber gloves, and began sorting through the contents of a forty-gallon galvanized steel garbage can at the end of the driveway.

“If Public Safety gets involved in this case,” Auburn told him, “you're going to incur the wrath of a certain forensic lab director for tampering with evidence.”

“How terrifying!” replied Stamaty, whose repeated clashes with Sergeant Kestrel, the police evidence technician, sometimes assumed Homeric proportions. “Thing is, the garbage collectors might get here before Kestrel does, and then where will the evidence be?”

Auburn couldn't fault his reasoning, but chose not to participate in the search.

“Newspapers, cardboard cartons, pop cans,” reported Stamaty. “Apparently Mr. Rentz didn't believe in recycling.”

They walked around to the back and climbed the steps to the deck. Here Stamaty attacked a plastic trash bucket containing what could only have been the remnants of the birthday party. “This is more like it.”

“Any traces of chocolate pie garnished with little pink pills?” asked Auburn.

“Not so far. I've got paper plates and paper napkins, plastic forks and plastic spoons, cake going stale and melted ice cream going sour.”

“Are you looking for evidence, or are you just trying to ruin my appetite for dinner?”

“Aha! An earlier stratum. Traces of burgers, fries, and sodas for two.”

The sound of male voices raised in friendly dispute, punctuated by occasional brisk snips with a pair of pruning shears, reached them from the other side of a hedge. Whereas Rentz's backyard was little better than a weed patch, the neighbors on either side had formal gardens, now largely running to seed. Approaching with no attempt at secrecy, they came up behind two elderly men, one of whom was hacking at the hedge in seemingly random fashion, somewhat like a painter putting the final touches on a canvas.

“I don't care what you say,” insisted the other man, a roly-poly creature with thick glasses and a beak like a bird of prey. “Poison is much cheaper, and it's permanent. What did you pay for that trap?”

“None of your beeswax,” retorted the man with the shears. “Anyway, it was worth it. Since I got that trap I've caught and relocated twenty-three of those little rascals.”

“In your dreams. I'm telling you, Ricedale, you trapped one squirrel twenty-three times. And every time you turned it loose up in the cemetery, it got back here before you did.”

“Excuse me,” said Auburn. “Mr. Ricedale?”

The man with the shears jumped as if a hornet had stung him on the back of his neck. “Yo! You got in under my radar. Help you, gentlemen?”

Auburn showed identification. “If you have a minute, we'd like to ask you a few questions about an incident that occurred here a couple of days ago.”

“What incident would that be?” asked Ricedale, his nasal voice seasoned with a tang of mockery.

“A birthday party for Mr. Rentz.”

“The late Mr. Rentz.” Ricedale nodded and pointed with his shears. “Tuesday afternoon, there on his deck. Vanilla ice cream, angelfood cake, chocolate pie. Wally and I were both there.”

Auburn turned to the other man. “Your name, sir?”

“Walter Snederle.”

Auburn thought Snederle looked vaguely familiar, but he decided the old man probably just represented a type of character—elderly, eccentric, slightly grotesque—that he'd seen portrayed dozens of times in movies and on TV.

He turned back to Ricedale. “You mentioned chocolate pie . . .”

“Only for the birthday boy. The rest of us had to settle for standard fare.”

“Some of you got standard fare,” said Snederle, in something like a whine. “I had a cup of coffee. Without.” He shook his left wrist until a metal bracelet identifying him as a diabetic slipped into view from under his cuff.

“Were either of you present when Mr. Rentz had an argument with his sons?”

“We both were,” said Snederle. “But I wouldn't exactly call it an argument. They did all the talking, till Howard told them to shut up.”

“How well did you know Mr. Rentz?”

“Oh, we were bosom buddies.” When Snederle smiled, his moon face curdled into a blur of wrinkles and his upper lip retreated into the shadow of his monumental nose. “On days like this, Howard and I used to sit out on my patio in the afternoon drinking coffee and pretending it was scotch. And watching the squirrels and rabbits hop right past his weeds to eat my flowers.”

Ricedale had abandoned his pruning. “So you think somebody put the chill on old Howard?” he asked.

“We didn't say that.”

“You don't have to. Those rubber gloves say it for you.”

As they climbed back into Stamaty's van, Auburn expressed the view that they were probably on a wild-goose chase.

“You probably are,” concurred Stamaty. “I agree this doesn't look much like a homicide. But I have to file a report one way or the other because after that second autopsy there won't be much doubt that Rentz is dead.”

“Don't you mean vitally challenged?”

* * * *

The Dragnet theme, executed in a pungent electronic bleat, announced a call on Stamaty's cell phone. “Nick Stamaty. They did, huh? I can't blame them, considering how things went. . . . I can do better than that. I'll go see them.” After ringing off, he pulled over to the curb and parked.

“Corky says Rentz's family are spitting mad,” he told Auburn, “because the hospital wouldn't release their Dad's remains to the funeral director. Sound like a good opportunity to shake them down?”

A check with headquarters informed Auburn that the city directory showed two Rentzes besides the late Howard. Both were listed (not quite accurately, it seemed) as owners-operators of Rentz Heating and Cooling.

Stamaty had formulated his policy of not calling ahead while employed, years before, as a police detective in a midwestern city riddled with violence and riven by warring criminal factions. Even nowadays, when working with law enforcement personnel on a possible homicide, he found the cost of gasoline wasted on futile trips more than offset by the occasional gain from a surprise visit.

Virgil Rentz and his wife Cary lived on Silverhurst Drive in an older residential neighborhood with mature trees and front yards just large enough to be a nuisance during the mowing season. The Rentzes were at home, seemingly holding a gloomy vigil over a late or much protracted lunch.

Stamaty introduced himself and Auburn with his habitual courtesy, sympathy, and authority. Auburn didn't envy him the task of justifying to these people his interference in their funeral plans, but Stamaty handled it with aplomb.

“I'm sorry I didn't have the opportunity to contact you before you made arrangements with the funeral director,” he said, “but I'm here now, and I'm ready to answer your questions.” He went on before they had the chance to ask any. “I don't expect our investigation to delay your dad's funeral by even one day.”

“What I don't get,” said Virgil, “is what you're investigating. Dad had a stroke, didn't he?”

“Probably,” nodded Stamaty, “but there's a chance that the stroke was caused by one of his medicines. If it was, then it's the coroner's responsibility to identify that as the cause of death.”

“You mean,” said Virgil's wife, “like maybe the doctor or the drugstore made a mistake?”

“Those are possibilities. Or maybe your father-in-law took the right medicine in the wrong dosage. We just need to be sure before we close the case. We'd like to have a look around his house—check his medicine bottles, maybe look at the food in the kitchen, anything else that could give us a lead on the cause of death.”

“That's okay with us,” said Virgil, “but you might have to break in. I haven't had a key to Dad's place for years, and I don't think my brother has one either.”

“We'll be checking with him.”

Stamaty's mention of food seemed to have captured Cary's attention. “Were you thinking he died from something he ate? We had a birthday party for him the day before he went to the hospital. We all ate ice cream and cake, but nobody else got sick.”

“What's left of the ice cream and cake is right there in the kitchen,” said Virgil, “if you want to take samples.”

“We understand somebody brought a chocolate pie to the party,” said Auburn, “just for Mr. Rentz.”

They both froze as if an Arctic wind had swept over them. “No pie,” said Cary shortly. “Just ice cream and cake.” Virgil's silence corroborated her statement.

Neither Auburn nor Stamaty chose to bring up the feud over control of the heating and cooling business.

Rentz's older son Kevin and his wife Sheeba lived a couple of miles away in a condo in Black Lake Estates. A panel truck belonging to the heating and cooling business was parked in the driveway next to an imported compact.

This couple displayed considerably more hostility than the people Auburn and Stamaty had just left.And here Stamaty's mention of checking on Howard Rentz's medicine and food instantly raised the question of a homidical overdose.

Kevin Rentz had a short, stiff upper lip that left his front teeth exposed like those of a gopher. He said m's, p's, and b's by bringing his lower lip against his upper teeth. “The doctor said Dad probably just broke a blood vessel and passed out,” he said. “But you're saying he could have been poisoned?”

“Because if you're thinking that,” said Sheeba, “your number-one suspect has to be Dad's little friend Joy Lynn.”

“Ms. Robiche?” asked Auburn. “Why would she be a suspect?”

“Because he just changed his will and left her a big chunk of money. At least we think so. We don't know—maybe he left her everything.” Sheeba had a habit of tossing her long golden bangs to emphasize certain words. “Supposedly, they were going to get married one of these days.”

“But you don't know for certain that Mr. Rentz had changed his will in her favor?”

“We'll find out on Tuesday,” replied Kevin grimly. “That's the earliest we could make an appointment with his lawyer. He's not talking till then.”

“Who is the lawyer?”

“Polderrick, the guy whose face is splashed all over the sides of a couple of those gasoline buses that run on the east side.”

“How long had your dad known Ms. Robiche?”

“Four or five months. She just sort of turned up one day.”

“There's something funny about that woman,” said Sheeba. “People who work for the county seem to have an awful lot of free time. When Dad had his stroke, she whipped him off to the hospital and got him admitted to Intensive Care before any of us even knew anything had happened.”

“As I mentioned,” said Stamaty, “we'd like to get inside Mr. Rentz's house long enough to check his medicines and so forth. Do you have a key?”

“No, I don't. And I'm pretty sure my brother doesn't either.”

“Well, obviously that woman has one,” remarked Sheeba. “Otherwise, how did she get in and find Dad unconscious?” Then, as an afterthought: “Don't you need a warrant for that?”

“Only if the person in control of the premises refuses permission for a search,” said Stamaty. “But in that case it becomes a police matter, and Sergeant Auburn takes over. Since,” he couldn't resist adding, “I work for the county.”

“There was just one other thing,” said Auburn. “We understand there was a chocolate pie at the party.”

“Cake,” Sheeba corrected him. “Angel food. You can't stick candles in a pie. Anyway, not a chocolate pie.”

“But wasn't there a pie as a special treat for Mr. Rentz?”

“If there was,” stated Kevin with calm assurance, “Dad finished it off before we got there.”

Sheeba brought a camera from the living room. “I haven't had time to print these pictures yet, but you can scan them on the screen.” She showed Auburn which button to push, and he and Stamaty hunched over the camera together and scrolled through snapshots from the party.

Neither of them had ever seen Howard Rentz, dead or alive. The thumbnail digital images showed a hulking brute with his sons’ oxlike features, bushy eyebrows, and grizzled sideburns. Among the figures in the background, they recognized Ms. Robiche and Walter Snederle. A couple of youngsters, presumably grandchildren, also appeared in some shots.

They saw Rentz blowing out candles on a cake decorated with white, pink, and green frosting . . . Sheeba slicing and dispensing cake . . . Cary scooping ice cream . . . a youth with spiked hair devouring both treats with animal relish. In none of the images was there any sign of a chocolate pie. So the score stood at three witnesses in favor of pie and four against, plus the negative evidence of the pictures.

“But,” said Stamaty, as they drove back downtown, “although the folks who deny the existence of the pie are in the majority, they're the ones who might have used it to poison Rentz.”

“What's that Common Law maxim? Ponderantur something. It means witnesses need to be weighed rather than counted.”

It was after four thirty when Stamaty dropped Auburn back at headquarters. It still wasn't clear to either of them whether or not they were investigating a homicide, and at this time of day any kind of investigation tended to stall because the first watch was about to end and staff members were queueing up for the stampede to the parking lot.

Paul Polderrick conducted a solo legal practice in the least respectable quarter of downtown. He seemed to specialize in the type of cases that are hard to explain to children. The secretary who took Auburn's call promised him an interview with Polderrick at two o'clock the following afternoon.

Auburn opened a computer file on the Rentz case, recording in outline his investigation so far and keying in material from the hospital pathologist's report on the first autopsy. Through the Public Safety network he requested background checks on Ricedale, Snederle, Ms. Robiche, and the surviving members of the Rentz family. Then he settled down to explore the topic of blood thinners and hemorrhagic strokes.

In the process of earning a degree in criminal justice with a minor in psychology, Auburn had developed valuable research skills, learning not only where to find information but also how to judge its authority and relevance. After spending an hour on Internet searches, he went to the departmental library and returned to his office with a book on forensic pathology and toxicology that seemed to be roughly the size and weight of a concrete block.

All during the time he was working toward a clearer understanding of how Howard Rentz had met his end, a vague but insistent memory kept tormenting him. When he took the book back to the library, he consulted an old city directory and resolved that issue to his complete satisfaction. There being nothing more he could do on the case tonight, he went home to a late dinner.

* * * *

The morning brought an e-mail from Stamaty. The forensic pathologist's repeat autopsy on the remains of Howard Rentz had uncovered no new evidence to support a suspicion of homicide, much less any identifiable vestiges of chocolate pie. Results of laboratory tests wouldn't be available until after the weekend.

Before lunch Auburn presented an outline of the case—if it was a case—to his supervisor, Lieutenant Savage. Since things were quiet in the First District, Savage directed him to continue the investigation and detailed Patrolman Fritz Dollinger to work with him. Over lunch in the canteen, Auburn briefed Dollinger on the current posture of affairs. His mention of the vexed question of the chocolate pie sent Dollinger, an inveterate chocoholic, back to the serving line for a second dessert.

They took a cruiser for the appointment with Rentz's attorney. Polderrick was a big man with sandy hair, matching complexion, and a rumpled suit. He had the easygoing manner and flourishing paunch of an athlete who has permanently broken training.

Auburn was aware, as Howard Rentz's survivors probably were not, that an attorney is under no legal obligation either to conceal or to reveal the terms of a will between the death of a client and probate of the client's will. He made it clear that an immediate and full disclosure would be very much to Polderrick's advantage.

“Can do,” said Polderrick without turning a hair. He went to an outer office and returned almost at once with a file folder, closing the door behind him. “One question. Did his family send you over here, or was it Mrs. Carpenter?”

“Who,” asked Auburn, “is Mrs. Carpenter?”

“You haven't met the Merry Widow yet? Maybe she's going by Robiche again.”

“We talked to Joy Lynn Robiche.”

“Isn't she a peach? The next time you see her, tell her from me that her timing on this one was a bit off.” Polderrick opened the file, glanced through it, and closed it again. “The Merry Widow isn't my client—not in the technical sense. And at the risk of killing the goose that laid the golden eggs, I'm going to dish up some dirt you may find useful.”

A little before three that afternoon, Auburn and Dollinger parked in front of a sprawling mansion in Harmony Heights, mounted the brick steps, and rang the bell. Joy Lynn Robiche, now dressed in a tailored suit of shimmering silk and adorned with makeup and jewelry, admitted them.

“I didn't expect you to make a report in person,” she said, eyeing Dollinger's uniform in her cool, offhand way. She led them to a sumptuous sunken living room, where a dull rosy afternoon glow filtered through sheer curtains to awaken the latent fire of gold and silver threads in Japanese wall hangings.

“We're not here to make a report,” Auburn told her. “We've just been talking to Mr. Polderrick downtown. He told us all about your scheme to have Mr. Rentz make a new will in your favor.”

“I resent the word scheme," she said, her eyebrows arched in an expression of pique. “Mr. Rentz naturally felt it was proper to make a will benefiting his future wife.”

“Except that you had him so tangled up in romantic fantasies that he didn't know up from down. It's a tried and true gimmick. You find a lonely old man of independent means, preferably with failing vision—”

“You don't have to be rude. You're not exactly Denzel Washington yourself.”

“—who's just nutty enough to believe you're in love with him, but not far enough around the bend to be incapable of making a valid will. Then you promise to marry him, and persuade him to make a will in your favor, but you keep putting off the wedding with some story about a legal technicality—maybe a divorce decree not being official yet. Meanwhile, you swear him to secrecy about the wedding plans, telling him you couldn't keep your job if it got out that you had fallen in love with one of your clients.”

“You can't prove I wasn't in love with Howard.”

“True. But it's a matter of public record that you inherited three quarters of a million dollars from Hershel Carpenter, who died at Deer Creek Assisted Living Center a year and a half ago at the age of eighty-one. And that you then bought this place. And a Mercedes. And two Russian wolfhounds.”

“Mr. Carpenter was my husband. He died of a ruptured aortic aneurysm.”

“I wasn't suggesting otherwise. By the way, it's also a matter of public record that you haven't been on the payroll of county social services for the past year and a half.”

She sat glowering at them, as impervious to censure as a granite statue. “All right, so you know all about me. You've probably got my blood type there in your briefcase too. Just tell me this. Are you investigating me, or are you trying to find out who killed Howard Rentz?”

“Both.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why did you tell the coroner's investigator and me that you thought Rentz's sons had killed him?”

“Because I do think so. And his death ruined a . . . scheme I'd been cultivating for the past six months. We'd had two meetings with Polderrick. In another week, the new will would have been ready for Howard to sign.”

“What we're here to find out,” said Auburn, “is whether Rentz said anything at the party about changing his will. Because if he did, that would have given his sons a stronger motive for homicide than just wanting to get their hands on the business.”

“He didn't,” she said without hesitation. “What he told them was that they'd inherit the business when he died. He didn't say anything about what he was going to do with his money.”

“Just one other thing. We'd like to get inside Mr. Rentz's house to check for traces of that chocolate pie and look at his medicine bottles. Do you have a key?”

“No. Howard always left the basement window under the deck open for ventilation, and I climbed in there when he didn't answer the doorbell. But then I closed and bolted it. I imagine his keys were in his pocket when they took him to the hospital, but I really don't know that.”

They thanked Ms. Robiche and took their leave.

“The Merry Widow, huh?” muttered Dollinger as they walked back to the cruiser. “If you ask me, Dracula's Daughter fits better.”

“What do you bet she's got a key and is systematically pillaging the place?”

Dollinger knew a short cut to Howard Rentz's neighborhood, which took them through no fewer than three school zones around dismissal time.

“Back again, officer?” said Walter Snederle as he admitted them to his comfortably shabby place next door to Rentz's. “This looks official. How's the investigation coming?”

“I thought I recognized you when we talked yesterday, Mr. Snederle,” said Auburn, “and now I've got you placed. You wouldn't remember this, but back when I was eight or ten years old you used to sell me candy and chewing gum and comic books at your drugstore on Banks Street.”

“Oh, the store, yes,” said Snederle with a wistful smile. “That was a long time ago.”

“Earlier this afternoon we had a meeting with Mr. Polderrick, who's been handling Howard Rentz's legal affairs recently. He told us how, a few months ago, Joy Lynn Robiche steered you his way so you could make a will leaving everything to her.”

“She's a social worker for the county,” nodded Snederle. “When I was in the hospital getting over cataract surgery she helped me with paperwork, and other things, and then . . . we sort of fell in love.”

“And when she found out all that money you'd told her you had in the bank existed only in your imagination, she fell out of love again.”

Snederle's mood sank from wistful to lugubrious. “All those years of working twelve or fourteen hours a day,” he said, “with no chance to take a vacation, let alone get married . . . and then the big pharmacy chains ran me right out of business.” Tears welled up and spilled over behind the thick lenses. “Was it wrong to hope for a couple years of peace and contentment before I take off on the One-Way Cruise?”

“That's not for us to judge. We're more concerned about what you did when you found out that your next-door neighbor had replaced you in Ms. Robiche's wedding plans.”

Snederle suddenly turned wary and restless. Auburn informed him of his rights under the Miranda ruling.

“As a pharmacist, you know that warfarin, the drug that Rentz was taking to thin his blood, is the active ingredient in several brands of rodenticide, probably including the one you've been using to get rid of the rabbits and squirrels that gnaw your flowers. You also know that warfarin has no taste and no odor and that it dissolves readily in water—or coffee.

“So when Howard Rentz came over to your back porch for coffee on sunny afternoons, you made sure he gradually built up a dangerous level of warfarin by mixing it in with the sugar, which you're not allowed to use. We'd like to have a look around your house, Mr. Snederle. We don't have a warrant, so you're free to refuse. But if you do that we're going to take you into custody as a material witness, and then you won't be here tomorrow when we come back with a warrant and take this place apart.”

They exercised enormous caution in keeping the package of rat poison they found in Snederle's garage separate from the contents of the half-full sugar bowl that turned up in his trash. The laboratory eventually found high concentrations of warfarin in both specimens.

The day after Snederle was found guilty of first-degree murder, Auburn received a phone call from Cary Rentz.

“I'm so embarrassed about this,” she said. “But neither of us can sleep at night till we get it straightened out. There was a pie, of course. I made it myself—chocolate pudding in a prebaked crust, with real whipped cream topping. I put it in the refrigerator at my father-in-law's to keep a chill on it until it was time for the party, but he kept sending the kids out to the kitchen to bring him samples. By serving time, not only was the pie completely gone, but so was the pan I made it in. And nobody—nobody—knew anything about that.

“Afterward, Virgil found the plate and the rest of the pie dumped in some bushes in the backyard. Our nephew Devlin has ADHD. He's a tsunami on two legs and he's constantly in trouble. We figured he probably had an accident getting the pie out of the refrigerator and just threw it away without telling anybody. So we decided not to say anything about it either.

“That day when you asked us about the pie, we realized you were thinking it might have been poisoned. Since we still had ice cream and cake left, we were afraid you might think it was funny that we didn't also have some of the pie. I don't know if you're married, but, after so many years, a husband and wife can sort of communicate by telepathy—well, some of the time. Without a word spoken, Virgil and I decided between us to pretend there had never been a pie in the first place.

“And since you said you were going to be checking with Kevin and Sheeba, we called and give them a heads up. Sheeba even deleted some pictures from her camera that showed the pie.” Her sigh when she stopped for breath plainly signaled her relief at having confessed this atrocity. “We're not really the kind of people who tell lies, especially to the police. I mean, your job is hard enough already—”

“Please don't let it bother you, Mrs. Rentz. The fact is that the discrepancy between different people's stories about the pie was the one and only reason we went ahead with the homicide investigation.”

Auburn made sure Dollinger had already had lunch when he passed along this final word on the chocolate pie.

Copyright © 2012 John H. Dirckx

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Fiction: MARLEY'S RESCUE
by John C. Boland

* * * *

Art by Edward Kinsella III

* * * *

Charles Marley was not a romantic, but when he was assigned to Casablanca he went looking for an American bar. It wasn't Rick's that he found but Bleecker East, owned by two émigré New Yorkers who had rented space on the ground floor of a hotel near Rue Foucauld. Whatever romance they had once felt for the city had worn off. The Moroccan currency was weak, capital exports were blocked, and the business the two men had built had become their captivity. If they left Morocco, it would be without their money. “It's only been twenty Junes,” the younger owner said. He added, longingly, “Did you come from New York?”

“Paris,” Marley replied. He lied so reflexively that he barely noticed anymore. He hadn't considered lying to be a character flaw since boyhood, and he had perfected the habit after joining the intelligence service in 1961. Twelve years later, that September in Casablanca, Marley would have been embarrassed if any truth had slipped out.

“Dennis Hyde,” the owner said, extending a hand across the bar. “Don't believe anyone who tells you Casa is the Paris of North Africa.”

“I won't,” Marley said. The commercial part of the city was French, but the architecture was blunt and charmless, the avenues wide and dusty. He had passed Customs twenty hours ago and already had decided he didn't like the city. A few hours before that he had been in Cairo.

“They spot you as an American, half the people on the street will try to sell you hashish—or their sister or brother or mother,” Hyde said. He wasn't more than forty-five, with a squarish face, deep-set blue eyes, curly hair. A side door of the saloon was open to the street, from which flies coasted in on afternoon light. The flies always came back, Orwell had said, but he'd been in the mountains, in Marrakech. In the port, from what Marley had experienced trying to eat lunch, the flies never left.

“Another beer?”

“Does Philip Rule ever stop in here?”

“There's a Phil who comes in, probably not who you're looking for.”

“Frizzy red hair, a beard?”

Dennis Hyde shook his head, but it was in disgust. “You'd find him down the street. He comes to Casa for the whores.”

* * * *

There were three of them, standing together half-encircling Rule, who had his hands in his trouser pockets as he spoke to the young women in broken French. He noticed Marley and nodded him in. One of the girls, about five feet tall, shifted part of her slight weight, accepting him. She had curly black hair, a thin face, pale skin, small, graceful hands. “Her mother was turning her out when she was ten,” Rule said. “I was here two years ago, covering the regional econ meeting. You should have seen her then.”

The girl smiled at Marley. She had sweet eyes.

He patted his pockets and said, “No dirham.” The dirham was the local currency.

She smiled tolerantly. “No dirham, no nothing.”

Marley smiled, too, showing that he regretted the situation. At thirty-three, he had made it into adult life without having engaged a prostitute. There hadn't been business with many women of any sort that went beyond flirtation. What he lacked, he knew, was the finesse to close a transaction. But he was without peer—so the people running him said—at seducing spies. Sometimes they said it in a sly way that seemed to imply something about him that Marley believed wasn't true. He would know, wouldn't he?

The other girls were older. He wasn't a good judge of street-worn faces, couldn't guess their years. They understood that he didn't have any dirham, so they were ignoring him and joking with Philip Rule, who was lighting a cigar and puffing the smoke in their faces. If they minded they didn't admit it. The tiny dark-haired girl had joined in. There was something elegant about her gestures, which Marley watched while he wondered which movie actress she had studied, how long it had taken the ten- or twelve-year-old mind to absorb the techniques that were meant to be charming, wondered if her mother had beaten the affectations into her, wondered if she believed any of it, if she actually hoped she was elegant as she stood on the dirty sidewalk and made her deals. He had a fanciful thought, which lasted no longer than it took to form, that he should take her away to somewhere safe. He didn't know that it was too late for her, couldn't be sure. . . .

He felt the weight of the sunlight pressing on the back of his head, closed his eyes, opened them, as Phil Rule patted an older girl on the shoulder, broke off with his laughter already dead on his lips, and walked slowly, sharing the sidewalk with Marley, looking in doorways, smirking through his beard when he turned a glance on Marley. “I haven't been paid in four months,” he said.

“You haven't been producing.”

Puff on the cigar. “All you care, I could starve.”

“For all I care,” Marley said, “you can sell your body on the street like your friends. Your cable said you had something worthwhile.”

“And you came all the way from Cairo.”

It had to be a lucky guess; Rule couldn't know where he had come from. There hadn't been time enough in Cairo for anyone but the Russians to spot Marley, and they wouldn't share information so quickly.

Rule went on, “There's a Yugoslav freighter due in port in two days. The name is Tuhobic. There's something on board you should see.”

“What is it?”

“A corpse.”

Marley said mildly, “A corpse. Why should I want to see it?”

“He was going by the name John Larkin,” said Rule, who glanced over and then, feeling confident, smiled at Marley the way he had smiled at the whores. “I thought you would be interested,” he said.

* * * *

Phil Rule had a room several blocks away, at the Georges V, where he had tea brought up and sat with Marley in stifling heat with the balcony windows closed. “Larkin died at sea a couple of days after the ship left Havana, according to his wife. She's a dancer, remember, Julianne Helgeson?”

Marley nodded. She had been dancing with a German company when she met Larkin, eight years ago, months after he'd broken with the CIA: bolted from a Central America station and begun spilling secrets. Marley wondered if she'd had any idea what she was getting into. Part of him wondered if John Larkin had.

“He wouldn't have been buried at sea?” Marley said.

“Julianne wouldn't hear of it. The other passengers wouldn't have been happy, either. There must be fifty or sixty of them, expecting to get where they've paid to go. Bad advertising to dump bodies overboard.”

“How did you hear about this?”

“Julianne sent a wireless. We're still friends.”

Rule had interviewed Larkin for an American wire service soon after his break with the agency. It had been a sympathetic interview. Good, from Phil Rule's perspective, for establishing his credentials in anti-CIA circles.

Marley asked, “Did Julianne ask you to sell the news to us?”

Rule set about lighting another cigar. “That's between you and me. All right?”

“Of course.”

“She doesn't know you. You can be another journalist.”

“Do you mind if we open a window now?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Marley undid the latches to the balcony, which was ornamental, too small to be functional. The view onto a side street that twisted toward the old city was softened by suspended dust. The outside air was as hot as that inside the room. But the enclosed smell of Rule's cigar had begun to make him ill. It couldn't have been the man himself. Apart from a few niceties about prostitutes, Marley knew that he and Rule were brothers under the skin.

* * * *

Larkin had been different, according to the people at Langley who had known him in the field. Enthusiastic but squeamish. He'd had a different name with the agency, not that it mattered. By the time he gave his first interview about torture in Central America, everyone knew him as John Larkin, ex-Marine, ex-case officer driven by conscience to separate himself from his employer. The agency did its best to make his new career uncomfortable. After two years of being expelled from European countries, Larkin had ended up in the arms of the Cubans. Some said that was where he had been all along. Marley wasn't certain. He'd thought some of Larkin's claims were non sequiturs. Latin American dictators hadn't needed CIA training to know how to torture. It would, he thought, have happened without us.

As for his Cuban comrades, did Larkin really believe they had clean hands? Or did they get a pass because they were fighting for the progressive cause?

He wished he'd been able to ask Larkin. Weren't you squeamish about that?

“I've got to notify some people in Amsterdam,” Philip Rule said. “You know, keep up appearances. Julianne would assume I've done it. We have friends there. Progressives.”

“All right,” Marley said. There was no stopping Rule. Nobody at Langley would make it worth Rule's while to damage his image. “Let me know who to expect.”

“It'll probably be Donny Simmons. He was closest to Larkin.”

“Let me know when you're certain.”

Marley took the elevator downstairs. A very fat man in a jeballa was checking into the hotel in the company of a boy who couldn't have been ten. Marley walked out onto the street, feeling tight in the gut and angry, and walked a few streets to relax. It was impossible. Street children understood the meaning of his khaki suit and followed him, proposing to shine his shoes. Predatory adults closed in with offers that began, “Are you from America? My cousin works in New York. Would you like to see erotica?” At an avenue in the new city, he got a taxi that took him to his hotel near the port. His meeting with the Moroccan security officer wasn't until eight that evening, and the man wanted to be bought dinner at the hotel, where the wine might be respectable. He was a thin, angular man in his forties who didn't wear his uniform, but something in his eyes and manner alerted the service staff that this man meeting with the American should be treated well. He spoke to Marley, whose name he would never know, as if they were old friends, battered comrades in the war against Communism. King Hassan II might flirt with Moscow, but they both knew where his interests lay and, as important, who had trained his security service.

What would John Larkin have had to say about that? Marley wondered. That they needed us to teach them how to torture Bedouin rebels?

The security officer ate well and drank lavishly, and Marley gave him a name and said there might be more names. If any of Larkin's friends arrived from Amsterdam, they would be held for the next plane out.

* * * *

The Tuhobic, a bulk carrier out of Rijeka, arrived late, after dark, and the customs officials boarded first. It was close to midnight when the ship was cleared, donkey carts trundled up to the dockside beside Mercedes sedans, waiting for baggage, and Marley and Philip Rule went aboard.

Julianne Helgeson was waiting in the ship's lounge. Rule hugged her and said that Donny had gotten hung up at the airport, how was she holding herself together?

“I'm all right, Philip. I've had nine days to adjust.”

“John Larkin was on the side of the angels,” Rule said fiercely. “What happened?”

“His heart . . .”

Rule's glance barely touched Marley. “Everyone's going to ask—our friends in Amsterdam are bound to suspect—was it the agency? Did the bastards finally settle the score?”

“No, Philip. It was his heart.” Her face sagged. “He ran out of time. Perhaps he knew he wouldn't have much, and that is why he worked so hard.”

“There are plenty of us ready to take up where John left off.” Rule's color was high, his voice intense. If Marley hadn't known him, he might have believed the man's pretenses. Rule laid it on a bit longer before remembering to introduce Marley by the name on his passport. “Jim is a stringer for the Monitor. He's read your husband's books.”

Julianne Helgeson turned to Marley. “Have you, Jim?”

“With interest,” Marley said. “It must have been difficult for him, exposing CIA agents he'd known in his career.”

She nodded slightly. “It was necessary.”

“But it took courage, didn't it?” Marley said with a sympathy he didn't feel.

“Yes, it took courage. Our lives have been very difficult.” She turned to Philip Rule. “Philip, the purser was hoping to talk to you tonight. I want you to handle the arrangements. John would want to be buried in the United States. I'll fly back with him.”

Rule popped up. “I'll go find that purser.” He stopped. “What are you going to do? You could return to dancing.”

“I'll continue John's work,” she said. “Once we've taken care of things at home, I'll go to Amsterdam. See if there's a place for me in the organization.”

“I'm sure there will be,” Rule said.

“The gallant widow?” Her smile was bitter.

Rule shook his head. “No. You know your husband's work better than anyone. I'm sure Donny will put you in charge.”

“Then I will do my best,” she said.

* * * *

After Rule was gone, she leaned back on the sofa. Her eyes were wounded, but not that deeply. “Well, Charles.”

“Well,” Marley said, sizing up the woman he hadn't seen in years. “Do you have anything for me?”

“We were on our way to meet two Russians in Rijeka. They were going to run John in Europe. I have their names.”

“Good girl.” He couldn't help asking, “You didn't—ah . . . ?”

“No, I didn't.”

“Eight years is a long time.”

“You didn't know John.” She smiled. “I loved him despite everything.”

The words passed him as if he hadn't heard. Leaning forward, speaking more intensely than he meant to, almost like Rule, he said, “Julianne, I can bring you in. We'll walk off the ship. You'll be in New York tomorrow. In a safe place.”

Her look might have held some of the professional's contempt for the amateur. “I don't need rescuing. I'm where I want to be.”

Seeing his expression, she softened her tone. “I'm where you want me to be. I'll have access in both Havana and Amsterdam. There will be plenty of goodies for you.”

Nodding, Marley looked around the lounge to hide his embarrassment. Twice in two days he'd had the same foolish thought. Suddenly he felt grateful that he hadn't said anything to the girl on the street, who also would have recognized him as a fool.

* * * *

He watched from a distance as Julianne Helgeson accompanied a coffin off the ship. Philip Rule was carrying two bags, bending toward her solicitously, perhaps hoping that he had a chance with her, or that he could glean a tidbit of information that could be sold somewhere. Marley didn't care. He didn't follow them to the airport. His friend in security would see that she got on the plane.

Philip Rule came around to the American bar two days later and seemed surprised to see Marley. He got a beer from the disillusioned owner and came over to Marley's table. Before he sat down, Marley said, “Were you in on it?”

Rule hesitated, decided not to pretend. “Not until we got to the ship. I made the mistake of asking the purser to see the body.”

“And it wasn't John Larkin.”

Rule put his beer on the table, slid into a wooden chair. “Crew member had a heart attack two days out of Havana. Julianne and Larkin improvised. Ten thousand dollars to the family, they didn't care where Papa was buried. The captain needed less.”

“You let them get away with it.”

“Charles, I don't know what they're trying to get away with. Julianne called me this morning. The sailor's body was cremated. John Larkin is officially dead. She plans to join him somewhere. Talks about living quietly.”

“She told me she would stay in the field.”

“She told you what you wanted to hear, that she was dedicated. She did eight years, Charles, probably decided that was enough.”

“Does Larkin know she worked for me?”

Rule grinned, as gently as he grinned at the whores. “You'd have to ask them. Julianne told me you'd offered to bring her in. But she didn't need you, did she? She figured a way out by herself. That's how it's done, you know. We figure a way out by ourselves.”

Copyright © 2012 John C. Boland

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Department: MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH

* * * *

Copyright © 2012 Algecireño/Shutterstock.com

* * * *

BROUGHT UP SHORT

We will give a prize of $25 to the person who invents the best mystery story (in 250 words or less, and be sure to include a crime) based on the above photograph. The story will be printed in a future issue. Reply to AHMM, Dell Magazines, 267 Broadway, New York, New York 10007-2352. Please label your entry “July/August Contest,” and be sure your name and address are written on the story you submit. If you would like your story returned, please include an SASE.

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Fiction: DEATH ON THE RANGE
by Elaine Menge

I arrived just as Gray was unlocking the clubhouse door. My nephew Oliver had begged for a quick lesson before the county's junior golf tournament, set for that morning. His group would tee off at eight thirty.

The night before, Oliver texted me in the charming way teenagers communicate nowadays: “Ant Marian I no u hate erly but rember im ur favorite nefew.” It took me a few beats to translate the hieroglyphics.

He's my only nephew, and knows he'd be my favorite even if I had twenty. Partly thanks to my fellow teaching pro, Bobby, on whom I pinned my hopes for way too many years, I've never married and have no kids. This one, bestowed upon me and the world by my brother and his ex, has been a godsend—at least when he doesn't get me up before sunrise.

But I liked it, hitting balls on a September morning, dew still weeping down the grass, the sun gearing up to slay the fog.

Our driving range is nice, a long crescent of individual stalls, each separated from the next with low wooden slats. There's a second tier above. The upper deck is great as it gives golfers below shade in summer. Otherwise, I've never liked it up there—always feel a little off balance.

Naturally, Oliver was late.

There'd been a spritzing drizzle the night before, which accounted for the fog. Being up early reminded me of my youth, which still doesn't seem that long ago. In my twenties I won the ladies’ state amateur title twice in a row; also won the girls’ version of Oliver's junior tournament when I was his age.

This particular morning, all forty-nine years of me felt ageless. Despite hiccup-like hints of arthritis, my bones, cartilage, and synovial fluid were in happy sync.

I'm a teaching pro at the municipal range here, one of the million training centers in the Florida panhandle. We who ply this trade—those not employed by ritzy clubs—are a dime a dozen. Being the only female pro at Gulf Breeze, my worth's closer to a nickel a bushel.

There were six of us, all PGA certified—LPGA for me—though we sometimes suspected that the newest member of our cohort, Marcello, might have faked his credentials.

We vied for a limited pool of students. Victims, Bobby called them.

When the economy tanks, competition tightens. I'd hear Mr. Joe—our oldest, most girth-challenged colleague—tell a student who was looking for Bobby that he'd do much better if he switched to him, Mr. Joe, even though Joe gives his lessons sitting down and hasn't swung a club in years. Bobby plied his own less obvious methods to steal students from Mr. Joe, Marcello, and Jake and Riley, our two part-timers. Bobby never stole from me. That'd be like raiding a half-empty cookie jar. If anything, he steered clients my way. The less good-looking women, for instance.

Anyway, I was hitting some quality shots with my new hybrid club. Oliver's laugh sounded in the background, letting me know he'd soon appear. He was joking with Gray, who when business is hopping, mans the front desk, but since it wasn't, he wasn't.

And then I heard a ping. One of my shots struck metal. Despite the fog, the glint of a club's shaft caught my eye. It lay about as far out as I might be able to fling one. I slogged through the squishy grass to retrieve it.

Tubing the wet shaft through my hands, I could've sworn it was Bobby's favorite sand wedge. Why Bobby's wedge would be lying thirty yards out, I couldn't fathom. Why anyone's sand wedge would be lying out there, for that matter, was a minor mystery.

I brought the club back to my spot and hooked its head over the slatted barrier that separates one stall from another. Then I hugged Oliver while he made a lame excuse for being tardy.

He seemed several turns more tightly strung than usual. “I'm doing that reverse-pivot thing again, like I used to when I was a kid,” he said, rubbing his bangs out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yesterday's practice, I even missed the ball. Pretended it was a practice swing, but it wasn't. I looked like an amateur.”

I didn't bother pointing out that he was an amateur, and also still pretty much a kid. I'm in the encouragement game. You have to be positive, no matter how delusional the hacker you're working with might be. Oliver, full of raw talent, was only suffering a case of the yips.

“Think baseball,” I said. “Swing like a batter.”

“Yeah, that baseball drill.” He commenced swinging, as if a fastball had just zinged across the plate.

I shot a hand out to steady his head. “Feel the weight shift—that simple, natural shift. Now swing lower. Keep swinging like—” I was about to invoke a name in baseball, a hero who, sadly, is more famous for steroid use these days. I dropped a ball on the mat. “Aim at the blue flag.” It flapped a hundred yards out. “You'll need to make more of these short ones than anything else.”

Oliver launched a beaut, nearly hit the flagstick, then followed that with two more, one of which did.

“Wow, you're magic, Aunt Marian.” He turned to deliver a high-five, knowing I'm not into knuckle-crunches.

That's the moment Bobby's body chose to plunk smack dab in front of us. Thump, flop, it went, denting the wet mix of grass and mud.

I looked up at the concrete ceiling above and screamed—felt like my head was about to blow off. Oliver let out a stunned yelp.

That fast, I knew it was Bobby. He'd landed sideways, his back to us, but I recognized the wispy V of graying brown hair at the nape of his neck. More, I recognized the blue-checked windshirt, my gift last Christmas.

Next thing, I was on my knees in the muck, pushing on Bobby's chest with both hands.

He was dead—arms and legs stiff, posed in a weird corkscrew—but I kept pushing, trying.

An unknown quantity of time elapsed. Two cops materialized, followed by two EMTs. I felt sure those EMTs, employing their lifesaving skills, would revive Bobby. Instead, sooner than I thought reasonable, they stretchered him into a vehicle I couldn't place. Not a gleaming white ambulance with fat red and blue running stripes, but a narrow, mud-colored van—the coroner's wagon, I learned. Its rude motor had been churning in the parking lot behind us long enough to arouse my anger.

As the van slowly withdrew, I wanted to launch hand grenades at it to make its live occupants realize they needed to give Bobby another chance, but the two men in blue left behind, with faces so nondescript I thought of them as identical twins, were intent on questioning me.

“How do you know the deceased?” one asked.

I thought he'd said diseased, and that made me remember that Bobby once told me he'd had whooping cough as a child.

Oliver was no longer there. I vaguely recall that he'd tried to comfort me. Later, I heard he'd made his tee time for the tournament. I was glad, but I did wish for a familiar face, all the same. It was just me and these two clowns in blue who wore wide belts with all kinds of gizmos hanging off them.

“Robert Beechum,” one of them said. “You know him?”

“Bobby's a pro here, like me.” I became aware of what I must look like, my capris soaked and muddy at the knees. I picked up the wedge I'd found earlier and said, “Then, this must be Bobby's after all.”

“Can you explain that remark?” the other one said. The way he eyed the club in my hand, you'd think I'd just stolen the crown jewels.

“I found this on the range when I got here. It looks like Bobby's sand wedge, but that doesn't make sense.”

“That's evidence there, in your hand.” He held his arms out like a man who's trying to keep a lunatic from jumping off a cliff. “If you would, very carefully, lean that against the wall where you found it.”

Though that wasn't where I'd found it, I followed directions. I stared at the concrete ceiling above. “Has anyone checked upstairs?” I asked. “Bobby fell? Or did someone push him?”

Neither answered.

I must have been shaking pretty bad because, one on each side, supporting my elbows, they ushered me inside the clubhouse. Gray, his face as gray as his beard and his name, shuffled over and draped his ancient flannel sweat jacket over my shoulders. Soon we were snug in Mackal's office—that's Gulf Breeze's manager. The identical twin cops steered me to a chair and left.

Next thing—it seemed like forever, but also like a very short time, if you know what I mean—a tall, thin woman dressed in a dusty gold pantsuit entered. She pulled Mackal's chair from behind his desk and rolled it close to mine. Her blouse had a flappy silk bow at the neck, patterned with irregular brownish yellow spots that made me think of a giraffe's coat. Her long neck, jutting above that bow and toward me, nearly bridged the distance between us.

The boss, Mackal, wouldn't like this, I thought. A huge, imposing guy, he wears broad-brimmed hats, Western shirts, and mirrored sunglasses as if, loping in from West Texas, he'd been born into that costume. Boots go without saying. His office is his sanctuary. That's the only moment I cracked a smile, imagining Mackal's face if he just happened to walk in.

Detective Candy Finn caught sight of my grin. That didn't work in my favor.

Anyone with a name like Candy, I can't take seriously. She informed me with great pomp and circumstance that she was the investigator on this case.

“Case,” I said.

“The death of Robert Meechum.”

“I need to talk to Gray,” I said. “Ask if Bobby came in before me. Did he come early, and fall from up there?”

Detective Candy's eyelids fluttered, as if to say, surely you must know this was no accident. I couldn't help thinking her lashes were truly functioning as they might in the wild, to fan away gnats.

“You mean, someone pushed him? Those two cops, I asked them, did they bother to run upstairs, see if anyone was up there with Bobby? They wouldn't answer.”

She gave me the patient smile of a major goddess. “The cops, as you put it, are more used to asking questions than answering them. Now, I have a few.” She tilted back in Mackal's chair and pursed her lips, working them up and down in a way that was supposed to signal contemplation, but which put me more in mind of a giraffe chewing its cud.

When she asked about the exact nature of my relationship with Bobby, I saw no need to hide the fact that we'd been on-and-off lovers. If I didn't say it, someone else would. Someone like Marcello, for instance—our PGA question mark.

I even admitted that Bobby had dumped me for what I vowed was the last time, only two weeks ago.

On the other hand, I didn't feel the need to tell her that Bobby, two bottles of Rolling Rock beer scissored between the fingers of one hand, invited me up to the top deck the very night he dumped me.

He wasn't intentionally insensitive. Bobby just had a very broad streak of yellow, not to mention dumbness, down the middle of his back. Somehow he thought that sitting up top with his legs dangling over the edge as he chugged the brew, would make a nice, comforting scene to inform me that, yet again, he'd fallen for another woman, and that this time, as a few times before, it was the real thing.

Apparently, he thought the upper deck would provide a nice setting even though years earlier, he'd also deemed it the ideal romantic spot to declare a proposal of marriage to me. Unfortunately—or fortunately, as my dad saw it back then—five days later he became enraptured with the trophy wife of a megabucks husband who'd hired Bobby to turn this slicing, hooking, clueless bit of fluff into a golfing whiz.

I saw no need to reveal these juicy tidbits to Detective Finn. As I reviewed the years in my head, I became aware of a broad streak of dumbness in myself. Still, I'd loved Bobby. Though vowing never to go back to him after this latest affair fizzled, I also knew I'd miss him like hell.

“You seem to be hinting that I killed him,” I said, since all of Finn's questions were pointing that way.

Her blinking lashes fanned a few more invisible gnats.

I said, “Well, you can cross me off the list. I was coaching my nephew, Oliver, at the time.”

She answered breezily, “Beecham was already in rigor. You—home alone all last evening—you're still in the mix. We won't have a TOD until the report comes in. Till then, cheers, Ms. Larkin. For now, you're free to go.”

I stared, then squeezed my eyes shut. “You mean Bobby died before I got here, before he fell?”

I hiked my shoulders in disbelief. “How does a body just happen to fall off the top deck, hours later? I mean, how does it choose the perfect moment to drop right in front of me, when . . .”

Candy patted my back as if to say, run along little chick—we'll nail you later.

I squirmed away, trying to evade her touch, to let her know that answer didn't cover it.

She blinked at me with fake compassion. “You were in the right place at the wrong time. He was in rigor. Then something—a breeze?—loosened his hold on those slats.”

I felt more in shock then than when the actual event occurred. Bobby's killer had done the deed and left. Through the night Bobby had hung half on, half off the platform. Later, at the very time I was teaching Oliver, his body decided to keel over, take the plunge in front of us.

Just like Bobby. Always with the practical jokes.

When I emerged from Mackal's office, the full contingent of golf instructors was gathered in the hall, awaiting their own interviews. For a fleeting moment I caught a glint of suspicion in Marcello's eyes, our beloved Argentinian of the dubious PGA credentials. But then he and the others crowded around me, expressing their sorrow at Bobby's passing. They clearly understood how hard this sudden death was.

Just then Mackal strode in. His brow furrowed at the sight of us. Working up a dismissive if vaguely wondering glance, he lifted his shades onto his forehead, then opened his office door. The language that ensued broke the tense mood in the hall.

Next thing, it was Mackal backing out—that big man, almost on tippy-toe. Candy Finn won the battle of his office, and clued him in that not even he, Mackal, was above suspicion.

That night, when I finally crawled into bed, it hit me full force. Bobby was gone.

I clutched my pillow as if it might turn into his warm, familiar body—and then, I couldn't help it—I laughed. A scared, tired, drawn-out laugh he might have shared, if he only knew about all the crap I'd gone through that day on his account. Bobby had a keen love of the absurd.

For all of his infidelities, I loved him. Sure, maybe he deserved a kick in the pants on a regular basis, but not this deadly blow to the head.

That was the coroner's conclusion, I heard the next day. One perfectly launched bop to the temple with Bobby's own sand wedge, which the killer then flung from the top tier into the outer space of a black night. I pictured the club cartwheeling in the short grass, then lying still, waiting for morning when one of my balls was destined to ping off its dew-laden shaft.

I couldn't sleep that first night. Who was Bobby's new girlfriend anyway?—a question I hadn't brought up with Candy Finn. Was she a student, or someone he'd met on the outside? Perhaps he realized he'd made a mistake. Invited her up to the top tier to dump her, as he'd dumped me, and she, being an unbalanced type who couldn't take rejection—she'd clobbered him with his own sand wedge. Or maybe she had a jealous boyfriend or husband who'd dragged Bobby up there after hours. All these possibilities roiled in my head.

When I woke after what seemed like years of tossing and turning, I remembered I had a nine o'clock lesson waiting. Two more would come before lunch. After lunch, if no one stood me up, I'd be busy until three. Then, once school let out, my juniors would descend on me—a group of fifteen high-strung highschoolers I teach two days a week.

I could cancel everybody, but the bills that drop through my mail slot aren't interested in personal griefs or sleepless nights.

At the range, everything had changed, right down to the ordinary workings of gravity. Balls popped off even the best students’ clubs at weird angles. Some who'd heard about Bobby acted as if nothing had happened; others expressed sorrow; a disgusting few seemed avid for details.

Gray hugged me first thing. Our oldest full-timer, Mr. Joe, though disapproving of my presence there on principle—I'm female and he thinks women are so hopeless they should be barred from the sport—sent a few gruff but caring words my way. Even Marcello, who usually only teased me about my hair or my skinny bones, spared a few moments to pin me with his beautiful liquid brown eyes and say with his signature romantic eloquence that although Bobby had been my sorry-assed lover not long ago, his own heart bled for me like the world's greatest river.

Still, for the rest of the day I sensed that when any of us passed each other, our eyes didn't quite meet. The part-timers too. It was as if instead of feeling we'd lost a comrade, they were embarrassed to admit that the thing wasn't as clean as that.

Bobby was well liked. No matter, we were competitors. Someone killed him. Could that person be one of us?

I wondered if the others thought me guilty. I admit, I wondered if a fellow instructor could have done it for filthy lucre. Not Mr. Joe. He was too slow of foot, too mired in his own cobwebbed, semimisogynistic head. But what about Marcello? It seemed to me he had the most to gain.

And gain he did. In the next two weeks, Marcello picked up more of Bobby's ex-students than the rest of us put together. He won the lion's share of Bobby's young guys, the ones who think they can shoot the moon, and a big chunk of his middle-aged duffers, and of course, nearly all of Bobby's female golfers, at least the ones who weren't so hormonally challenged as to be dead to Marcello's masculine charm.

Four of Bobby's older men gravitated to Mr. Joe, and for him, that addition was a big bonus. The two part-timers gained a few also. I ended up with three older women, one geeky guy, and a pretty good younger fellow who told me that Bobby always said I was a great teacher. I have to admit, that bit of posthumous praise coming from Bobby felt good.

But Marcello troubled me. Though Mr. Joe was the one who questioned his PGA pedigree the most, grumbling about false advertising and how the boss should check his standing in the PGA, I believe Joe kept his mutterings out of Marcello's hearing. Bobby, on the other hand, had the bad habit of joking about Marcello's status right to his face.

Bobby wasn't being vicious. He wasn't even much keyed into the issue. He was just the kind of guy who loved to discover fresh subject matter for a teasing.

Later, when Bobby heard that Marcello was not only from Argentina, but was also half German, he invented a new round of jokes, hinting at his blood ties to famous Nazi war criminals who'd migrated to that South American sanctuary. Though Marcello would laugh along, I sensed a pained smoldering in his eyes.

Bobby had that hail-fellow-well-met golfer's side to him. I'm making him sound like a dummy. He wasn't. He was just oblivious to certain social cues. He wasn't cruel with his joking, but you could say that he was naive about how others, especially Marcello, might take his ribbing.

In view of this competitive history between Marcello and Bobby, I wondered why Candy Finn zeroed in on me instead of Marcello. Had she done any follow-up on who benefited most from Bobby's death? Days after the murder, I was asked to appear at her office downtown to give a formal statement. None of the other pros at Gulf Breeze had been called on to go that extra mile. Apparently, I was her chief suspect.

I asked Finn point blank, “So you actually think I killed Bobby?”

“You're merely a person of interest,” she answered.

I glanced at the photos in little frames on her desk, the ones I could see. Instead of a child or husband, they were all of a dog—one of those exotic Afghans with a hairdo like Rod Stewart's. “I know what this person-of-interest stuff means nowadays,” I said.

She ignored my comment, just said, “Don't leave town anytime soon. We'll be in touch.”

I stopped at the threshold of her office, thinking of Marcello. I also wanted to ask if she realized Bobby had a new girlfriend. Who was she? Despite my suspicions, I wasn't about to direct her inquiry one way or the other. If Marcello was innocent, I'd be a rat, and I have to admit that I found it hard to look into those soulful eyes of his and pronounce him a murderer. And if I brought the other woman up, it would make me sound bitter and perhaps make my jealousy seem an even more plausible motive.

“You have anything to add?” Candy asked, seeing me hesitate.

“Those dogs, Afghans. Good dogs, are they?”

“Loyal,” she said. “Extremely loyal.”

“Nice,” I said. “If only more people were.”

I don't know how that sat with her, or if I'd stepped into it again, since—yes—I was thinking of Bobby when I said the words. Hardly the poster child for loyalty. Suspecting as much, she probably jotted a note on her pad for that one.

Back to Marcello: Only days after that interview, I learned not to trust his sincere liquid brown eyes. The crux of the matter was Bobby's video camera—one of those gizmos teaching pros can't live without these days. It's a diagnostic tool that intimately analyzes a student's swing.

I never could save enough to buy one for myself. Bobby, generous soul that he was—and he truly was—let me use his when he could spare it. Granted, it was an antique model—video instead of digital—but a great tool all the same.

He kept the camera on its stand in a storage closet at the range clubhouse. Bobby had a key, and I had a key.

I fleetingly wondered if Detective Candy might confiscate the thing, since looking at the swings of Bobby's students might have forensic value. Days later, when I needed to use it, I was happy to find that Bobby's swing analyzer, my friendly robot, was still there in the closet.

If you don't have one of these expensive things, some students think you aren't legit. But then, Mr. Joe never used one. In a second he could assess a problem swing better than any camera.

I'd wheeled Bobby's equipment out to my teaching stall and was in the middle of a lesson with the younger guy Bobby had bragged about me to, when a cop showed up and laid his fat hands on my precious camera.

He flashed a badge and said, “This evidence is being impounded.”

My student's eyebrows shot up. I'm afraid he thought his swing was such an eyesore, it had been condemned by the city fathers.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I need this machine for my work. You can't do this.”

Turned out he could too do this.

Who'd brought Bobby's video equipment to Detective Candy Finn's attention, I wanted to know.

None other than Marcello.

Gray told me. He'd heard it from part-timer Riley, who'd gotten it from the horse's mouth: Marcello himself.

“Pardon, but it was my duty to tell,” Marcello said, hand over heart as if reciting the Boy Scout pledge when I confronted him. “Detective lady—she call me, was there anything I not tell her, and I remember Bobby—so mad when he find you erased his swings. My duty it was, to tell. Sorry, so sorry, Marian, if this cause you inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience? This woman thinks I killed Bobby, you half-Nazi, fake-pro tattletale.”

Marcello shoved his hands into his pockets as if afraid I'd cut them off. He hiked his shoulders, then let them fall. “Duty dictates. I tell everything I know.”

“Same here,” I answered. “Like, duty dictates I tell how you've picked up nearly all of Bobby's students. Pretty good motive, I think.”

“A woman's scorn. Good motive too.” He turned his back to me. “Pretty good.”

I seethed at him behind his back, though his body language said he was more wounded than angry.

That damn swing camera.

Candy Finn called me on the carpet again because of the footage I'd erased. See, a few days before Bobby invited me up top to drink beers and to inform me that once again he'd found the love of his life, I'd borrowed his camera.

I'd never before much looked at videos of Bobby's students, but this time, a blinking light let me know that no space was left on the tape. On my way to clearing a spot for my own student, I caught sight of some of Bobby's. The guys’ photos were boring and straightforward. But then some female students popped up, caught on camera just before their swings. Several struck me as seriously flirtatious.

A fire crackled in my chest. One young gal in particular—a beauty pageant blond of the kind who all look alike, wearing a breast-hugging white knit top with a print of pastel-outlined golf balls traveling across her nipples—really hacked me off. I paused on her swing. Addressing the ball, she ran her tongue a complete circuit around the orifice bordered by bee-stung lips, shook her back end like a Playboy Bunny in heat, reared up on her toes, leveled off, and then smacked the ball. A beautiful shot, actually.

I pushed the erase button.

Bobby always said that if he croaked early, he'd will me his camera. Now Candy Finn had it. And Marcello had ratted me out, saying I'd erased Bobby's students out of spite.

My fingerprints were all over the apparatus. No mystery why. I expected any minute to be handcuffed, if not hogtied. But my anger was directed more at myself than at the dimwitted detective with the ridiculous neck. Marcello had successfully deflected suspicion away from himself and onto me. If only I could have been more serene when I saw the swing videos of Bobby's girls. If I'd exercised some control, perhaps Marcello's greedy motives might have caught Candy's fancy instead of my own jealous peevishness.

When she asked about the missing video footage, I summoned my deadpan look. I have a good poker face. When you hit as many bad shots as I have in my career, you learn to stare each one down as if it'd just crashed a party, acted rudely to the extreme, and yet you don't much care.

“You're excused,” Candy Finn finally said, like an exasperated high-school principal. Her tone seemed even more disapproving and suspicious than before, but I wasn't detained. They had nothing on me.

Sadly, they didn't have anything on anybody else either.

I was so mad at Marcello, the next Monday I stared him down as he approached my stall. He gave me a cheery buenos dias as if this were just another day. Then he stopped by Mr. Joe's to converse, only two slots down from me.

My student was already ten minutes late, a sure sign that I'd been stood up. Doctors might fine you for ditching an appointment; we golf pros can't recover a dime. Students have the upper hand and know it. If they don't like your rules, they cancel the rest of their contracted series, get a refund, then talk you down behind your back. As a result, golf teachers are the most smilingly tolerant professionals on God's green earth.

Stood up, I had nothing better to do than practice my own swing, and eavesdrop on Mr. Joe's latest diatribe.

In his bass monotone belch of a voice, Mr. Joe resorted to his key word—dame—a favorite word, which refers to a woman, any woman, from eighteen to eighty.

“So this dame comes up to me and asks if I can teach her how to spin the ball backwards on the green on an approach shot. ‘You know, the way the professionals do.'” Mr. Joe used his best falsetto to mimic her.

“Ye-sss?” Marcello responded, lengthening the word as if trying to yank Mr. Joe's point out of him.

“I said, little filly, that's a highly specialized skill and girls can't spin the ball on the green. Period.”

“Hoo, you say that?” Marcello rocked back on his heels. “Don't you get it, Mr. Joe? If you say yes you can teach that, you have student for life.” He rubbed thumbs against fingers to signal dollar signs. “Money in bank.”

Mr. Joe ignored him. “So then this dame says, ‘But what about those LPGA women? They can spin the ball on the green.'”

Mr. Joe let his heavy head drop, and wagged it to and fro, as if holding it erect might signal agreement with this nutty dame. “I swear,” he said, “this dame's eyes—beautiful eyes—get really big, piercing, like this is the biggest issue on earth. And that's when I say, little filly, you're making my point for me. Those LPGA gals you're talking about—well, you can't exactly say they're bona fide females, hormonally speaking, now can you?”

He started in on a series of chuckles—deep bass, belly-rattling, yet toneless esophageal eruptions which, for Mr. Joe, signify mirth. Marcello joined in.

“She don't have a clue of you.” Marcello, hands on hips, arched his spine backwards to give his raucous laugh emphasis. A hint of sputum clogged his bronchial tubes. He said, “You old female-hater, you.”

Mr. Joe's freckled scalp, showing through thinning gray hair, glistened in the sunlight. He pointed his cigar at Marcello. “Don't get me wrong, you Mr. PGA professional golfer. Women hold this world together. Don't you forget it. They just don't belong on a golf course.”

I could have spoken those words in perfect sync with him, I've heard them so often.

Marcello's fake laughter continued as he sauntered back to his own teaching stall on the far end, as if he, Marcello, truly endorsed Mr. Joe's views, when the very opposite was the case, especially since Mr. Joe had just made a dig at Marcello's professional standing.

My guess is that Marcello was dumbfounded by the number of students Joe maintained, all of them guys, even though in the last few years Joe showed little inclination to swing a club himself. Now and then he'd play a round with an old friend, and he'd bring his Scottish terrier along for the ride in his golf cart—the best-behaved dog I've ever seen. But otherwise, Mr. Joe mainly sat in a webbed lawn chair at his habitual stall, just a few paces from the stairs leading to the upper tier, smoking cigars, sipping a mixture of whiskey and water, and generally dishing out his eccentric take on the universe.

A week later, we suffered an extremely rainy Wednesday. Few patrons, as we like to call them, came out to practice their swings. Only one of my students showed up: Brett, the young guy with talent Bobby had passed on to me.

When I first pushed through the range's clubhouse doors to the outside, I noticed that Marcello was walking several yards ahead of me, heading out toward the teaching shed with a bucket of balls and a few clubs. That's where we take our students if the heat's bad or if rain threatens. Or, in Marcello's case, if he wants privacy with a hot lady.

Since a light rain was blowing in, I ushered my student, Brett, to a stall several away from my usual spot, one more protected from the spatter. On the way, we passed Mr. Joe, who gave us a wave, along with a disapproving eye squint that said: Why would this young buck want a lesson from a little bit of a female like Marian?

I've known Mr. Joe for nearly twenty years. Aside from this insane hobbyhorse about women golfers, he's got a soft heart, and he loves dogs. Anyone like that can't be all bad, I tell myself. Maybe not even Detective Candy, I guess, with her exotic pooch.

Sometimes I had to suppress a desire to hug Mr. Joe's rotund frame, because his flat, monotone, woman-bashing monologues reminded me of my cigar-smoking Uncle Fred so much. Like Uncle Fred, Joe was a cream-puff on the inside.

During the lesson with Brett, my back was to Mr. Joe. Nearing the end of the hour, thunder rumbled. A concentrated clap of discontent followed. The earth rocked beneath our feet. I stopped the lesson and promised Brett to add ten minutes onto the next session. When it comes to lightning, discretion is the better part of valor.

The raindrops came farther apart. I walked down to the teaching shed to hit a few balls off the grass, and was surprised that Marcello wasn't still there. I didn't realize that he'd passed us again, going back toward the range clubhouse during our lesson.

I lingered in the shed. Hit a few more balls, thinking of Bobby, the good times we shared. I stared at myself in the full-length mirror that leans against one wall, the mirror we keep there to witness good form, or bad, for our students. I stared at myself and wondered where Bobby was now. It felt so odd to be here still, Bobby somewhere else.

There hadn't been a funeral, at least not in town. Bobby was from Nebraska. His son from an early marriage still lived there, and had Bobby shipped home. I gazed at the mirror and my throat did one of those painful knotted spasms, and I cried out loud, “Bobby, where are you?”

A while later, heading back to the range office, the rain nearly over with, I passed Mr. Joe once more. He was positioned in his webbed chair as always, chin resting on his chubby chest, apparently napping. I was about to call out a soft goodbye.

But as I neared I saw that this was no nap. The left side of his head, which from my initial vantage point had been the dark side of the moon, was a bruised mess. Joe's own 7-iron, lying at his feet, appeared to be the weapon.

Mouth open, squinting against the dipping sun on the west side of the slight crescent our stalls describe, I made out the figure of Marcello, methodically hitting one ball after another to the medium range flag, his form perfect.

I ran to the range office. “Mr. Joe,” I called, again and again. “Mr. Joe—he's dead.”

I couldn't believe it. He seemed so much a part of Gulf Breeze, as solid and enduring as one of the concrete struts that supported the second tier. Sure, he was bullheaded, but he knew what he wanted to pull out of his students, and he succeeded even in his later years without so much as rising from his chair.

* * * *

Once again, I'd been the last to see the victim alive. At least, the last anyone could attest to. Another interview with Detective Candy followed. Once again, nothing at the scene pointed to any one person. No prints on the club. And Mr. Joe didn't work with a camera, bragged he didn't need one of those newfangled things. His record-keeping wasn't much better than Bobby's, but I believe the police contacted all the students of his they could reach. The strange case of the Gulf Breeze Range was blared on the evening news, but the police obviously didn't have a clue.

In the days that followed, the atmosphere at work was grim. Use of the range fell off, if not by much. Guys and gals who want to become better golfers will do anything, even ignore murder statistics. Besides, perhaps our patrons felt they could rest easy since it was only us teachers getting the ax. But the feel of the place, as balls pinged off clubs, was strange.

I love Florida, but I started Googling other places for employment. Scottsdale, Arizona, for instance. That dry heat, as opposed to Florida's extreme humidity, was sounding more and more attractive. I took notes.

And I wondered. Who would be next? Me?

The day of Mr. Joe's funeral, Marcello stood next to me as the priest finished his homily. “Poor old guy,” he said. “A good, God-loving man.”

I loved Mr. Joe in my own way, but didn't think of him as pathetic, or overly religious. Maybe it was just Marcello's way of filling an awkward pause with the usual culturally approved talking points. He seemed sincere, but something about his manner made me uneasy. I'm not sure if the look he gave me was a suspicious one, implying my possible guilt, or a sly one, weighing whether or not I might be successfully conned. I let myself fantasize. Was he the one? A suave sociopathic killer. His aim: collecting more students for himself and getting even with any who questioned his credentials. If so, had he reached his economic goals? Surely, he now had more students than he could manage.

Creepy musings. At least, days after the funeral, I was happy to hear that one of Joe's students had taken on the care of his Scottie, Chipper.

* * * *

I sent out resumes. Waited.

While waiting, unfortunately, I still had to work. I just made it a point of common sense never to be at the range after hours or when it was nearly deserted, which is midday, usually. Above all, I avoided Marcello.

September was doing its best to turn summer into fall, not that the difference is terribly noticeable in the Panhandle. By the first week of October, my favorite month, I still hadn't gotten any nibbles.

I felt okay with that. We potential victims at the range, and the killer, whoever he was, seemed to achieve a truce. That is, no one else got his head bashed in.

Still, I didn't let down my guard, was careful not to come in too early or stay too late.

After Mr. Joe left us, Marcello seemed depressed. But by mid October, his spirits picked up. One afternoon, passing my usual teaching spot, he ruffled my hair with one hand and called me his skinny amiga.

“He's walking on air,” Gray told me later, standing behind his counter. “New girlfriend.”

Nothing special about that. Marcello always had a new girlfriend, though I'd never before heard Gray say he was walking on water, much less air, after the fact.

“How lovely,” I said. “You know her? Can you pick her out of a crowd?”

“Sure. She's blonde. I've seen her around.”

“They're all blonde. I mean, can you truly pick her out of a crowd?”

“Right, I get ya.” Gray gave me a good-natured wink.

I felt some disdain for Marcello's taste. Just like Bobby, a lamebrain in the romance department. The great loves of Bobby's life all turned out to be lookalikes. Marcello's track record struck me as being on par with Bobby's. Then again, Marcello was a lot less vulnerable to any woman, and I sensed that he had nothing like Bobby's trusting heart.

Marcello, my main suspect. Marcello, who put the bug in Candy Finn's ear about Bobby's camera.

Despite that, I waved a guarded hello to him two days later as he passed me on the way to the teaching shed. Couldn't help remembering that months before all this mayhem, I caught him there, locked in a passionate kiss with a student just the wrong side of married. I said, “So sorry,” and backed out as if I, and not they, had transgressed.

Anyway, this time when I sailed a wave Marcello's way in the late afternoon, he seemed surprised that I made the effort. He nodded, gave me a wondering smile. In the beat that I was turning away, it seemed to me that his smile had morphed into something more authentic.

Barely an hour later, our part-timer, Riley, strolled down to the shed to hit a bucket of balls in peace. He never got off a single stroke. Marcello lay on the ground, his left temple bashed in.

About the time this discovery was made, I was already heading home, ready to enjoy a gourmet dinner cooked up by my local fancy grocery, the one I go to on those rare occasions when I get the itch to spend more money than makes sense. Just as I lifted the first forkfull, the phone rang. It was Gray. “You won't believe this,” he said. “Marcello. He's dead. The police are all over the place, just like before.”

The word dumbfounded is a stupid-sounding word, but that's what I was.

Gray said, “Sorry to be short, but I wanted to give you a heads up.”

I wish he hadn't. It would have been better if I could have appeared dumbfounded for Candy Finn's benefit too.

The next call was from a nasal-voiced Gulf Breeze Police Department functionary. I was invited to come in for questioning that night. Or I might delay until morning, though the edge in the functionary's voice implied that might not be a bright idea. My fancy shrimp dinner went back into the fridge.

Again I faced Candy. Her office lighting was a dim yellow that made me think of the bug-lights my grandfather used to screw in above his carport. Not cool, the news coming to her attention that for a third time I'd been the last to see a murder victim alive.

She dragged a hand down her long neck as if to reassure her voice box of some deep truth. “What can you tell me about your relationship with Marcello Reinhardt?” she asked.

I raised my brows and tilted my head, showing a hint of impatience. “He was a teaching pro at the range, like me.”

“That's all?”

“Sorry, but you're looking at the original Bobby's girl. Period.” I felt so stupid, realizing that I'd actually used a teen song from the sixties to describe my love life.

“You had no romantic dealings with Mr. Reinhardt?”

Dealings? An uncontrollable sputter erupted from my throat. Good thing I was more than an arm's length away from Detective Finn, for hygienic purposes.

She popped a tissue from its slotted box on the desk and dabbed at the wood as if an errant drop had landed there. “Care to explain that explosive response?”

“You'd have to know Marcello's favorite word. Voluptuous,” I deadpanned. “He'd say things like, ‘Oh, my new girlfriend is so nice and pretty, and so voluptuous.'” My front teeth stabbed my lower lip as I smiled. “Let's just say, I'm way too much on the scrawny side to attract Marcello's attention.” Glancing at Candy's not terribly bouncy chest, I wanted to add, same goes for you.

“The question is, did you wish you could attract his attention?”

I gave her a definitive, unwavering no. “Now, if you don't mind, I'm outta here.”

She stood, hesitated, as if wondering if she should keep me after school. Then she gave me a searing look like the ones you see on those true-crime channels coming from nearly omnipotent law enforcement guys. “Before you go,” she said, “is there anything else you'd like to say?”

I raised by brows wistfully. “Just that up until now, I thought Marcello killed Bobby and Mr. Joe.”

“So much for that theory.” Candy chewed her cheek and squinted at her notes. “All right, Miss Larkin—you can go.”

I wanted to click my heels and deliver a stiff-armed salute, but I needed to ask her something. At the door, I turned and gave her an expression of genuine concern. “What's going on here anyway? You got a clue?”

The gaze she returned betrayed a flash of honest frustration. She quickly resumed her know-it-all manner and said, “Marian, if you truly have nothing to do with these killings, my advice is, watch your back.”

Outside the building, crossing the street on the way to my car, I took care to look both ways.

* * * *

After Marcello left us, I was ready to go too. My brother told me more than once: “You get out of there. A serial killer's on the loose. Don't you get it?”

Oh, I got it. Initially, I thought the motive was some kind of “love” revenge. Bobby might have dumped his latest girlfriend, as he had me, by taking her upstairs, offering her a Rolling Rock. She was a nutcase, unable to take rejection on top of the insult of a cheap beer.

But my murder-for-passion theory went poof when Mr. Joe went down. Romance wasn't a question there, and I'm sure Mrs. Joe would attest to that fact were she still alive.

The profit motive was back. One of us did it. Who stood to gain most? Marcello.

But now Marcello—athletic, bright and charming, if sometimes an enigma—had been caught off guard too. Could the devil be one of our part-timers; or our keeper, Gray; or even the general himself, Mackal? Or was I back to the jilted lover, romance-gone-bad angle again?

Who was Bobby's new girlfriend, anyway? I'd never learned a thing about that. And who was this sweetheart Marcello had gone gaga over, according to Gray. And if the femme fatale I'd concocted in my head was the culprit, then why did Mr. Joe also end up on the wrong end of a club?

The only thing that seemed clear was that Candy Finn had no evidence. Three men bopped in the head. No evidence. They could as well have been hit by meteorites.

* * * *

I did the only thing that made sense. I quit.

Quitting the range wasn't like chucking a regular job. My decision meant nothing to Mackal or to range operation in general. We're all free agents here, and simply pay an annual fee to make use of the facilities. So it's more precise to say that I fired myself, even though my fee was paid up until the last day of December.

With some reluctance, I took leave of my students—made up a story about better prospects. Ah yes, better prospects, as in landing a job where chances of being clubbed to death might be better than three in six.

An old friend who managed a golf course in Sierra Vista, Arizona, said come on out. They had room for one more pro, a woman especially, to give help and encouragement to all of these baby boomer retirees.

The prospect of leaving Florida was painful. My brother and my favorite nephew, Oliver, were here in the Panhandle. And I love the ocean. I need to be near water. In Sierra Vista, the deepest body of H2O I could expect to enjoy would be the treacherous water hazards bordering the fairways.

My departure was a week off. We were in the first days of December, when the weather in Florida is the best you can ask for. I'd told my landlord, boxed up my sentimental stuff. The rest was ready for the movers. I was antsy, wanting to hit some balls to get rid of nervous energy.

I went to the range.

Gray gave me a hug and pulled up a basket of balls, on the house. Two new instructors had put up the fee to teach here. “They seem like okay guys,” Gray said. I nodded, as if glad the world still turned on its axis. My former corner of the world would thrive very nicely without me. And without Bobby, Mr. Joe, Marcello.

The place was hopping. This did make my heart leap with a bit of joy. For a while there, after Marcello's murder, the range took a definite hit. No one felt safe. But now it was December. The air was cool and crisp and even the grass on the range seemed greener and more alive than in spring.

Slots were open on ground level, but I longed to commune with the sky and horizon alone. Three wood, seven iron, and pitching wedge in hand, I trudged up the concrete steps to the second tier. Believing that facing my demons might have some value, I chose the stall Bobby and I shared that last night. I have to admit, though, that I hadn't been dwelling on Bobby as much lately. He was the one who'd ended us, after all.

I simply kissed the breeze and wished his spirit well.

Despite recent traumas, my body and spirit were still intact. An almost celebratory mood filled me. I hit ball after ball off the mat, watched their lovely arches, wondered if they'd travel farther in the dry air of Arizona.

“Hello.”

I jumped. Craning around, I saw that the voice belonged to a young woman I'd vaguely been aware of several slots down, the only other golfer up top. Blonde, athletic looking.

“Aren't you a teaching pro?” she asked. Her voice was higher than mine, but mellow—the kind of voice that has a pleasant smile in it.

“I was, but I'm retired now.” I had to work to keep from laughing at my own joke.

She didn't catch my irony and seemed genuinely abashed. Her eyes, I couldn't help noticing, were movie-star beautiful. Her age was a toss-up. Anywhere between twenty and thirty.

“Oh, gee, I was hoping you could help me.” She stepped up to the rubber tee on the mat next to my stall and set a ball down. “I just wish . . .”

I was amazed at the club speed during her practice swing. Much faster, more aggressive than mine. The club burned the air. Then she hauled off and hit a beaut.

“Nice,” I said. “You wish?”

She nailed me with a flirtatious eye and gave her rear end a wiggle as she posed with her club in the address position. She took another red-hot practice swing that made the air whistle. “I've been desperately trying to find someone who'll teach me to spin the ball on the green. The way the pros do. They can pitch the ball above the hole, and it spins back just perfectly to below the pin, and then they have a putt for birdie.”

She pulled a ball from her pocket, gave the club another swing, on plane, and delivered another nice shot for an amateur. “It would sure help my game to learn that,” she said, as she stared the ball down.

Every last muscle, tendon, sinew in my body tensed. I noticed the shirt she was wearing, the familiar pattern of golf balls outlined in pastel shades, running across her breasts.

I cleared my throat and worked to look as relaxed as Freddie Couples. “You mean, you want to learn to spin the ball on the green.”

“Yes, yes. Isn't that what I just said?” Her beautiful eyes gleamed a scary blue. “I've been told women can't do that spin.” She faced me, holding the club at her side. Though I only glanced at her briefly, I saw that she was full of a passionate impatience to hear what my response would be.

“Nuts,” I tossed out. “Whoever said that is nuts.”

My heart raced. I examined the grip of my seven iron, as if it were giving me trouble.

“Awesome.” Her smile broke out wide and gay like a happy sun after a week of fog.

“I like that shirt,” I said, to further deflect her attention from my nervousness.

“Aren't you Marian?” she asked, aiming those glittery eyes of hers at me with greater purpose. “Yes, Marian. I heard that you're a good teacher.”

I held up a modest hand. I had to get out of here. Had to. “Yes, I used to be good.” I tried to sneak an off-putting snort into my laugh, but it sounded more like a polite sneeze. I noticed her arms, the well-defined muscles. This woman didn't have an ounce of fat on her. I said, “Now I'm just another old lady, and I don't teach anymore.”

“Don't tell me that. Please give me a lesson.”

“As I said, I quit. But I'll, well, let me check my schedule. Maybe I can fit you in later this week.”

“Now,” she said. “You're just hitting balls up here, like you've got time on your hands. Give me a lesson now.”

How I wanted to run away. I gazed at the horizon, pictured Bobby's sand wedge sailing out over the range, end over end. “A lesson now,” I said. “Sure thing.” I manufactured a cheerful, totally supportive, nurturing voice. And she bought it. “There's just one item I need to get. A teaching tool.”

“Not one of those damn cameras.”

“Oh, no. It's a club. Designed for the skill you want to learn, that backward spin.”

“They have a special club for that?”

“Yeah. It's great. I'm going to get it.”

Her hands tightened on her own club which she now held in front of her, across her body. Her eyes shot out sparks of incomprehension. “You're going?”

I flashed my tournament-winning smile. “Just to get this teaching tool out of my car. It's a miracle worker.”

I started walking in a very casual way toward the stairs and refrained from looking back. My legs carried me down the steps. I passed Gray on the way out. He was talking to Mr. Franklin, one of our old geezers who still strikes a ball pretty well despite being eighty-eight. I thought of breaking in, telling him that the blonde creature upstairs was our girl, but what could I ask him to do? She hadn't harmed me. And Detective Candy had let slip that there was no evidence to link the murders to anyone.

In the parking lot, I made it to my Malibu. I dumped myself in the driver's seat.

Finding herself stood up, that crazy lady upstairs would be hopping mad. So what. I shoved the key in the ignition.

But someone will be next, a voice in my head rasped. So—I'd call Detective Candy, describe this gal. I wouldn't be able to prove anything, though.

I gave the key a turn, the engine rumbled. I was ready to spit gravel, but my foot wouldn't move off the brake.

I saw Bobby lying on the ground in front of me, Mr. Joe, crumpled in his chair. How I missed his blustery voice. Marcello, sauntering gracefully down the stalls, whistling Spanish serenades.

That dame upstairs, waiting for me—she was the one. I had no doubt. If I left, she was going to get away with it. I cut the engine, got out, slammed the door, pulled a nine iron from my bag in the trunk. I'd sucker our mystery girl into believing this was a magic club. Soon I was walking past Gray, still stuck in conversation with Mr. Franklin.

I shouldered the club and pushed through the glass door. Outside, mounting the steps, I thumbed keys on my cell. Detective Candy's voicemail came on. At the tone I said, “Marian at the range. I've got her, right in front of me. No evidence, the only evidence is my guts. I'm gonna push her buttons. We're on the top tier, and I'm asking, pay us a visit. Soon.” As I neared the mystery woman's slot and she smiled at the iron in my hand, I added, “Or I might be next.”

I put more bounce into my last few steps. “Here we are,” I said, as I allowed her to snatch the miracle club from my sweaty hands. “Now tell me a little about yourself. I have a feeling you went to college on a golf scholarship.”

“Yes, that's true.” She all but stuck her chest out in pride. “How did you know?”

“Just a hunch. You're obviously no amateur.” I picked up my seven iron. “Couldn't make the cut, huh?”

Her body tensed, the startling eyes no longer friendly. The monster was beginning to stir.

If not this question, one of the next ten I had in mind should do the trick. We would have our evidence. Unlike the others, there would be no sneaking up on me. I had the drop on her, wouldn't take my eyes off her for a second.

She took a vicious practice swing. My teeth began chattering in the kind December sunlight. I'd just signed on for the scariest lesson of my life. Crazy. But what's a life worth? Make that three.

Worth the risk.

Heck, maybe I'd even teach her to spin the ball backwards on the green.

Copyright © 2012 Elaine Menge

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: ASSIGNMENT IN CLAY
by Donald Moffitt

The scribe Nabu-zir was weary after a long day transcribing temple receipts for the monthly god-offerings. The New Year festival was less than a half-moon away, and the flood of grain and other produce had gotten ahead of the overworked staff in the temple's scriptorium. So when Lu-innana, the temple's deputy administrator, had offered temporary jobs to him and a few other outside scribes, Nabu-zir had reluctantly agreed to sign on until after the festival. The kickback to Lu-innana was relatively modest compared to what was demanded by some of the other temple officials, and besides, Nabu-zir needed the work.

But he wasn't happy to see Lu-innana standing in his doorway at this late hour, when the light was beginning to fade and he still had a rapidly drying stack of clay tablets to get through.

“What brings you here at this hour, Lu-innana?” he said without getting up.

Lu-innana didn't answer immediately. He was distracted by the sight of Nabu-zir's serving woman, Nindada, as she tried to slip past him and out the door. But she wasn't quick enough, and he was able to get in his customary grab at her before she was able to escape.

“The temple should never have sold her,” he sighed. “How much do you want for her, Nabu-zir?”

“I've told you before that she's not for sale,” Nabu-zir said snappishly. “She's a free woman, and her manumission is written in clay.”

Lu-innana shook his head. “You're a hopeless do-gooder, Nabu-zir.”

“Did you have something to say, or did you come here to moon over Nindada?”

Lu-innana gave another sigh and got down to business. “I have one more job for you, Nabu-zir.”

“Can it wait till tomorrow?” Nabu-zir grumbled.

“Kings don't wait.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The lugal himself, the divine Shulgi, has sent for you. He wants to dictate something.”

“This wasn't part of our agreement. Hasn't he got scribes of his own?”

“Don't worry, you'll get paid. He asked specifically for you. He remembers your discretion in that delicate matter involving the letter to the lugal of Larsa, when he demoted him to ensi—a mere governor. He said, ‘get me that public scribe who sits in the courtyard of the moon god. He is a scribe whose hand moves in accordance with one's mouth.'”

“Too delicate a matter to risk temple gossip, is it? So you don't know what it's about?”

That stung. He saw Lu-innana's jaw tighten.

“It's a poem,” Lu-innana blurted before he could stop himself, and immediately closed his mouth.

“A poem?” Nabu-zir said incredulously.

“And why not? Everyone knows that the great Shulgi is a patron of the arts, as well as a protector of the poor, a builder of public works, the lawgiver who carried on the work of his father, Ur-nammu,and the brilliant general who drove the Akkadians from power and restored Ur to its former glory.”

“As well as being a half god,” Nabu-zir said dryly.

“Be careful, Nabu-zir. You'll get yourself in trouble again.”

“Oh? Do you plan to report me to the chief inspector for disrespect, Lu-innana? He's too busy counting his silver. And so are you, aren't you? Have you yet handed over a third of your bribe from me and the other scribes?”

Lu-innana ignored that and said piously, “His divinity was proclaimed at his birth by his father, the great Ur-nammu.”

“We all know the story. I've transcribed enough copies of the official proclamation myself. Ur-nammu fathered him in a dalliance with the moon goddess herself, and so Shulgi is half divine, a god. I've also made many copies of the story of how Ur-nammu was found as a baby drifting down the Euphrates in a reed basket. The populace loves that one. But as we know very well, Ur-Nammu ascended the throne by deposing King Utuhegal, who had foolishly entrusted him with the governorship of Ur. And Shulgi walked into the job through his father's preference for him over his brothers. His very name—'strong young man'—reflects his father's affection for him. A good thing for Ur that he turned out to be a brilliant general like his father, else we'd be under the thumb of some barbarian chieftain of one of the border tribes.”

“We're wasting time. The divine Shulgi has the impatience of all the other gods.”

Nabu-zir gave a grunt of resignation. He got to his feet and gathered a small kit together: a bundle of spare reeds, his whittling knives, and a wooden scraping knife. The tub of wet clay was still half full. “Here, you can help me carry the tub,” he said.

“What, am I a porter?” Lu-innana said. “We can borrow a tub of clay from the scriptorium.”

* * * *

It was a long walk from Nabu-zir's modest house in the crowded waterfront district to the vast ziggurat enclosure in the city's heart. But the oppressive heat of day was beginning to give way to the cool of evening. The sun god, Utu-shamash, was perched on the horizon, about to descend to the underworld for his nightly journey, and though there was still daylight, the shopkeepers along the banks of the inner canal were already beginning to light torches in front of their mud brick hovels in hopes of squeezing another hour's worth of business out of the day.

The towering ziggurat could be seen from anywhere in Ur—could be seen from miles across the flood plain between the rivers in fact, and as Nabu-zir and Lu-innana grew nearer, the close-packed dwellings began to give way to more substantial houses of burnt brick, with high walls and forbidding gates.

Puffing alongside Nabu-zir, Lu-innana stopped to catch his breath and mop his brow. “You walk too fast, Nabu-zir,” he complained. “How do you keep up such a pace when you're skinny as a starving donkey?”

“Take heart, Lu-innana, we're halfway there. There's the Great Music Hall just ahead at the corner. I see they're just letting out. A little late for them.”

“Impious rowdies! Nothing but songs with double meanings and monkey jokes! They're taking advantage of the crowd's excitement in the days leading up to the New Year rites.”

“Relax, Lu-innana. Even the gods like to laugh.”

The streets were getting wide enough to accommodate donkey carts, but not wide enough for one cart to pass another. Pedestrians squeezed by as best they could. A crowd of noisy schoolchildren, just getting out of one of the tablet houses after a long day of being bullied by their teachers, darted in and out of the traffic, earning shouted reprimands from passersby.

Farther on, a scruffy storyteller reciting the familiar tale of Gilgamesh was flattened against a wall where a recessed doorway provided a little space for his listeners and allowed people to get by. Nabu-zir and Lu-innana were briefly impeded by a crowd of customers at an open-air eating shop offering a quick meal of onions, cucumbers, and fried fish, but with a little apologetic jostling they were able to break through the jam.

As they drew closer to the ziggurat precincts with its public buildings, Nabu-zir could hear a jingle of armor and the sound of marching feet. They broke through the maze of houses and found themselves in a paved plaza where a phalanx of marching spearmen was being drilled by one of Shulgi's young officers. They were all equipped with identical copper-tipped spears, leather helmets, and sturdy boots, supplied at the king's expense.

“On their way to the frontier to hold back the Martu or the Elamites, no doubt,” Lu-innana said with approval. “Now that the divine Shulgi has organized the citizenry, Sumer will never be under foreign sway again. Why do you not join, Nabu-zir, and demonstrate your patriotism?”

“I'll leave that to the younger bloods who are eager to show their mettle,” Nabu-zir said. “The militia won't want me. As you pointed out, I'm too old and skinny.”

They crossed the plaza, dodging the tightly closed ranks of the marching men, who didn't seem at all inclined to slow down for them, and found themselves at the outer gates of the ziggurat enclosure. Then they had to thread their way through a steady traffic of supplicants bringing their New Year offerings to Nana-sin—sturdy farmers shouldering sacks of grain or well-to-do citizens leading overburdened donkeys with more substantial offerings.

The temple grounds were a city in itself, with palaces for the higher officials, humbler quarters for the slaves who worked in the temple's factories, and storehouses and shrines for the various gods. Looming directly ahead was the great ziggurat, with its ramps and stepped terraces, built high enough to meet the gods halfway. At the top was the shrine to Nana-sin, the moon god himself, where Shulgi, as the incarnation of the fertility god Dumuzi, would consummate his annual marriage to the goddess Innana in the person of the high priestess, and so insure Ur's safety and prosperity for the coming year.

“We'll stop at the scriptorium first,” Lu-innana said.

The temple scribes were working late at this season, and would work later still. The long room was smoky from the torches, bundles of oil-soaked reeds, that had already been lit. Several of the scribes, red-eyed from their labors, looked up from their work and called out greetings to Nabu-zir, no doubt wondering what had brought him here.

The head scribe, a fussy little man with a bald head and an overfancy flounced skirt, hurried over to greet them. He gave Nabu-zir a wary look, and addressed himself to Lu-innana.

“What service can I do, agrig?” he said, using the formal title that acknowledged Lu-innana's status as an overseer of scribes.

“Oh, nothing to worry you, Iddin-sin. We just need to borrow a tub of clay.”

“Certainly, certainly.” The little man turned his head and called, “Nana-palil, come over here a minute.”

One of the scribes got up and approached at a reluctant saunter that was almost insolent in its slowness. He was dressed more elaborately than the other scribes, who mostly wore a simple skirt that left the torso bare. This one outdid his supervisor, in a tufted wool skirt with many overlaying petals and a length that draped over one shoulder to cover his chest, like a garment that a woman—at least a free woman—might wear.

“The agrig and the estimable Nabu-zir need a tub of clay,” the supervisor said. “Yours is still almost full. You can share a tub with Ishmi. He's lagging behind too, so there should be enough clay to last till it's time to quench the torches.”

Nana-palil shot his supervisor a look of pure fury, but said nothing. Nabu-zir suddenly realized that this must be the royal scribe he had been brought here to replace, and that the man bitterly resented being temporarily assigned to the scriptorium to work with scribes of inferior rank.

He also surmised that Iddin-sin was goading the young man on purpose, in hopes of prompting some outburst that would provide a hint as to what Nabu-zir's confidential assignment for the king might be.

But Nana-palil either didn't know anything or he wasn't talking. He stood in sullen silence, making no move to obey.

Nabu-zir didn't want to humiliate the man further. He didn't need an enemy.

He glanced at Lu-innana, who immediately took his meaning and called out to the scriptorium's hulking porter, “Here, fellow, don't just stand there like a lump. Go fetch the tub and come with us.” He gave the head scribe a curt nod and said, “Thank you for your assistance, Iddin-sin. I shall tell the king that you and Nana-palil have given all due cooperation.”

He nudged Nabu-zir and said, “Come, we mustn't keep his divinity waiting.” They headed for the doorway, the porter lumbering along behind them with the tub of clay.

Before they could exit, their way was blocked by an arriving party, four or five men attending a magnificently robed personage with a gold headband and armlets, who Nabu-zir recognized as the high priest, Enannatum-sin. The sanga, the temple administrator, was with him, as well as the nu-banda, the chief inspector, accompanied as usual by a couple of his thugs.

Lu-innana stepped deferentially aside, tugging Nabu-zir along with him. But the high priest didn't sweep by with his attendants as expected. Instead, he fixed Lu-innana with a cold eye and said, “I was told that you had arrived with your pet scribe, Lu-inanna. When you didn't show up at the king's chambers in the House of the Mountain, I thought I might find you here.”

Lu-inanna started to reply, but the high priest cut him off and turned to Nabu-zir. “You, fellow, Nabu-zir, you're that pesky scribe who keeps writing petitions to the lugal on behalf of insolent farmers who have a quarrel with the temple's tax collectors. What mischief are you up to now?”

“No mischief, supreme Sanga-mahhu,” Nabu-zir said carefully. “I am here at the king's request.”

An alarm buzzed in his head like a swarm of bees. Why had the high priest bothered to find out his name? And why had he been watching for his arrival?

The how was another matter. The nu-banda had spies everywhere. It was not a good thing to attract his attention.

As if to reinforce that thought, the nu-banda scowled at him. Nabu-zir tried not to let that unsettle him. The nu-banda, he told himself, was only trying to toady to his chief.

“And what does the Shulgi want you to do?” the high priest demanded.

“To write a tablet,” Nabu-zir said, risking insolence.

“A tablet about what?” the high priest fired back.

“That I do not know.”

The high priest turned back to Lu-inanna in a cold fury. “The king already has a personal scribe not in the employ of the temple,” he said. “What is so secret that he has to bring in a scribe from the marketplace, a common dub-sar, to write a tablet for him?”

“I swear I don't know, Sanga-mahhu,” Lu-inanna said in a trembling voice. “He told me nothing. Said only to hold my tongue. Some affair of state, I presume.”

It was brave of Lu-inanna to hold back the fact that it was about a poem, Nabu-zir thought. The high priest was a dangerous man to cross. But it would have been even more dangerous to violate the confidences of a king. He began to wonder what he had gotten himself into.

The high priest glared, but Nabu-zir could see that he was struggling with some of the same thoughts.

“When a king orders silence, it is not for a mere temple administrator like you to breech his confidences,” Enannatum-sin said grudgingly. “But I warn you, Lu-inanna, you are beholden to the temple, and if the king is cooking up another one of his plaguey decrees to usurp the powers of the priesthood, you will not escape your share of responsibility.”

Nabu-zir understood now. It was all about power and money. It had started with Shulgi's father, Ur-nammu, and now the temple establishment, grown rich and corrupt over the years, was locked in a struggle with a reformist priest-king who had taken control of the reins.

The high priest whirled on him. “And that goes for you, dub-sar! Do not meddle in affairs that are above you!”

“I am only here as the king's hand, to write a tablet so that the king's voice may be preserved on clay. The words are the king's.”

The high priest treated him to a final scowl, and stormed out of the scriptorium with the nu-banda and the rest of his entourage.

Lu-inanna gave Nabu-zir a sickly smile, but did not dare to speak. After waiting long enough to give the priestly retinue a safe head start, they set out for the king's residence in the House of the Mountain.

* * * *

Shulgi's palace was located just past a small temple dedicated to Ea, the sky god, who had appointed the moon god the guardian of Ur, across an expanse of brick pavement that bore Shulgi's name on every brick. It seemed unguarded, but when they passed through the gate to the outer courtyard, they found themselves in a narrow passageway where guards armed with bronze axes stood at intervals in shallow niches. Shulgi had learned his lessons well from Ur's many conquerors and usurpers. A party of armed men could not storm the palace, but would have to pass between two walls, where the hidden axemen could dispatch them one or two at a time.

The plan was repeated at the inner court. An axeman at one of the turns recognized Nabu-zir as they passed, and called out, “Nabu-zir, do you know me? I am Padu, son of Idi-narum. You wrote my marriage contract and spoke to the girl's father when I was too heavy of mouth to do it myself.”

Lu-inanna hurried Nabu-zir past. Nabu-zir grinned maliciously at him and said, “So much for your secrecy, Lu-inanna. It will be all over the place by morning.”

Once inside, they passed through a public room with a raised throne that was currently unoccupied. This was where Shulgi conducted his official business. Emphasizing his priestly role was a frieze showing Shulgi pouring a libation for a seated moon god, and a model of the crescent-shaped ship in which the moon god crossed the heavens.

Beyond the public rooms was a domestic area with many smaller rooms spaced along a winding passage that constituted a second line of defense. It was awkward going for Nabu-zir, who was toting the tub of clay by himself now. Servants bustled back and forth on their various errands, squeezing past them with their trays or utensils. The aroma of a roasting sheep came from a kitchen somewhere.

“He has a workroom down at the end,” Lu-inanna informed him.

They found Shulgi in a small, unpretentious chamber at the end, scratching out what looked like some sort of architectural plan on a flattened sheet of wet clay. Nabu-zir could see incised marks in the margins that were probably measurements or instructions for the builders.

Shulgi saw him looking, and laughed. “Yes, Nabu-zir, I can read and write, though not with anything like your finesse. My father sent me to scribe school when I was a boy, like any son of a merchant, so that I would be able to deal with practical matters directly and without delay, and not always have to rely on scribes like yourself.”

Nabu-zir set down the cumbersome tub with a grunt of relief. Emboldened by the king's matter-of-fact manner, he said, “If I'd known you had a tub of wet clay waiting for me, great lugal, I wouldn't have lugged this one all the way across town.”

Lu-innana looked shocked, but Shulgi only laughed again. He said pointedly, “Thank you for doing this little errand for me, Lu-inanna. I will not require your further presence.”

Lu-inanna backed out awkwardly, attempting a half bow at the same time. Shulgi appeared to have forgotten him before he was halfway to the door.

He turned to Nabu-zir. “Then you must be hot and thirsty, Nabu-zir. Let us drink beer together and enjoy a happy liver before we begin.”

He gestured toward the clay vat he had been drinking from while he worked. There were no gold straws, like the ones that Nabu-zir's richer clients liked to impress people with. The king drew a couple of ordinary marsh reeds from the bundle he had been using to write with and handed one over to Nabu-zir. Together they bent the reeds for drinking and leaned companionably over the vat of beer, their heads almost bumping. Nabu-zir poked his straw through the scum of barley husks and other brewing debris floating on top, and tried to act as though he shared a beer with a king every day.

When he was slaked, Nabu-zir leaned back and took the opportunity to study Shulgi covertly. The king hadn't changed much since the last time he had seen him up close. In the nineteenth year of his reign, the year that had already been given the name “the year the citizens of Ur were organized as spearmen,” Shulgi still retained the look and the force of his youth. He had taken nine wives so far, though his father had contented himself with one wife and given her the title nin-bada—great lady.

“Shall we get to work, Nabu-zir?” Shulgi said.

Nabu-zir dutifully scooped up a handful of wet clay and patted and smoothed it into the shape of a small tablet to fit his palm. He chose the sharpest reed from the kit he had brought with him, so that the marks he incised would be clean and elegant, as befitted a king; he had never forgotten his first childhood lessons at scribe school, when he had defaced hundreds of practice tablets and endured dozens of beatings before he had been allowed to impress actual characters made from the individual wedge-shaped marks.

Shulgi cleared his throat and said, “It's a love song, so you must choose words carefully so that they will not sound graceless if they are spoken in Akkadian.”

Nabu-zir nodded. In the years when the Akkadian overlords had ruled Ur, they had adopted Sumerian wedge-writing and had otherwise been civilized by their subjects. The same wedge-writing in words with the same meaning could be read either way, but would sound different depending on which language was used.

“I suggest that I make two copies then, one for each language,” he said. “But I did not bring my Sumerian-Akkadian dictionary with me; it numbers more than thirty tablets. May I take my first tablet home with me so that the second tablet will be more appropriate for an Akkadian reader?”

Shulgi thought that over. “Yes, but you must bring both tablets back tomorrow. I will trust your discretion, Nabu-zir.”

Nabu-zir's head was churning. A love song? With the New Year rites approaching? It would have to be the traditional love song from the god Dumuzi to the goddess Inanna, which Shulgi would present to the high priestess. The high priestess would then present her own song, an erotic one in which Inanna would be explicit about her intimate attentions to her bridegroom, Dumuzi.

But in that case, why the secrecy? The text of such songs was common knowledge, often sold in the bazaar. And why the Akkadian copy? The Akkadians had their own names for the gods—Ishtar for Inanna, for one. A double copy wouldn't work.

There was no time to sort it out. Shulgi had started dictating. Nabu-zir's reed stylus flew over the blank tablet as if it had a mind of its own.

“. . . My sweet maid who favored me, who fondled me,

“Who gave me her caresses,

“My sweet maid who is favored of limb,

“Let me place my hand on that sweet place . . .”

Nabu-zir's ears burned as the king continued. As the poem progressed, he saw that it was in the form of the vulgar songs heard in the Great Music Hall, with two four-line stanzas followed by a six-line stanza, two more four-liners and a final stanza of six lines. This was no dalliance between gods. It was an earthly love song, the song of a man who had made a fool of himself.

The copy in Akkadian could mean only one thing. Shulgi's mistress was an Akkadian woman, one of those leftover aristocrats who still hung on in Ur, a cosmopolitan city more to their taste than the rude comforts that Akkad had to offer.

It would be a terrible scandal if it got out. The Akkadians were tolerated but not loved, and the memory of their rule still stung. Shulgi's unfaithfulness would not bother his queen, the current nin-bada. She was used to relinquishing him each New Year in the public ceremony, and no doubt inured to his escapades throughout the year. But for him to be unfaithful to the goddess so close to the night of no moon was another matter. That was what sent Dumuzi to the underworld in the first place. Dumuzi's resurrection was essential. Ur's survival depended on it. If the gang around the high priest got wind of his indiscretion, they could use it to discredit Shulgi with the populace and win back some of the power that Shulgi and his father had taken from them.

But it was futile to reflect on such matters now. Nabu-zir continued to write automatically. It was dark by the time Shulgi finished. He had paused only once, to call for a servant to bring in an oil lamp for Nabu-zir.

Shulgi yawned and took a long draught of beer. Nabu-zir said, “Do you wish me to read it back, lord?”

“What? No. You'd only echo back what I said and the way I said it. Bring me back your Akkadian translation tomorrow, and we'll go through it together.”

Nabu-zir gathered up his writing materials and quickly fashioned a temporary clay envelope for the still-soft tablet. The envelope would protect the tablet's surface for the walk home, and also keep it from prying eyes.

“Don't you wish to take your tub of clay?” the king asked in a tired attempt at humor.

“I'll leave it for the scriptorium,” Nabu-zir said.

* * * *

When he left the palace, he found Lu-inanna waiting outside. There was enough light left to see by; there was still half a moon in the sky, enough to cast pale shadows over the plaza. Lu-inanna fell in step beside him and sneaked a covetous look at the clay envelope.

“Is that it?” he said.

“Lu-inanna, you are like the cat who was curious about what was in the crocodile's mouth, and, unfortunately for him, found out,” Nabu-zir said, quoting the old proverb.

Lu-inanna quickened his step to keep up with him. “I can see that the lugal did not put his seal on the envelope,” he persisted. “It would be no great thing to open it and close it up again, with no one the wiser.”

“I already know what's in it,” Nabu-zir said.

He lengthened his stride and left Lu-innana puffing far behind him. Before long the wheezing deputy administrator vanished from sight. At the gates to the sacred grounds, Nabu-zir found a watchman setting off on his nightly rounds and followed in his wake, both for the protection an armed man might give him and the light from his torch. But when the man reached the boundary of his assigned territory he turned back and Nabu-zir was left to face the darkness alone.

He was in the poor district now, familiar territory to him. He followed the banks of the canal as best he could, with the water and the dark shapes of moored boats on one side of him and the blank mud brick walls of the houses on the other. After a while he had a feeling that he was being followed. He turned around several times, but failed to catch anybody. Once he thought he saw a dim shape dart into a side alley, but the shape did not reappear, at least not any of the times he stopped to look behind him.

He wondered if it might have been Lu-inanna, but dismissed that thought. The deputy administrator knew where he lived, and didn't have to go skulking after him. And he certainly didn't have the courage to waylay him, no matter how curious he might be.

By the time he reached his own district at the boat basin, he decided that he'd been imagining things. He was among people who knew him, and nothing was going to happen, not with the tavern across the alley spilling light and noise from its open doorway, and drunken patrons staggering in and out. He'd send Nindada across for a pitcher of beer and have his supper.

She was waiting for him, looking worried. “Your dinner is cold, lord,” she scolded, “but there are embers in the hearth, and I can warm it for you. I have a fine fish from the canal that a fisherman, one of your clients, brought, and I've already sacrificed a portion to Enki, the fish god, so you don't have to worry about a libation. I prepared it with onions and barley and lentils the way you like it.”

“Have you eaten yourself, Nindada?”

“You needn't be concerned, I've had quite enough. As the saying goes, ‘Hand and hand a man's house is built. Stomach and stomach a man's house is destroyed.’ “

After he had eaten, he looked around for a place to hide the clay envelope. He didn't have much choice. His house was sparsely furnished, and the walls bare of anything but a few hangings. Of course there were all those shelves and stacks of tablets, including the dictionary and the precious copy of the tale of Gilgamesh in twenty numbered volumes, and he briefly considered hiding the king's poem among them, with the thought that sometimes an object could escape notice by being hidden in plain sight. But in this case, it seemed too risky. An intruder looking for whatever the king had dictated would probably go straightaway to his collection of tablets, and one with no markings on the clay envelope would be too obvious. Likewise, he eliminated the chest where he kept his few valuable possessions as being too likely a target.

Then he had an inspiration. In the scanty larder next to the hearth was an unopened sack of grain, his weekly ration as a citizen of Ur. The cord that tied the neck was still sealed with the thumbnail-sized button of clay that bore the temple's certification of the weight of the sack's contents, as the law required.

Even better for his purposes was the fact that Nindada had left her five-mina weight next to the sack, ready to use when the sack was opened. It was in the form of a stone carving of a duck, with the inscription: certified by shulgi, the mighty male, king of ur—part of Shulgi's campaign to regulate weights and measures.

Working quickly, knowing he was breaking the law, he broke the seal and undid the cord. He buried the clay envelope in the center of the barley, where its contours would not show. Then he fashioned a small button of clay, and with a sharp reed of small diameter, forged a passable imitation of the inscription.

He retied the cord and buried its ends in the soft clay. In an hour it would be hard. He rocked back on his heels and studied his work with satisfaction. Only another scribe would be likely to detect it.

He looked up and saw Nindada standing in the doorway. He didn't know how long she'd been there. She bit her lip and left without saying anything.

Nabu-zir picked up the seal he had breached and crumbled it between his thumb and forefinger. He tossed the resulting crumbs of clay onto the hearth and mixed them with the ashes there, making the evidence disappear. Destroying the seal was not a crime, but the forgery was. He didn't want to think about the penalty for that.

* * * *

He slept fitfully, with dreams of demons of the night pursuing him. When he heard sounds from the outer room, he thought at first that they were part of the dream.

He sat up and listened. Somebody was out there, and being careless. He heard the unmistakable sound of a tablet falling to the floor and shattering. Sudden anger replaced fear. He looked around the room for something he might use as a cudgel. His eye lit on Nindada's broom, leaning against the wall next to the doorway. It was almost as if she'd left it there for him; she always put her household utensils away when she was through with them.

He tiptoed across the room and grasped the broom at its center of balance just above the bundle of twigs at the end.

He stepped through the doorway and saw in the semidarkness the outline of a man rifling through the larder. The little lamp the man had brought with him, hardly more than a saucer with a wick floating in it, was resting on the hearth. He'd just ripped the sack of barley open and was removing the clay envelope from it.

Nabu-zir stepped forward and swung the broom handle. He caught the intruder on the collarbone, and hoped he'd broken it. But the man gave a yelp of pain and danced away from him. The next thing Nabu-zir knew, the man had a knife in his hand and was rushing him.

He took a step backward and tripped over a jar that was lying there. He found himself on his back with the man straddling him and raising the knife to plunge it into him.

Nabu-zir's flailing hand found something heavy on the floor beside him. It was the stone duck that Nindada had left next to the sack of barley.

He swung the duck with all his might. It struck his assailant on the side of the head with a sickening crunch. The knife clattered to the floor, and the man followed, limp as a votive offering on the altar.

Nabu-zir extricated himself from under the body and stood up shakily. In moments, Nindada was in the room with a stone oil lamp. “Lord, are you all right?” she said.

“I'm not dead,” he said. “Let's have a look at him.”

Together they bent over the body while she held the flickering lamp high. The man's head was crushed, and there was no doubt that he was now explaining himself to the seven judges of the underworld.

Nabu-zir's eyes went to the man's elaborate flounced skirt and the carnelian and lapis jewelry, then to the contorted face, still angry in death.

“A rich man,” Nindada whispered.

“No, but he wanted to imitate one. He's the king's scribe.”

Nindada could not suppress a cry. She stood trembling beside him. “What will you do, lord?” she said.

“Don't be afraid,” he said. “I will not be bound over by the judges of the Assembly. The circumstances are clear.” He quoted from Ur-nammu's law: “ ‘The penalty for trespass by day is a fine; for trespass by night, death.’ “ He glanced at the knife. “Not to mention the penalty for attempted murder.”

She shivered. “When big men are involved, the law is a joke.”

* * * *

“You're a cheeky man to stand there and tell me that you've killed my scribe,” Shulgi said. “And a brave one, to dare to do so. But I always knew that about you, Nabu-zir. That's why I trusted you with my little assignment.”

“You would have been told about it within a day in any case, mighty king,” Nabu-zir said. “There will be many feet rushing to bear the news.”

“No doubt.” Shulgi scowled. “The high priest and his crowd. The nu-banda and his spies. Every little temple sycophant, brimming over with glee, hoping that the king's secrets will spill out in the wake of this revelation.” He thought a moment and added, “Including your prying friend, Lu-inanna.”

“I don't think so, great lugal. “I've told you how he stood up to the high priest, though he was quaking in his boots. He's guilty of curiosity, nothing more.”

“The man knew nothing anyway, except that your assignment somehow involved a poem. And even that was a lucky guess that, mongoose that he is, he somehow ferreted out of me.”

Nabu-zir had to laugh, despite his precarious position. He knew the proverb Shulgi was thinking of. “If there is any food around, the mongoose consumes it,” he quoted.

Shulgi frowned. “It's no laughing matter, Nabu-zir. Where do things stand now?”

“I brought in the patrol at first daylight. They saw the situation immediately—the knife, the broken door seal, the ransacked larder and disarranged tablets, and put it down to simple burglary and a burglar caught in the act.”

“The tablet, Nabu-zir, the tablet!”

“I put my seal on the envelope and hid it among the tablets in my library before summoning the patrol. There was no reason to mention it.”

Shulgi nodded. “Good. What then?”

“I waited till they'd chewed over the facts and reached their conclusion, then informed them that I knew the man, that he was a disaffected scribe in the temple scriptorium who had a grudge against me for his demotion. Your lugalship's name did not come up. It fit their conceptions, and they put the attempted murder down to jealousy.”

“Again, good. Go on.”

“There will be a hearing before the Assembly's judges, but it will just be a formality, and there will be no reason to put it before a citizens’ jury. I'm bound to testify, of course, and it will come out that Nana-palil had once served as one of your own scribes, but things will have simmered down by then, and if anything it will only serve to reinforce jealousy as the motive for attempted murder.”

“You've done well, Nabu-zir. But know that I cannot intervene at the preliminary hearing or at a full Assembly trial, if there should be one. I'm bound to obey my own laws and the laws of my father regarding the independence of the judiciary. Three of the judges on the panel are creatures of the temple, hostile to me, and with things as touchy as they are right now, I did not even dare to veto their appointment.”

“I understand, lord.”

“Now to important matters. Do you have the Akkadian translation?”

“Right here, lord. I went to work on it right away as soon as I got rid of the patrol.”

“And your Sumerian original?”

Nabu-zir handed it over. “I had to fashion a new clay envelope for it.”

Shulgi put the original aside as if it didn't matter anymore, and broke the envelope of the Akkadian copy. He scanned it, his lips moving, a small smile on his face. When he finished, he looked up at Nabu-zir. “You are a scribe who is a scribe indeed,” he said.

Nabu-zir did not know how to reply to that, so he said nothing.

The smile disappeared from Shulgi's face. “You've formed a number of conclusions, haven't you, Nabu-zir? How could you not.”

“Please, lord, I'm just a simple tablet writer,” Nabu-zir said nervously. “The affairs of the mighty are none of my business.”

Shulgi's eyes were still on Nabu-zir's face, but he spoke as if to himself. “A king is still a man, isn't he? He may love as a man, for himself, and not just as a duty he performs for the state.”

He sat there with a face made of stone. After a while Nabu-zir saw that he had been forgotten, and he tiptoed quietly out of the workroom.

* * * *

“The question is,” Nabu-zir said, “who put him up to it? Was it you?”

Lu-inanna almost dropped the pitcher of beer Nindada had brought him from the tavern across the way. “Me, Nabu-zir? Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because the high priest put you up to it, to keep his own hands clean.”

“You're crazy. The high priest has his own henchman, the nu-banda, to do his dirty work. He doesn't need to drag a deputy administrator into it. Besides, that misbegotten scribe, Nana-palil, was quite capable of acting on his own. You saw how he hated you.”

“Yes, enough to want to murder me. But he was looking for that tablet—the one you were so curious about.”

“I was curious, I admit. But not enough to risk my neck. If anybody egged the fellow on to sniff out the king's secrets, it was the nu-banda, at the high priest's behest. It wouldn't be the first time he's engineered a political murder and found a way to cover it up. There was that case last year of the caravan master who was supposed to have been robbed and murdered by fellow merchants. A dupe was found to take the blame, but he died mysteriously before he could be tried. Then the man's daughter disappeared and it was put about that she'd run off with a slave.”

He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I happen to know that the daughter was raped by the shesh-gal, the chief temple director, and it was hushed up. But the father got the truth out of her, and was preparing to demand the penalties under the law, shesh-gal or not. You know the penalties?”

Nabu-zir took a thoughtful sip of beer. “I do indeed. The father was entitled to rape the shesh-gal's daughter and deliver her to be prostituted. Further, the shesh-gal would have to deliver the bride price in silver, though the father could then marry off his daughter to anyone he wished.”

“Exactly. That could not be. So the troublesome plaintiff was found beside the trail, half eaten by dogs. His donkeys and the merchandise they carried began to appear at various markets. But the daughter's body was never found. Nor the body of the slave she was supposed to have run off with. And the shesh-gal is still molesting virgins.”

“What are you trying to say, Lu-inanna?”

“To be careful, Nabu-zir. You are an ant in the way of a wagon wheel.”

* * * *

It took Nabu-zir a good hour to get rid of Lu-inanna. After he left, Nindada came to him, looking troubled. “I don't trust that man,” she said.

“Nor do I.”

She faced him hesitantly, her eyes not quite meeting his. He could see that she had something to tell him, but didn't know how to go about it.

“What is it, Nindada?” he said.

“I'm sorry, lord, I didn't want to say anything while he was here. He'll know by evening, though. Everybody will.”

“Know what?”

“They were talking about it in the tavern. Gossip and rumors always begin there. The beer lady, Huda, encourages it. It's good for business.”

He said patiently, “Tell me, Nindada. Don't be afraid.”

“Forgive me, lord. The Akkadian lady is dead. Murdered, they said. And that a tablet with your seal on it was found with the body.”

“What do you know about an Akkadian lady?” he said sharply.

She was almost in tears. “I wasn't prying, lord. But I can put two bricks together. I know that toad, Lu-inanna, took you to see the king two days ago. He boasted about it. And I know that the next day you were working on a tablet with your Akkadian dictionary. I don't know what the tablet said, but I saw you hide it in a sack of grain and put a false seal on the envelope. And I know that the man who tried to kill you was looking for it. It must be very valuable. Lord, I am afraid.”

He pondered a moment. “And did this Akkadian lady have a name?”

“Huda knew all about her. Her name was Ninlilhatsina. The wife of a diplomat. Her husband was called back to Kish six months ago. Huda said she was loose with her favors.”

“You and this Huda must be very thick.”

“We were weavers together in the temple factory. She's still a slave. But her master let her have her own business. She's very good at it. She makes a lot of money for him.”

“I see.”

“I know what you're thinking. Yes, she tried to worm information out of me. Did I know what a tablet sealed with your imprint might have been doing there? What was in it? But I didn't tell her anything. You must believe me.”

“Don't trouble yourself, Nindada,” he reassured her. “I know that your tongue doesn't run away like a donkey without a bridle.”

She gave him a wan smile. “Thank you, lord. But other tongues do.”

* * * *

They came for Nabu-zir the next morning, two helmeted patrolmen with short spears. He knew both of them from the court. “You must come with us, Nabu-zir,” one of them said apologetically.

“Do you have a warrant then, Nergal-kan?” Nabu-zir said.

The man handed over a small oval tablet and Nabu-zir scanned it quickly, noting the cylinder seal impressions of the three judges who had signed it. It was a hasty job, with sloppy reedsmanship and many misspellings, the typical work of a court hack.

His lips tightened. Only one of the three signing judges was a Shulgi appointee—a stalwart in the army of zealous young reformers brought in to uphold the king's code of laws protecting widows, orphans, and the poor.

He handed the tablet back and said mildly, “It seems to be in order. Shall we go?” He didn't look back, but he could feel Nindada watching from the doorway.

The Citizens’ Assembly was as crowded and noisy as usual. The floor was swarming with people who had brought lawsuits and those who were defending against them, together with all their witnesses and supporters. But the greater part of the crowd was composed of idlers, people with nothing better to do, who had wandered in to be entertained by the proceedings. That was a risky thing because at any moment they might be called upon to serve as jurors, if a full council of the citizenry was needed.

There were nine judges in attendance today. They were enthroned on a long, raised platform at the rear of the assembly, trying to work despite the noise around them. They were just finishing up a case. One of them looked up and saw Nabu-zir entering with the two patrolmen, and beckoned them to approach.

The judge Nabu-zir knew to be a Shulgi appointee greeted him first, before any of the other judges could speak. He was a young man named Jashu-el, a rising star who had been the military commander in Lagash until Shulgi had recalled him.

“Thank you for coming, Nabu-zir. We are used to seeing you here to testify for someone else, not to testify for yourself. It seems we have a small matter to clear up. It shouldn't take long.”

“Not so fast, Jashu-el,” said another judge, a camel of a man named Ishi-adad, who Nabu-zir knew to be a familiar of the shesh-gal and a taker of bribes. “There are many questions to be asked.”

Nabu-zir's heart sank. The inquiry might go on for an hour or more, and at the end of it there was the ever-present danger that it might become a full-blown trial that would have to be settled by the full assembly. That would be a disaster. The assembly would have to reach almost full unanimity, with every fool and beer shop windbag holding forth.

“We do not tolerate murder in Ur, even of our foreign residents, Nabu-zir,” the hostile judge began without preamble. “A highborn lady named Ninlilhatsina was found stabbed to death in the Akkadian district yesterday morning, and we are looking into it.”

“I do not know this lady,” Nabu-zir said steadily.

“And yet a tablet with your seal on it was found next to the body.”

“May I see the tablet?” Nabu-zir said.

Ishi-adad handed the tablet to one of the patrolmen, who gave it to Nabu-zir.

“That is my seal, yes. The tablet seems to be a love poem. I write many such tablets for the lovesick young swains who come to see me. I charge them a fourth of a mina. Grand ladies do not come to the courtyard of Nana-sin where I ply my trade.”

“That settles it, Ishi-adad,” young Jashu-el said quickly. “We must look for a disappointed lover.”

“Not so fast, Jashu-el” Ishi-adad said. He turned back to Nabu-zir. “And who was this man you wrote the tablet for?”

“Just a man, like any other, dizzy with love. He dictated the poem to me. They always compare themselves to Dumuzi and their lover to Inanna—the love that defeats the underworld.”

“And where were you yesterday morning?”

“Plying my trade, as usual.”

“Do you have a witness?”

Jashu-el broke in: “This has gone far enough. Nabu-zir is here to testify about the attempt on his own life.”

Ishi-adad gave him a heavy-lidded stare. “That's another matter.” He turned the stare on Nabu-zir. “What did you have against the king's scribe?”

Nabu-zir gave him stare for stare. “It's the other way around, Ishi-adad. The man broke into my house to rob and kill me. The patrol was satisfied as to that. They put it down to professional jealousy.”

There was murmuring from the other judges. Nabu-zir tried to estimate how many were with Jashu-el and how many with Ishi-adad, but couldn't tell which way it was going.

Ishi-adad's voice rose. “Killing the king's scribe is a serious matter! It's become a public scandal! Did you go on the next morning to rob and kill the Akkadian lady you wrote the tablet for? You knew she was rich, didn't you?”

The spat on the judges’ platform was starting to attract the attention of some of the idlers on the fringes of the drifting crowd. Some of them were edging closer to hear more. Many of them recognized Nabu-zir, and had heard the delicious gossip that was circulating in Ur.

Jashu-el tried again to intervene, but only made matters worse. “Nabu-zir must be allowed time to round up witnesses!” he shouted against the rising noise.

Then the noise rose still more, and heads were turning toward the assembly entrance. Nabu-zir looked back across his shoulder and saw Nindada and the tavern lady, Huda, coming through. Nobody would recognize Nindada, but Huda was a fixture in Ur. She was a large, formidable woman. She had a firm grip on the arm of a frightened-looking little man, and was prodding him toward the judges’ platform. The buzzing crowd parted to let them through.

“Who is this?” Ishi-adad said, his face flushed with anger.

“This is my serving woman, Nindada,” Nabu-zir said equably. “She will be a witness for the fact that I was working as usual at the time of the murder. And it appears that she has brought another witness with her.”

Nindada's face was full of apology that Nabu-zir knew she didn't feel. “I'm sorry, lord,” she said. “I know it isn't my place. But it's said in the neighborhood that the lady who was murdered was found with a tablet written by you that someone had given her. And Huda thinks this man may know something about it.”

The large woman pushed the scruffy little man forward, gripping his arm tightly enough to make him wince. She didn't need to introduce herself. Voices could be heard from the crowd calling, “Huda, look, it's Huda!” and “Huda, you tell them!”

“This little weasel is Kidin-sin,” Huda said. “He's one of my patrons, and he has something to say, don't you, Kidin?”

She squeezed his arm hard enough to make him yelp. He was staggering drunk, though it was still morning, and probably the grip on his arm was helping to keep him upright.

“Please, Huda,” he said. Nabu-zir could see that, drunk as the little man was, he was frightened of something other than Huda.

“Kidin-sin likes to talk, especially when he has a crowd around him and they're buying him beer. Go ahead, Kidin. Don't be shy.”

“They'll kill me,” he said. “They told me to keep my mouth shut.”

Jashu-el saw an opportunity to turn things around, and he took it. “He who knows about a murder and says nothing is guilty of murder himself,” he said sternly. “That is Ur-nammu's law. Speak, or be delivered to the executioner.”

Nabu-zir knew that what Jashu-el had said was not strictly true, and so did Ishi-adad, who opened his mouth to object, but then decided not to contradict his young opponent when he saw how the temper of the crowd was turning.

Huda weighed in with a stentorian voice calculated to carry to the far reaches of the hall. “This misbegotten son of a monkey sweeps courtyards in the Akkadian quarter when he's sober enough. He'd sell himself as a slave for the price of a pitcher of beer, except that no one would want him as part of their household because he smells so bad. Go on, little dung heap, answer the judge.”

The little man cringed. “I recognized him right away because he drinks at Huda's when he has the money. They call him Az the Bear, because he's a dangerous man to cross. He robs the caravans when they're out of sight of the city walls, and it's whispered that he killed that caravan master who tried to sue the temple director, the shesh-gal, last year. In the back alleys they say that he does the nu-banda's dirty work for him, the deeds that must be done in the dark.”

He stopped, and Nabu-zir could see that he was trembling.

“Go on,” Huda said.

The little man dropped his voice to a whisper, but it could be heard because the hall had fallen silent.

“The Bear usually works alone, but this time he was with the nu-banda himself. They went right by me without noticing me. Nobody ever does. The nu-banda seemed very excited, like a man possessed by wind demons. They broke the door seal and pushed their way inside. They stayed only a short while, and when they came out, the Az had blood on his hand and arm. Then they noticed me, and I feared for my life. The Az had his hand on the hilt of a knife he had tucked in the waist of his skirt. But they were in a frenzy to get away and I suppose they decided that a nobody like me wasn't worth killing, and they left after warning me to hold my tongue.”

“Calumny!” Ishi-adad shouted. There was spittle at the corner of his mouth. He fixed the little man with a sour gaze and said, “Know that the penalty for accusing someone of murder is death, unless the accusation can be proved! And to accuse the nu-banda himself of murder is an offense so heinous that the whole weight of the temple will fall on your head!”

“Do not threaten witnesses, Ishi-adad,” Jashu-el said. “Nobody has accused the nu-banda of murder. Yet.”

The silence in the hall had been replaced by a buzzing that grew louder. The judges were whispering among themselves, too, and after a bit, Jashu-el put his head together with them. But Ishi-adad held himself aloof, calculating eyes flicking over the crowd.

The judges had reached some sort of conclusion, though a few of them didn't look happy about it. The senior of them, a stodgy, self-important man who behind his back was called by the nickname Gu-gaz, “the stalk that bends with the wind,” cleared his throat and said, “We will order the patrol to find and arrest this Az the Bear.” He did not mention the nu-banda.

A noisy eruption on the assembly floor followed. In the resulting chaos, with excited people babbling at one another and the usual gossips running off to spread the news, a squad of spearmen was somehow assembled for an immediate foray into the city's back alleys.

Nabu-zir seemed to have been forgotten. He nodded at Nindada, and together they made their way unnoticed through the seething crowd.

“What will happen to Huda?” she said when they were outside.

“She'll land on her feet,” he said. “She's not actually a witness to anything, and they won't want to pursue it with her, but I wouldn't give a stale fig for the little sweeper's chances.”

* * * *

“The Bear is dead,” Lu-inanna said. “Killed while resisting arrest, according to the nu-banda. Dead men tell no tales, and the case is closed.”

He was sipping beer from the pitcher that Nindada had brought from Huda's tavern. She had somehow managed to stay out of Lu-inanna's reach while setting it next to him.

Nabu-zir took a swallow from his own pitcher. “I would have thought that the patrol would have gotten to him first,” he said.

“The busybodies wasted no time getting to the nu-banda,” Lu-inanna said. “He asserted his authority in cases affecting the security of Ur. But he didn't explain what a civil murder had to do with the safety of the state.”

“Nor will he,” Nabu-zir said. “The high priest won't want to open that door, even if it might give him some advantage in the temple's war with Shulgi.”

Lu-inanna nodded. “This is not for anyone else's ears, Nabu-zir, but we're going to have a new nu-banda. The high priest is going to appoint our friend to a post in Nippur, where he'll be safely out of sight. He'll take his posse of thugs with him. The gods help the people of Nippur!”

“And the little sweeper?”

“The nu-banda says he can't be found.”

“He's already been found, no doubt. By the crocodiles.”

Lu-innana looked at him slyly. “Now that I've told you the temple's secrets, you can confess, Nabu-zir. What exactly was in the tablet you wrote for the king?”

“As you guessed, Lu-inanna, it was a poem. And that's all I'm going to say.”

“Come now, my friend. What's the harm?”

“Enough harm's been done already. I'd guess that the Az killed the lady in a blind rage when she wouldn't talk. We know that her body was badly beaten when it was found. The nu-banda must have been beside himself when the tablet he'd been told was so important turned out to be a simple poem. He thought it was supposed to be some affair of state. The lady's husband, after all, was a diplomat from a former enemy of Ur. But the nu-banda, though he's supposed to be a priest like all of you officials who are growing fat at the ziggurat, is a man of no culture. He saw only that the lines were arranged in the form of a poem. When he lost control of the situation and the lady was dead, he left the tablet behind, thinking it was of no importance.”

“And your seal was on it.”

“Stop prying, Lu-inanna. You are stepping on the toes of a king. You should be grateful that I kept your name out of it. You owe me a favor.”

“And so does the high priest, when all's said and done. And he knows it. I'm being rewarded for keeping my mouth shut by getting a favored place in the New Year procession. What reward do you claim?”

“I'll be content with fair payment for the next job I do for the ziggurat,” Nabu-zir said dryly. “Perhaps you could forgo your commission.”

It was the day of no moon at the New Year, and the courtyard of the moon god was crowded with what seemed to be half the population of Ur. The other half was crammed wherever they would fit inside the walled ziggurat precincts.

Nabu-zir and Nindada had found a spot that gave them a good view of the winding ramps that led to the shrine at the top of the ziggurat. The priestly procession was about to start, and there was excited chatter all around them.

A portly man with beer on his breath squeezed past them to get closer to the spectacle. “Excuse me, brother,” he said. “Do you think Dumuzi has been reborn yet?”

“Undoubtedly,” Nabu-zir said solemnly. “Nana-sin has delivered him from the underworld by now, and the entu, the avatar of Innana, awaits him on her couch with perfumed loins.”

“Look, here come the priests!” a woman shouted, her voice cracking with emotion.

A parade of naked men, bearing the sacred offerings, had turned the corner and were climbing in single file up the first ramp. Nabu-zir strained his eyes and located Lu-inanna among them. The deputy administrator was laboring under the weight of what seemed to be a tray of honey cakes.

“There's your admirer,” he said, nudging Nindada.

She giggled, an uncharacteristic lapse for her, then caught herself. “He looks silly without his clothes. Those chubby hips, the sagging belly.”

“He's been helping himself to too many of the god's honey cakes,” Nabu-zir said.

The priests were at the second tier by now. They could be heard chanting a hymn to Innana. The portly man turned around and said, “The sacred marriage is going well, don't you think?”

“Yes, indeed,” Nabu-zir said.

“Soon the earth will reawaken, the crops will grow, and Ur will have another prosperous year.”

“More than a year, let us hope,” Nabu-zir said, remaining determinedly secular. “With luck, the divine Shulgi's reign has many more years to go, and he and his sons will continue to fend off the barbarian darkness.”

But the portly man had already turned around and was inflicting pieties on the woman whose emotions had overwhelmed her.

Nabu-zir turned to Nindada and said, “You should be pleased with yourself, Nindada. Your deed will never be written in clay, but you may have saved the throne of a king.”

She looked alarmed, then lowered her eyes and said, “I only went to the tavern across the alley to talk to a friend.”

Copyright © 2012 Donald Moffitt

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: BURNING DAYLIGHT
by David Edgerley Gates

* * * *

Art by Andrew Wright

* * * *

The two boys had been fishing the upper reaches of Kettle Creek, where glacial runoff from up in the Absarokas fed a loop of shallow pools, like spoons, the water very fast and cold. Kettle ponds, they were called, which gave the creek its name. The trout weren't that big, but they were quick to hit the lure.

It was high summer, the air thick with insects, mosquitoes the size of a man's thumb, bees heavy with pollen, butterflies near the end of their breeding cycle, and they drew birds, swifts, and vireos. The day was hot and still, but crowded with life.

Jesse Greyeyes was ten. His first cousin and best friend, Toby Pete, known as Rabbit, was nine, or nine and a half, he would have said. They were Northern Cheyenne, but they weren't reservation Indians. They lived on the economy, outside of Limestone, on the edge of the Gallatin National Forest. They'd fished and hunted these mountains since they were six, when they were old enough to carry a ten-pound pack, and understood their own responsibility. Both of them were excellent shots with a .22 bolt-action, although neither one of them was allowed to carry a weapon at their age without adult supervision, but it might be pointed out that they were probably more grown up about guns than a few grown-ups they knew.

They were fishing catch-and-release, but if they got a fat one, they kept it. On a camping trip with one of their uncles they would have cleaned the fish right there, and fried it over an open fire. This time around, they gutted the keepers to take home to Jesse's mom.

Halfway down, there was a double-wide at the far end of a shallow valley. They'd passed it on the way up, and the trailer had seemed abandoned. But now there were signs of life.

Boys being boys, they snuck in to take a closer look. They had a good scouting position, from up on the ridgeline.

There was a pickup parked next to the trailer, a GMC or a Chevy, an old beater, light blue, with primer on the fenders. They could see a smudge of smoke from the roof vent, which was weird. Even at this altitude, the temperature was in the low eighties. And there were a couple of propane tanks at the rear of the trailer. If you were cooking something with gas, the exhaust was colorless, and the smoke from the vent was a sort of dirty yellow.

The wind shifted, and gusted the smell upslope.

“Yuck,” Jesse said. It was like cat piss, but ten times as strong. It made him gag.

“Gross,” Toby said. “Like he's boiling bones.”

“This is creepy,” Jesse said.

“Maybe he's a serial killer,” Toby said. “You know, like Hannibal the Cannibal? He's cooking up the victims, and then he eats them.”

“Don't be a spaz,” Jesse said.

Toby drew a bead on the trailer with an imaginary rifle and pinched the trigger. “Ka-pow,” he said.

And the trailer blew up like a bomb had gone off inside it, an enormous burst of flame that sucked all the air out of the day, and punched the double-wide apart. The walls burst out in a metallic squeal and the roof collapsed. The noise rolled up the valley, and a cloud of raw, putrid smoke thickened above the wreckage of the trailer, hovering in the clear afternoon.

“Holy crap," Toby said, awestruck.

* * * *

Hector and Katie were in a booth at the Hitching Post, sharing a pizza. She was drinking Gallo red. Hector was having a beer. They were both off the clock. It was nice to simply enjoy each other's company. Although they were an item, these days, they seemed to find less time together. Katie still ran the local clinic, but she was up at Montana State in Billings three days a week now, and Hector was on call twenty-four seven. Their relationship was relaxed, a little too relaxed, Hector sometimes felt. They were still getting used to it.

“You hear from Lame Deer?” she asked him.

“He's teaching school, down in Wind River,” he said.

Andy Lame Deer had been the FBI field agent they'd worked a case with, the year before. Now he was retired. Hector didn't know the new guy. All he'd heard was that Agent Child wasn't an Indian, not necessarily a handicap.

“Not easy to have a conversation,” she said, smiling.

“Hard to know what to talk about,” he said, smiling back.

She slid her hand across the table and squeezed his hand in hers.

“Deputy Moody?”

Hector looked up.

“I'm sorry to bother you.”

A woman in her late forties. Hector didn't place her name.

“Sylvia Greyeyes,” she told him.

Hector slid out of the booth and stood. “Ma'am,” he said.

She had two boys with her, both about ten years old.

“Please,” Hector said.

Katie made room, and the boys slid in next to her, looking both excited and nervous. Hector offered Sylvia the seat on his side. “Buy you a beer?” he asked her.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I'm a dry drunk.”

Lot of that going around, Hector thought, as they sat down.

“This is my son Jesse, and my nephew Toby,” she said.

“What's up, guys?” Hector asked them.

So they told him the story, stepping on each other's toes a little, but they were by and large good witnesses.

Hector asked a couple of questions. Had they ever seen the blue truck before? Did they know who lived in the trailer?

They shook their heads.

“Okay. I'll go up there.”

“We can show you,” Toby said, eagerly.

“No,” Hector said. “I want you to stay off of Kettle Creek for the next week or so.”

Sylvia Greyeyes nodded a thank you.

“What?” Katie asked him.

“Meth lab,” he said. “Guy got careless with an open flame, blew himself into the back end of beyond.”

* * * *

Ice, they called it. Glass, or crank. Crystal meth, cooked down from pseudoephedrine. One of the byproducts was phosphine, another was acetone, both as easily ignited as a matchhead.

Stillwater County was fifty miles across, and a good sixty miles deep. Hector Moody shared the responsibility with two other deputy sheriffs, and worked the Limestone substation. State police sent a HAZMAT squad. He met them halfway up Kettle Creek and took them in.

The smell carried for miles, like carrion, or worse.

“Far enough,” the sergeant in charge of the team said. Hector was fine with it. He didn't have to get any closer. The team suited up and went in. Hector stayed on the ridge.

A big Ford SUV pulled up behind him, and the driver climbed out. No coat and tie. Dressed for brush country.

“Hector Moody?”

Hector nodded.

“Frank Child, FBI.”

They shook hands.

“What've you got?”

“Meth cooker, my guess.”

“Anything else?”

“With all due respect, this isn't the rez,” Hector said.

He meant the FBI had no jurisdiction. On the reservations, FBI handled felonies.

“No argument,” Child said. “I'm offering you my help.”

“Thanks,” Hector said. “I could use it.”

“I'm new here,” Child said. “I wouldn't want to get off on the wrong foot.”

“I appreciate that,” Hector said.

“They give the assignment to rookies, or guys on their last legs,” the FBI agent said.

“Your career could end in the Absarokas,” Hector said.

“I'd prefer it otherwise,” Child said.

* * * *

“What's he like?” Katie Faraday asked.

“Young guy, a newbie,” he said.

“You're not exactly an old crock.”

Hector grinned. “Everything's relative,” he said. “It's his first field assignment, is all. He did a couple of years at NCIC, he told me, right out of Quantico.”

“So you're thinking he's a computer geek or a lab rat.”

“I'm thinking he knows how to research a database. Does he know how to work a criminal case?”

“In other words, he's got something to prove.”

“If only to himself,” Hector said, “but he didn't strike me as a know-it-all cowboy with a chip on his shoulder.”

“First impressions are important,” Katie said.

“And my first impression is positive.”

“He told you the FBI was ready to help the investigation.”

“Proof is in the pudding,” Hector said.

“Why don't you call him?” she asked.

“Frank Child?”

She shook her head. “Andy Lame Deer.”

“We wouldn't have much to say to each other.”

“No, you just have to figure out how to say it.”

“Not my strong suit,” he said, smiling.

“You said the right thing to me.”

“You were willing to listen.”

“But it took you long enough,” Katie reminded him.

* * * *

Of course it was awkward, as he knew it would be. Lame Deer had gone out on a sour note, and Hector felt partly responsible.

Once they got past the initial stiffness, though, and started talking cop to cop, falling into a more familiar ritual, they were on safer ground, and began to relax with each other.

“Big problem, here in Wind River,” Lame Deer said. “It's a serious problem in Indian Country, all over.”

“Some enterprising Mexican dope runners figured it was easy pickings,” Lame Deer went on. “You got a history of alcohol dependency, it's a ready market for crank. They began shuffling it wholesale, now it's homegrown.”

“How many cookers have the local cops shut down?”

“We've got shake-and-bake,” Lame Deer said. “A cooker you can target, it's a physical location, but we have guys making it in their cars, in an empty plastic soda bottle. You find the residue by the side of the road. It used to be bikers, or some other lowlifes, but this has turned into mom-and-pop. You have the demand, the supply follows.”

“What else?”

“There's a gang presence,” Lame Deer said.

“Skinheads?”

“Indian kids. Wind River, Pine Ridge. Down in the Navajo Nation, the Big Rez, you know how many gangs they have on Indian land? Tribal police can't handle the numbers.”

“You're not giving me much room for optimism.”

“I said it was intractable, not hopeless.”

“There's a difference?”

“When the going gets tough, the tough get going,” Lame Deer said.

* * * *

The preliminary report from state forensics indicated traces elements of phosphine, acetone, chloroform, ammonia, hydrogen iodide, and other dilute solvent gases, all consistent with methamphetamine manufacture, and with a high risk of spontaneous ignition.

The blue pickup had been incinerated in the fireball, but they still managed to pull a VIN, and working through Motor Vehicle, a name. Lloyd Threadgill, last reported address a post office box in Livingston, just this side of Bozeman.

* * * *

Livingston had been founded on the west bank of the Yellowstone in the 1880s, when the Northern Pacific came through. It was a cow town, then as now.

Hector liaised with a Park County deputy. Her ID tag read pacheco. She introduced herself as Ruby.

“What have you got?” she asked.

Hector handed her the fax from MVD, with the driver's license photograph. White male, age thirty-nine, blue eyes, red hair. Five eleven, one fifty-five.

“Not a lot of meat on him,” she remarked.

Hector nodded. “Long and narrow,” he said.

“Hillbilly genes,” she said, smiling. She herself was tall for a woman, and big boned. “What's the approach?”

“Go door-to-door. Show people his picture. See if anybody can give us a line on him.”

“You figure him for a Crispy Critter.”

“If he was in the trailer,” Hector said. “State lab hasn't made a positive identification on his remains.”

“Dental records?”

“Guy with meth mouth might not have any teeth.”

They took both their vehicles, in case Ruby got a call from her dispatcher and had to respond.

Lloyd Threadgill had let his P.O. box expire, and left no forwarding. All his first-class mail had been returned to sender, and even if it hadn't, Hector had no claim to it without a warrant. The postmaster let him have a couple of stacks of old second-class they were ready to throw away, outdated supermarket coupons, catalogs from Victoria's Secret, back issues of Shotgun News. Gun classifieds and underwear. Nothing that gave them a handle on him personally.

MVD, on the other hand, required a physical address to issue a license and registration, as well as proof of insurance, so they had another starting point.

The trailer park was on an island, in the shadow of I-90. The river broke into a series of narrow loops, channels with sandbars, before it went down into canyon country, and picked up rapids and whitewater boils. Here it was placid, slow moving, and almost still.

“You part Indian?” Ruby asked.

“My grandmother's Crow,” Hector said. He thought it was an unnecessary question, maybe even an insulting one.

“The reason I ask,” Ruby Pacheco said, “is that we've got a mixed bag here, so it depends what you bring to the party. Let's say we figure Lloyd for a cracker. Then there are Native Americans, washed up in shoal water, and illegals, muled up from Mexico. Not the happiest melting pot.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Deputy?”

“We're not going to get any sympathy. I talk to some gal, she doesn't see me, she sees the uniform. These are people who don't trust the Migra. You being Indian might be helpful.”

“It's your turf,” Hector said.

“Let's walk the walk,” Ruby said.

She was right, of course. They got nowhere. If not at first outright hostility, then a sullen, sulky mulishness, or grudging cooperation. It was like pulling fingernails. Hector didn't let it discourage him. A lot of cop work involved shoe leather, and a lot of people weren't eager to invite police contact, generally because their past experience with the police had brought unhappy results.

Three hours later, Hector's stomach was growling and he was ready for lunch. They'd started at the north end, by the main entrance, and quartered their way south down the west side. Now they were working their way back up the east side.

The trailers were in general well maintained, some with flower boxes, more than a few with kitchen gardens. There was an occasional junker up on blocks. Most of the people here seemed to be barely scraping by, but they had a certain pride of place, and hadn't let their homes go to hell.

Hector and Ruby had talked to a couple of dozen residents, with nothing to show for it. They'd circled halfway back to the front gate when they knocked on Violet Halfpenny's door.

She was a widow, Gros Ventre, a fair piece off her historic graze, Fort Belknap, up by the Canadian border.

They learned this in the course of the interview, over coffee and homemade peanut butter brownies. Violet wasn't shy with information, and she had no embarrassment at all in talking to them.

“You come about those punks?” she asked.

“Which punks, Mother?” Hector asked.

“The cretins who drove through my garden.”

“Do you want to make a report, ma'am?” Ruby asked her.

“I made a report, two days ago,” Violet said.

“Who were they?” Hector asked.

“Georgie Ramirez and his little brother, Teo. They run with that pony herd of Assiniboine, gang-banger tattoos, listen to that god-awful hip-hop, like they're coloreds. Indian kids, I swear, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old.”

Violet herself was probably in her early sixties, Hector thought. Not one to suffer fools gladly. “Are they into dope?” he asked.

“They're huffers, some of them,” she said. “They like to do goofballs, beer and oxycodone. They steal prescription drugs from the mailboxes.”

Hector nodded, almost smiling. For a gal her age, she knew the talk. Came with the territory, he guessed.

“The dealers use them for runners,” she said.

Hector nodded again. “Because they're juveniles,” he said.

“You have dealers living in the trailer village?”

She shook her head. “Users. The boys bring the stuff in.”

Hector gave her Lloyd Threadgill's picture.

Violet sighed. “Poor, dumb bastard,” she murmured.

Hector and Ruby exchanged a glance.

“They ran him off,” Violet said.

“Who did?” Ruby asked her.

“The boys. Lloyd was strung out on speed. He sold product to support his habit.”

“So they eliminated the competition,” Hector said.

“I suppose,” Violet said, “but I think it was more to keep the police away. They were afraid Lloyd selling would bring the cops down on them.”

“Which is why you say you've got no dealers here.”

“With all due respect, cops don't much care about junkies,” she said.

“When did this happen, the pony herd running Lloyd off?”

“His trailer's been empty for a month.”

“Which trailer is that?” Hector asked her.

* * * *

The place had been trashed. The utilities had been shut off, no electric or gas or running water, but the smell of cigarettes and dope smoke was strong. There was an ice chest in one corner filled with lukewarm water and cans of stale Tecate.

“The gang's using it for a squat,” Ruby said.

Hector shrugged. “Let's see what we can turn up,” he said.

“We don't have a warrant.”

“Abandoned dwelling, evidence of criminal activity,” Hector said. “We're just poking around.”

They rummaged through it, but the trailer had been tossed before they got there. The only thing of possible interest they found was a stack of letters from the VA, hidden in the fridge.

“Lloyd was a vet,” Ruby said.

“DD-214, his separation, and applications for benefits.”

“Why the icebox?”

The inside of the refrigerator was moldy, since the power had been turned off a month before. Chinese takeout, covered in green slime, clotted milk, rancid butter.

“If somebody torched the place, the documents would survive a fire,” Hector said.

“Any significance?”

“They must have meant something to Lloyd.”

“You're working blind,” she said.

“No argument,” Hector told her. “Let's see if we can shake anything out of those two stoners.”

* * * *

Ida Ramirez worked two jobs. She wasn't home. The kid who came to the screen door was surly. They heard the soundtrack from The Flintstones coming from the TV. “What are you here for?” he asked them.

“Would you be Georgie or Teo?” Hector asked him.

“Who's asking?”

Hector took a deep breath. “You run over a woman's garden a couple of days ago?”

“That old bag? She needs a life.”

Hector didn't like pulling cop shit on people, he figured you got more flies with honey, but the kid was seriously pissing him off. “You're not making any friends, here,” he said.

“Get lost,” the kid said.

“You smell ganja?” Ruby asked Hector.

“Sure do,” he said. “Open up,” he told the kid.

“You can't bust in here like this,” the kid said.

Hector pushed past him into the kitchen. There were empty beer cans on the kitchen counter, and the air was heavy with the sweet, dense fragrance of marijuana.

“The fuh?” the kid on the couch in front of the TV said.

Ruby stepped inside, her hand on her holstered weapon. “Minors in possession of alcohol, use of a Class D substance,” she said to Hector. “Adds up to a felony fall. How many priors you figure they've got between them?”

“We been in juvie before,” the kid in the kitchen said.

“But this time you'll stay in juvie,” Hector told him. “They won't release you to your mom. You'll be in state custody until you're eighteen. Then you can be tried as an adult.”

“This is a jive beef.”

Ruby shook her head in exasperation.

“What do you need, anyway?” the kid on the couch asked. He hadn't moved a muscle since they came in.

“The guy you ran off,” Hector said. “What was that about?”

“Which guy?”

“You're using his trailer to party in.”

“That dieselhead? He was a loser.”

Hector looked around the trailer. “You, of course, being a winner,” he said.

Irony wasn't the kid's strong suit, or he was too wasted to care.

“You don't quit the juice, you're going to be fifteen going on fifty,” Hector told him.

They left the two brothers and went outside.

Hector took a deep breath. “Jesus,” he said, “what kind of world are we living in?”

“One where you get the first taste for free,” Ruby said.

* * * *

The burned-out double-wide was registered to a C. H. Esterhazy in Sheridan, Wyoming, but the registration had lapsed three years previous. Hector's contact at MVD got what records were available, including a title to the vehicle, and the last known address of the owner. Clare Hopkins Esterhazy, deceased, age eighty-four, at a nursing home in Casper. There was no bill of sale reassigning ownership. The obvious question was how the trailer had wound up in the meadow below Kettle Creek. Lloyd's old pickup wouldn't have done the trick. You'd need at least a three-quarter ton truck to move it, with four-wheel drive.

Hector caught a break when a hunter named Jerry McGill told him the trailer had been up there at least two years because Jerry and his hunting buddies had been hiking past it that long. They'd assumed it was seasonal occupancy.

“You never knocked on the door?”

Jerry smiled. “It's the mountains, Hector,” he said. “If we'd seen somebody living there, we would have stopped out of courtesy, to tell them we were hunting the National Forest land. Otherwise, let well enough alone.”

He meant you didn't walk up to someplace on the ragged edge of nowhere without an invitation. Hector understood.

Lloyd, assuming it was Lloyd, could have bought propane tanks anywhere inside a hundred-mile radius, and humped them up to the abandoned trailer. The other mystery was how he knew the trailer was there.

* * * *

Hector telephoned the FBI agent, Frank Child. “I'd like to call in that favor,” he said.

“What do you need, Deputy?”

“I've got paperwork on a guy named Lloyd Threadgill.”

“The meth lab that blew up.”

“Nothing probative,” Hector said. “He's got a history with speed, is all I have. It was his truck burned at the scene.”

“Close enough for government work,” Child said.

“I've got his DD-214,” Hector said.

“That's a start,” Child said.

“He was in the Gulf War, the first one,” Hector said. “You've got leverage I don't,” Hector said. “You can get on to St. Louis, look at his records. I want to know the units, the men he served with.”

“Names.”

“I'm down to stems and seeds,” Hector said.

“Let's see if we can find something we can smoke.”

Hector was surprised the FBI guy had a sense of humor.

“Back at you in twenty-four,” Child said.

They hung up.

Hector didn't know exactly what he was asking for. He had too many pieces, and no pattern. If he had a pattern, maybe the pieces would fit.

But he couldn't shrug off the two boys in the trailer park.

Katie had morning classes to teach, so she was staying over in Billings tonight at a girlfriend's. Nothing wrong with that, but it meant Hector had nobody to take his troubles to. He opened a beer and watched the news while he made himself dinner.

It was a Tuesday, so NCIS was on at seven. Hector wasn't that crazy about cop shows, but he got a kick out of Mark Harmon, even if the character was unlike any Marine gunny of Hector's acquaintance. The episode resolved in a flurry of gunfire and wisecracks, and Hector found himself wondering what he might do if he had the forensics and computer capability of Mark Harmon's crew, or their sudden, intuitive leap of faith after the third commercial break. Hector could have used a sudden intuition, or a leap of faith.

Restless, he called Lame Deer. He wanted to bring the retired FBI agent up to speed, but more than that, Hector wanted somebody who'd listen. Lame Deer might help put his thoughts in order.

“What's your interest in Lloyd's military record?” was Lame Deer's first question.

“I don't know,” Hector said. “It's a dropped stitch.”

“The gang chases him off, but he's got a place to hide.”

“The woman's dead. How did the trailer get there? How did he know where to find it?”

“Cart before the horse,” Lame Deer said.

“Okay, walk me through it.”

“Guy blows himself up. You trace his truck. You go to the trailer park, you find a couple of teenage dopers.”

“I can't shake that.”

“You're not seeing the forest for the trees. You can't let it get personal.”

“Deputy Pacheco got on to the Livingston PD. They know the local dealers are using kids to mule speed.”

“So you've got an intervention, maybe some arrests.”

“It doesn't make me feel any better.”

“You're bailing out a bathtub with a teaspoon.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Focus.”

Hector smiled. “Both of us?” he asked.

“Who's trafficking in the Gallatin?” Lame Deer asked him.

Hector thought about it. “You figure Lloyd is answering an unanswered need,” he said.

“Filling a vacuum.”

“Identify a customer base, and provide the product.”

“You're burning daylight, Hector,” Lame Deer told him.

It was a fair question Lame Deer had asked. There was a law of supply and demand. How much demand was there for drugs in Stillwater County, and who were the suppliers? Drugs, of course, were everywhere, and Hector understood his little patch of ground was no exception, but it wasn't Bozeman or Billings. He knew he was being naive. Livingston, for example, only had a population of about six thousand people, and look what he'd run across there. Just because Stillwater was primarily ranch country, the towns small and spread out, feed and hardware stores, mostly, didn't mean the drug presence was negligible. Coke and heroin, downers, reds. You could probably buy quaaludes or Vicodin from a high-school kid. He was just resistant to the idea.

Okay, he told himself. That's fatal. It was like thinking those same high school kids don't have unprotected sex. Katie offered birth control counseling at the clinic, not that it made a dent in the rate of STDs and unanticipated pregnancies. Turn it back to front, Hector thought. Demand, then supply.

Why had Lloyd come to the Absarokas? To get the hell out of Dodge, for openers, the gangbangers more than he could handle on his own. But maybe somebody had offered to set him up in business. A vacant trailer, raw materials, a market share.

So, who had the market?

He called Joe Pony. Joe was Hector's counterpart up by Big Lake. He was one of the two other Stillwater deputies.

“I can give you a couple of names,” Joe said. “Local guys. Nobody in your neck of the woods, far as I know.”

Hector thanked him, and tried Absalom Enterprise, the third deputy.

“I put a guy away a few years ago,” Ab told him. “Lakota, name of Cloudfoot. The fall was three to five. He might be out by now.”

Hector felt like he was spinning his wheels. He phoned the States.

The answer to his first question took him neither forward nor back. The lab had a positive on Lloyd Threadgill, DOA at the crime scene, so Hector could stop thinking about the guy theoretically. The drug task force wasn't as comforting. Ike Cloudfoot had been released from state correctional up in Helena four months previous. He hadn't contacted his parole officer.

“Meaning he's in violation?” Hector asked.

“Open arrest warrant,” the state police officer said.

“Last known?”

She gave him the address. Somewhere near Hailstone.

Hector hung up. Oh for three. Or maybe a base on balls.

* * * *

It seemed to Hector there were two interrelated issues, Lloyd's possible associates, and the timeline. Lloyd had a couple of minor pops for possession, but he'd never been in prison. Ike Cloudfoot was a hard case who'd been in the heavy his entire adult life, so if there were any connection between them, it had to be on the outside. The problem was lack of opportunity. Cloudfoot had gone down on the distribution beef two-and-a-half years before. Lloyd had shown up in Livingston a year ago, at least according to the local police blotter, which showed two arrests in the last twelve months. It was remotely possible they'd hooked up after Cloudfoot got out of the joint, but there was no proof either way.

Then there was the trailer. No way Cloudfoot had towed it up Kettle Creek two years back. He was in stir. So maybe the Lakota was a red herring. Hector was grabbing at straws, but he decided this was a square peg in a round hole. And in any case, Cloudfoot had vanished off the radar.

He went back to Lloyd. Agent Child had forwarded his e-mail exchanges with the VA.

Threadgill, Lloyd. Dates of active service, MOS, training certifications, unit deployments, awards and commendations, rank at separation. The usual boilerplate.

No, wait a minute. Hector went back. Lloyd had been promoted to E-6, not specialist grade, staff sergeant. But he'd separated as an E-4, which suggested disciplinary action and reduction in rank. There was no indication of a court-martial proceeding, so it had to be an Article 15, non-judicial punishment, captain's mast, which wouldn't show up in his permanent record. Hector wondered what was serious enough to cost Lloyd two stripes, but not serious enough to get him discharged under less than honorable conditions. It was a fine line. The military operated under very strict rules, but an Article 15 was the next best thing to a plea bargain. Lloyd had been offered a deal.

His operational specialty, his MOS, was Electronic Warfare, which covered a multitude of sins. Spook stuff, possibly. A security-classified job in a combat zone. Where had he trained, again? Biloxi, Mississippi. And then he'd gone through jump school at Stead AFB, in Nevada. So he had parachute wings, too. He'd been assigned flight status in the Gulf, and there was an entry on his pay log for hazardous duty. All of which added up to absolutely nothing, from Hector's point of view. It told him zip about an exploding trailer, filled with meth vapors.

Or perhaps not.

Lloyd's last documentation was determination of disability. Possible exposure to toxic elements. Everybody who'd been in the Gulf had possible exposure to toxic elements. The VA was on the fence, trying to slide away from it.

Lloyd was another unacknowledged casualty.

* * * *

“All due respect, that's a lot of road apples,” Hieronymo said. He nodded toward Katie. “I'm thinking the doc agrees with me on this.”

“People choose their poison,” she said.

“They choose to be victims too,” he said. Hieronymo was a substance abuse counselor, working out of Katie's clinic. “I know that's not the received wisdom, these days, but it's how it looks from where I sit.”

“Lloyd brought it on himself,” Hector said.

“Yes and no,” Hieronymo said. “Guy was in combat. He comes back from the Gulf with a Jones, he wouldn't be the first. You have to be willing to take the responsibility, is all.”

“Surrender to a higher power?” Hector suggested.

“If you're hitting the sauce or you're strung out on drugs, you've already surrendered to a higher power, Hector.”

“I didn't mean to sound like a wiseass.”

“VA has outreach. Post-traumatic stress, addiction issues. But they don't come to you, you need to go to them.”

“Understood.”

“And even if Lloyd had been getting help, he didn't stay on message. It's hard to live a clean life.”

Moment to moment. Sylvia Greyeyes had described herself as a dry drunk, Hector remembered.

“You need some kind of support mechanism. Friends, family. It's pretty obvious Lloyd didn't have one.”

“So he falls back on the one he knows.”

“Booze was a good friend to me,” Hieronymo said. “Always there when I needed it, never let me down. I've been sober the past five years, and I've wanted a drink each and every damn day of those five years. It doesn't go away.”

“What's the difference between you and a guy like Lloyd?”

Hieronymo smiled, and rubbed his thumb and his index finger together. “About that much,” he said.

“Except that you're straight,” Hector said.

“So far,” Hieronymo said. “Today's not over yet.”

* * * *

Child was on the phone. “Anything?” the FBI agent asked.

“I think Lloyd had help,” Hector said. “The wrong kind.”

“Cloudfeather?”

“Cloudfoot,” Hector corrected him. “No.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Nothing. Cloudfoot might be background noise, but I can't put them together.”

“What's your thinking?” Child asked.

“I think Lloyd was a target of opportunity,” Hector said.

“I'm listening.”

“Lloyd went to the VA. He wanted treatment, or he wanted to sign up for disability. Six of one. Either way, he's in the system.”

“I gave you what I got,” Child said.

“There's more,” Hector said.

“Confidentiality,” Child said. “I won't get his medical.”

“He's a dead guy. Dead people don't have secrets.”

Child blew out his breath. “You're a hard man, Hector,” he said.

“No more than I have to be,” Hector said. “Find out where Lloyd applied for benefits. What's his last known, before he came to Montana, and how did he wind up here? Somebody suckered him into that double-wide.”

“I don't know where you're going with this.”

“Where it takes me,” Hector told him. They rang off.

* * * *

He talked to Ab Enterprise again.

“You think Cloudfoot's involved?” Ab asked.

“I don't see it, but he's a loose end,” Hector said.

“Loose is right, if he hasn't reported to his P.O. Too bad they didn't notify me of his release.”

“Slipped through the cracks.” He gave Ab the last known he had from the state police. “You know it?”

“It's a campground up on Big Lake. Seasonal. The way I remember, Ike Cloudfoot's mom parked herself there, early May to late October. Had what you'd call an unlicensed snack bar.”

Meaning she sold beer to the fishermen. “Give you leverage with her?” Hector asked.

Ab snorted. “Naomi's a piece of work,” he said. “Ike's no prize, but the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.”

“You get the chance, will you check it out?”

“I can make a run out there, next couple of days. You want in?”

“I'm not going to see anything you wouldn't,” Hector said.

“Ike's old lady doesn't deal dope, far as I know,” Ab said. “Bootleg liquor is all, and Frito pies I wouldn't feed a dog.”

There was an unasked question. “Something's bothering you,” Hector said.

“It bothers me the States didn't tell me Ike had gotten out of the slam. It bothers me that he's gone missing. It bothers me that nobody gives a rat's ass. And it bothers me to go up to Big Lake without somebody watching my back.”

“Okay,” Hector said. “I'll be there in the morning.”

* * * *

Katie was drinking Gallo red again. Hector was drinking Coors. He seemed absent, she thought, and she remarked on it.

“Sorry,” he said. “I'm wool gathering.”

“No,” she said. “You're thinking. There's a difference.”

“Those two kids at the trailer park in Livingston,” he said. “Fifteen, sixteen years old. Gangbangers, shuffling drugs. Sylvia Greyeyes and her two boys, they're what now, ten? Looking forward to a dead-end future.”

Katie sat back. “Get over yourself,” she said.

Hector was startled. “What?” he asked, looking up.

“You heard me,” she said. “Meth is everywhere. It's like the weather. You take one guy down, four more pop up. Dragon's teeth.”

“Bailing out a bathtub with a teaspoon.”

She leaned forward again, and took his hand. “Sailing into the wind,” she said.

“One day at a time.”

“Best you can do,” Katie said.

Frank Child came into the Hitch, and looked around. Hector waved him over.

Child seemed a little awkward. “Dr. Faraday?” he asked.

They shook hands.

“Beer?” Hector asked him.

The FBI agent slipped into the booth next to Hector. “When in Rome,” he said.

Their pizzas came.

“Can we speak frankly?” Child asked Hector.

Hector glanced at Katie, putting a couple of napkins in his lap. “She'll hear it all, anyway,” he said.

Child nodded, concealing his smile.

“Or not,” Katie said.

“Might as well hear it from me, then,” Child said.

Hector folded his slice of pepperoni pizza the long way, so he wouldn't drip cheese on his pants.

“Okay, first of all, your guy moved around a lot, the last couple of years,” Child said. “Denver, Seattle, Albuquerque. Before that, though, his life seems to have been pretty stable.”

“Where was he?”

“Norfolk, Virginia.”

“Job?”

Child nodded. “Department of Defense subcontractor.”

“Lloyd was Army,” Hector said. “Norfolk is Navy.”

Child nodded again. “They worked on naval avionics. Don't ask. I did. Classified project.”

“Lloyd had a security clearance.”

“Dating back to his time of service.”

“What did he do, exactly, when he was in the military?”

“Communications intelligence.”

“Could you explain what you're talking about?” Katie asked.

Child smiled. “Closely held,” he said. “What they call compartmentalized, in the jargon. My security clearance doesn't give me access.”

“But you can make an educated guess,” she said.

“Intercept and analysis of electronic signals, like radar signatures and missile telemetry. These days, there's a virtual battlefield. It's on computers, not on the ground.”

“They still take casualties on the ground,” Katie said.

“There's that,” Child said.

“What did he get busted for?” Hector asked.

“There's no record,” Child said. “A court martial would have a transcript, but an Article 15 is at the discretion of the unit C.O. Commanding officer,” he added, for Katie's benefit.

“He lost his rank, but he kept his clearance,” Hector said.

“And took an honorable separation,” Child said.

“But eighteen years later, something happens,” Hector said. “The guy goes on the bum.”

Child shrugged. “That's how I'd read it,” he said.

“What pushed him over the edge?”

“He was in VA outreach. Post-traumatic stress, maybe. But he applied to get his rank reinstated. They turned him down.”

“Piss me off, if I were him,” Hector said.

“Which is about as far as I can take it,” Child said. “The only other thing I came up with was his Facebook account.”

“A place where vets can bitch about mistreatment.”

“And share resources.”

“If we got screwed, how do we screw them back?”

“Couple of linked Web sites. Lloyd was active on them.”

“How angry are the Web sites?”

“Pretty angry.”

“Turns out, FBI is monitoring them for domestic terrorism?”

“No comment,” Child said.

“I'm sorry,” Katie said, “but you seem to be trying awfully hard not to tell Hector something.”

“Here it is,” Child said. “You can be a homeless guy, but you can go into any public library and sign onto the Internet. Lloyd kept his accounts up and running. It doesn't matter where he was. Seattle or Albuquerque. He might as well have been in Warsaw or Moscow.”

“But he wound up on the backside of nowhere,” Hector said. “In a double-wide he didn't own. Cooking meth. How does he get from Point A to Point B? Or more specifically, how do we?”

“What have you got on Cloudtooth?”

“Cloudfoot,” Hector said.

“Whatever,” Child said.

“I'm going after him tomorrow,” Hector said.

“Could you use company?” Child asked.

“Wouldn't hurt.”

“Don't let your pizza get cold,” Katie said to them.

* * * *

There were two national wildlife refuges at the north end of Stillwater, Hailstone and Halfbreed. It was an empty end of the map.

Ab Enterprise obviously felt Big Lake was outlaw country, and he suited up accordingly. He had a Ruger .223 ranch gun on his rifle rack and a 12-gauge Remington pump clipped to the dash. He himself was carrying a Glock .40 in a hip holster, and a 9MM Springfield compact as a boot pistol.

“No joke, hey?” Child asked him.

Ab shrugged. “Better to have what you don't need than need what you don't have,” he said.

They followed Ab in Hector's truck. Going in, they saw a Forest Service vehicle on the way out. Ab waved the guy down and pulled over. The ranger parked on the opposite shoulder and Ab crossed the road to have a word with him.

“Good that he doesn't want to make a blind approach,” Child said.

“Ab's been at this game awhile,” Hector said. “He believes in leaving a light footprint.”

“And carrying heavy,” the FBI agent commented.

“There's no call to court trouble,” Hector said. “Not when it has a habit of finding you.”

“Is that one of those stoic Western aphorisms?”

“He's been in five gunfights, that I know of,” Hector said. “Other man always drew first. Ab's no cowboy.”

“You, either,” Child said.

“No,” Hector said, smiling. “I'm an Indian.”

Child laughed, a little uneasily, Hector thought.

The ranger drove off, and Ab came over to Hector's side of the truck. “Place is crawling with bass fishermen, man tells me,” he said. “Naomi Cloudfoot is doing a land-office business in ice, beer, cigarettes, and live bait. You sure you're up for this?”

Both of them said yes.

“Okay,” Ab said. He walked back to his SUV and got in, and they drove behind him on the unpaved road up to the lake.

The terrain rose slightly, and then dropped, and the trees fell away. The lake spread out in front of them, the water bright, as smooth as porcelain, one of those accidents of nature the Rockies serve up, a shallow basin carved by ice, stretching toward the horizon line, pristine and uncluttered, as if God had only just left.

Child whistled. “I should get out of the office more,” the FBI agent said.

“Take every opportunity you get,” Hector said.

“Indians have a name for this place?”

“Tanka Ble is what the Lakota call it,” Hector said.

“Which means what?”

“It means Big Lake,” Hector said, with a straight face.

Child glanced over at him. “Half the time, I don't know if you're putting me on or not, Deputy.”

There was a fork, the road branching, and Ab took the right-hand turn, heading north along the shoreline. The nearest boat ramp and campground was on the east side of the lake.

The bass boats had been out at first light, when insects peppered the water. Now it was mid morning, the sun heating the surface of the lake, and the fish had gone deeper, or moved in close to the shoreline, where deadfall created pockets of shade. The fishermen had come in to change their lures.

Naomi Cloudfoot sold shiners and crawfish. A lot of bass guys used plastic worms and spinners, but some of them swore by live bait. The proof was in the pudding.

The three lawmen parked behind Naomi's trailer and got out.

“What's the drill?” FBI special agent Child asked.

“I'll see what I can get out of Naomi,” Ab said. “You want to chat up her customers?”

They nodded, and Ab got in line behind a couple of big guys in plaid shirts and waders.

“I don't know dick about bass fishing,” Child said.

Hector shrugged. “Me, either,” he said.

It wasn't much of a crowd to work, a few dozen men on shore, another dozen still out on the lake. The two deputies were in uniform, Child in khakis and a windbreaker, although you wouldn't mistake him for a civilian. The fishermen weren't a hostile bunch, in any case, just disinterested. They could have cared less about Naomi Cloudfoot's jailbird son.

“Haven't seen him,” one guy told Hector. “Last I heard, he was in the jug.”

“He's been out a couple of months,” Hector said.

“Ike's nothing but trouble,” the bass fisherman said. “His old lady stands by him because he's family, that's all.”

“He hasn't reported to his P.O.,” Hector said, “but I'm not looking to violate him.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Answers to some questions. Known associates.”

The fisherman snorted. “Ike's known associates are junkies and gang-bangers. He's pretty low on the food chain.”

“That's what I hear,” Hector said.

“Then you've heard all there is to hear,” the guy said, and walked off.

Child came over. “Any joy?” he asked.

“None of them admits to seeing Ike,” Hector told him.

“They covering for him?”

“I don't read it that way,” Hector said. “They might be protecting Naomi, but nobody seems to have any love lost for Ike and his line of business.”

“Why don't you kiss my ass?” they heard Naomi Cloudfoot say loudly. “You already put my boy away once.”

Ab Enterprise said something to her, quietly.

“That doesn't cut any ice with me,” she snapped.

Ab raised a hand, no harm, no foul, and moved away from the take-out window.

“Not getting any further,” he said to Hector.

“Might raise a wind,” Hector said.

Child's cell buzzed on his hip, and he stepped a little out of earshot to take the call.

“She's a shade too adamant,” Ab said.

“Nice word for it,” Hector said, smiling.

Ab smiled too. “Dollars to donuts, she's seen him,” he said. “Ike's only half smart. He knows better than to shack up with her, but he's dumb enough to hit on her for beer money.”

“You figure he's gone to ground close by?”

“That's the easy call,” Ab said. “But wishing doesn't make it so. He could be anywhere between here and Canada.”

Child snapped his cell phone shut. “His mom might not know where he is, but we do,” he said to them.

They both looked at him.

“Nearest town is Molt,” he said.

“Not much hat size to it,” Ab said.

“Big enough for a public library, and Internet access.”

“What have you got?” Hector asked.

“Ike Cloudfoot just signed onto his Facebook account, as we speak,” the FBI agent said.

“Eight miles of bad road,” Ab said to Hector. They were both thinking the same thing. Naomi could alert Ike before they even got close.

“Let's hit it,” Hector said.

They pulled out without urgency. They were a mile from the lake before Ab Enterprise put the pedal to the metal.

* * * *

Andrew Carnegie, the nineteenth-century Pittsburgh robber baron, put up seed money for public libraries all over the country. The library in Molt was the only brick building in town, a modest two-story affair, vaguely neo-Classical. At eleven that morning, the parking lot was already half full.

“I see a problem, here,” Hector said.

Ab nodded. “Background,” he agreed.

Frank Child looked at the two uniformed deputies.

“Civilians,” Hector said to him. “Library staff, old ladies with blue hair, kids out of school for the summer. From the number of cars, I'd say there were forty, maybe fifty people inside. Targets of opportunity, Ike decides to pick a fight.”

“We don't know if he's armed.”

Hector glanced at Ab. “Odds are, not,” he said.

“I wouldn't take it to the bank,” Ab said.

“How do you want to do this, then?” Child asked them.

“Ab and I go around the side, use the back door.”

“How do you know there is one?”

Hector smiled. “Handicapped access,” he said. “Wheelchair ramp. It's a Federal mandate, to qualify for matching funds.”

“Where am I?”

“You go in the front,” Hector said.

“I don't even know what Ike Cloudfoot looks like.”

“Tall, early thirties, skinny as a rail, hair tied back in a ponytail,” Ab said. “I forget to mention he's an Indian? You can't miss him.”

“Non-issue,” Hector said. “If his mom warned him, he'll be long gone. If she didn't, he doesn't know we're coming.”

“Here's the deal,” Ab said. “These places are all laid out the same. You walk in, there's a central check-out desk, open stacks. Ask to get on the waiting list for computer time. Ike won't be in the stacks. He'll be on a computer station, because he's only allowed an hour of use. He won't waste it.”

“That's a lot of variables,” Child said.

“There always are,” Hector said.

* * * *

In the event, however, they took him down without incident.

Hector and Ab came in the back and navigated their way through the stacks. Child was sitting at an open computer position, two seats down from Ike, who was oblivious to what was going on around him, until Ab pinned his arms, to keep him from deleting his recent Web searches. Hector scooted Ike's chair back and cuffed him. Child slid into Ike's seat and began scrolling through the screens he'd opened. It happened too fast for anybody else to react.

Then they drew reaction in very short order.

The first was a library patron, a woman in her mid forties who'd been at one of the other computer workstations. “What are you doing?” she asked. “There are children here.”

“With all due respect, ma'am,” Ab Enterprise said, “we were well aware of that.”

A second woman, an assistant librarian, put her hand on the first woman's arm. “Deputy,” she said.

Ab apparently knew her. “Miz Nicholson,” he said.

“I think Sally's scared,” the librarian told him. “We don't usually have armed, uniformed officers making an arrest on library grounds.”

“I appreciate that,” Ab said. “My apologies,” he said to the first woman, Sally. “We wanted to minimize the risk, and we needed the element of surprise.”

Sally blinked back tears, more shaken than she'd let on.

Hector got Ike Cloudfoot to his feet. He handed Ike's cell to Ab.

Ab flipped it open. The screen showed Naomi had called her son twice but the cell phone had been turned off. Ab shook his head. “Ike doesn't play by the rules much,” he said, “but they ask you to silence your phone in the library.”

Hector looked over Child's shoulder. Child had saved Ike's searches to a document, and he was printing it out.

“I'm sorry for the disturbance,” Ab said to the two women.

“Are you keeping a record of the Web sites this man accessed on the Internet?” the librarian asked him.

“We're taking him into custody on an open felony warrant,” Ab said. “He's in violation of his parole, and he's a person of interest in an active investigation.”

“He has an expectation of privacy.”

Ab nodded. “Unlawful search and seizure,” he said.

“What's it about?” she asked him.

Ab hesitated. “Methamphetamine trafficking,” he said.

“Oh, hell,” the librarian said, sadly, and let it go.

* * * *

“What have we got?” Hector asked. They were outside, sitting in his truck.

“Online pharmacies, Canadian,” Child said.

“Pseudoephedrine,” Hector said.

Child nodded. You couldn't go into a drugstore in the States and buy enough cold medicine to make it worth your while, but on the Internet it was an open market.

“Is this legal?” Hector asked the FBI agent. He meant, was it usable evidence.

“International traffic falls under Homeland Security. It's subject to the anti-terrorism act.”

“So we can nail Ike as the supplier of raw materials to his cookers, but how do we connect him with Lloyd?”

Child handed him the printout.

“Walk me through it,” Hector said.

Child opened his laptop.

Hector wasn't that Internet savvy, so it took the FBI agent some explaining.

“Social networking, Facebook, MySpace.”

“You told me that's how Ike hooked up with Lloyd.”

“Little more roundabout than that,” Child said. “Lloyd was among the damaged and the disaffected.”

“Veterans’ blog sites. A place to bitch about mistreatment and ignored needs. The VA's a mess.”

“It's a recruitment pool.”

“I don't like where this is going,” Hector said.

“I don't like it, either,” Child said.

“A lot of guys came back from Vietnam or the Gulf wars with post-traumatic stress, battle fatigue,” Hector said. “They didn't turn to cooking meth.”

“Hundreds of thousands. All you need is a couple of dozen, here and there.”

“And you set it up through the Internet.”

“Six or eight guys in Michigan, up in the You Pee. Six or eight in the Southwest, Albuquerque, El Paso. Another six or eight in Montana. You keep the distribution small. You keep it separate, compartmentalized, like a spy cell.”

“We bust Ike, we're only scratching the surface.”

“Doesn't make a dent in the traffic.”

“Ike's small-time. He's a druggie. Meth has burned his brains out and probably cost him his teeth. He doesn't have the chops to put this together.”

“Agreed,” Child said.

“What's the common denominator?”

“Tribal lands, Indian country.”

“Is it going to do us any good to talk to Ike?”

“Can't do us any harm,” Child said.

* * * *

They sat him down in Ab's substation, just off the interstate at the Reedpoint exit. Hector took first licks.

“Guy blew himself up in a trailer in the Absarokas. He was an ex-G.I., name of Lloyd Threadgill.”

Ike stared at his hands, unresponsive.

“I'm curious to know how you made his acquaintance,” Hector said. “Doesn't seem like he would have run with your crowd.”

“I don't have no posse,” Ike said.

“What about Gulf War vets?” Child asked. “Guys who were in the sandbox?”

Ike fidgeted. He was coming down with the shakes.

“You miss your wake-up shot today, Ike?” Ab asked him.

“I got worms under my skin,” Ike said.

“It'll get worse before it gets better,” Ab said.

“I want a lawyer,” Ike said to them.

Ab grinned. “I want a nine-inch dick,” he said.

“You've been Mirandized,” Child said.

“I don't have to give you nothing,” Ike said.

“You go in the slam, you'll get nothing to ease your pain,” Ab said. “I got something for you, might take the edge off.”

Child cut him a sharp look.

“This ain't Quantico,” Ab said.

The FBI agent obviously didn't like the direction they were taking.

“Make you a deal, Ike,” Ab said.

“You can't,” Child said.

“Ike's choice, not yours,” Ab said.

“I'm crawling inside,” Ike said.

“Who put you together with Lloyd Threadgill?” Hector asked.

“Just a guy.”

“How'd you hook up with him?”

“Cut me some slack, hey.”

Hector glanced at Ab. Child looked away.

“Buy you a cup of coffee?” Hector asked the FBI agent.

They left Ab alone with Ike.

“I'm not going along with this,” Child said.

“Nobody asked,” Hector said.

“Your pal, there, gets Ike jacked up? Nothing the guy says is going to be admissible. We'll never secure a conviction.”

“I've got no interest in putting Ike away,” Hector said.

“Why, because he's walking wounded?”

“No, because he's a means to an end.”

“A judge might call it subornation of perjury.”

“With all due respect, don't preach the law to me.”

“The law's all we've got between us and the Stone Age.”

“Frank, for Christ's sake, this is the Stone Age.”

Child had never heard Hector use profanity before, and in fact it was uncharacteristic. Hector was usually courteous, but it was obvious he was pissed off about something.

“Sorry,” Hector said. “No reason to take it out on you.”

Child had cooled off, seeing Hector get hot. “What is it?” he asked.

Hector rubbed the bridge of his nose. “History, maybe,” he said. “Benign neglect.”

Child waited him out.

“Ira Hayes drowned in three inches of water,” Hector said. “Fell facedown in a puddle. He'd won the Medal of Honor in the Pacific, but when he died, he was just another drunken Indian.”

"You're not a loser, Hector,” Child said.

“Ike is,” Hector said.

“Ike's past saving.”

“Pretty much,” Hector said. “That's my point.”

“You can't change his history, or yours.”

“They say the victors write the history,” Hector said, “but tell me, Frank, who exactly are the winners here?”

“Okay, you're right,” Child said. “I shouldn't preach the law. You save just one kid, it's a minor victory. But you want to lose your self-respect in the bargain?”

“I'll take the trade,” Hector said.

“Your call,” the FBI agent said.

Ab came out from the back room. “Got a name,” he said.

* * * *

The one name led to others. Dropping a pebble in the pool, ripples spread outward. Federal warrants executed in eighteen states targeted network user databases, although the service providers dug in their heels and fought back against giving up individual account information. Many of the warrants were later ruled invalid because they cast too wide a net.

Still, there were results. They popped cookers and distribution as far east as Illinois and upper New York state, even if most of it was out west, Arapahoe, Apache, Flathead, Ute, Navajo. Closer to home, for Hector and Lame Deer, were the Rosebud and Wind River.

“Bad medicine,” Lame Deer said.

Hector nodded.

Burgers and beers at the Hitching Post. Lame Deer had come up from Wyoming. They'd invited Frank Child.

“It's a good bust, Hector,” Child said.

“Small fish in a big pond,” Hector said.

“Just like us,” Lame Deer said.

“You guys,” Katie remarked, smiling.

“All due respect, Doc,” Lame Deer said, raising his glass.

“Okay, it's a good bust,” Hector admitted. “We shut down a half dozen cookers. There's an end to it?”

“You take what you get,” Lame Deer said.

“Evil sufficient to the day thereof,” Child said.

“You a Bible-thumper, Agent?” Lame Deer asked him.

“The devil quotes Scripture when it suits him,” Child said.

“So do I,” Lame Deer said.

“We'll never find the guy who set it up,” Hector said.

“Don't be so sure,” Child said.

“He's a predator. He lurks around the waterhole. The prey comes to drink.”

“You're giving him too much credit,” Child said.

“He's not an abstraction.”

“We'll nail him, in the end.”

Hector's cell phone burred in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said to the others, and picked up, turning away slightly from the table. He listened. “Roger that,” he said, and thumbed his phone closed. “Gotta go,” he said to Katie, standing up.

“What?” she asked, knowing it could only be bad.

“Ab Enterprise just got gunned down in a trailer park, far side of the interstate,” Hector said. “Twelve-gauge full in the chest, but he took the shooter with him. Fifteen-year-old meth head, both of them DOA.” He looked at the FBI agent. “You were saying?” he asked.

Copyright © 2012 David Edgerley Gates

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: TIGHTENING OF THE BOND
by R. T. Lawton

“It seems our friend the copper is in trouble.”

Cletis Johnston, the proprietor of the Twin Brothers Bail Bond Firm, sat forward in his executive leather chair with his elbows resting on the mahogany desk, and his ebony hands tented at eye level. Facing him from the other side of the polished mahogany top stood his executive secretary, Moklal Feringheea, and the firm's solitary bail agent, Theodore Oscar Alan Dewey.

“You're referring to the station captain?” Theodore ventured.

“The only copper we have in our pocket,” replied Cletis.

Theodore thought he detected a slight amount of sarcasm in that reply, a somewhat disconcerting situation for him to be in. Undercurrents in conversation always left him slightly queasy, causing large beads of sweat to pop out on his pink, bald head. When he thought no one was looking, Theodore used his left hand, the one with the once broken and improperly set little finger that now stood permanently straight out like a wayward flagpole, to squeegee off some of the moisture.

News such as this meant the office would be in turmoil until circumstances had been remedied to the satisfaction of the proprietor. As the proprietor did not like loose ends, Theodore frequently found himself being the person designated to ensure that all endings were tied up with finality, no comebacks. And with the way things had gone the last several years, Theodore sometimes wondered how he hadn't completely dehydrated through excessive perspiration during one of these problem-solving sessions in the bail firm's Inner Sanctum.

“May I inquire what the captain's problem is?”

Cletis paused in reply as he untented his hands and straightened the sleeves of his light tan suit coat of Shantung silk. The cuffs of his dark cranberry shirt now displayed the proper amount of exposure, according to his personal tailor based in Hong Kong. As he reached for a document lying near at hand, soft light from baby spots in the ceiling glistened off his twenty-four karat gold cufflinks which were inset with polished ebony stones. His dark eyes barely skimmed over the sheet of paper before he spoke.

“According to this note delivered to our office a few minutes ago by an anonymous messenger, our friend the captain has been charged with the crime of murder.”

“Who'd he kill?” asked Theodore.

“The deceased appears to be an Internal Affairs detective looking into alleged corruption within the department.”

“Oh,” was all that Theodore could say in reply. This was definitely not good. He then tried drying the wet palm and damp fingers of his left hand by wiping them on the left pant leg of his brown slacks. Didn't work. A small dark spot now showed in the cheap cloth, which meant the sweat on his balding dome would get worse unless he switched hands. Some days, nothing seemed to go right.

“To protect our asset within the police department,” continued Cletis, “we must take immediate action before the situation worsens.”

Theodore wondered how the situation could possibly evolve into circumstances worse than a murder rap, but knew better than to inquire on that subject. He had asked similar questions over the years about other situations, and had found to his dismay that circumstances could always get worse than they first appeared. He decided to stay with the action part of the proprietor's statement.

“What type of action did you have in mind, sir?”

“First,” said the proprietor, “we must run our own investigation to determine what really happened.” He turned his attention to the firm's executive secretary. “Moklal . . .”

At the mere mention of the Hindu's name, Theodore felt his upper body inadvertently withdrawing from the immediate vicinity of the tall cadaverous man descended from generations of Thuggees in northwest India. At least that was part of the information listed in the background report that the proprietor had received from his connections at Interpol when Moklal had been taken on as executive secretary.

Of course, in his own defense, Moklal claimed said data produced nothing more in fact beyond a short reference to an alleged Thuggee family. He preferred to consider the situation as a family reputation smeared by frightened officials from the old British Colonial Empire during a turbulent time long past, a time when the English held sway over the subcontinent.

But Theodore knew better. He had observed the Hindu's long muscular fingers sometimes twitching as if they longed to be massaging someone's throat. And once, while rummaging through Moklal's desk, Theodore had accidentally discovered a yellow silk scarf with a knot tied securely in each end. Curious, he conducted a search on Google and found that according to the official records of The Thuggee and Dacoity Department of the 1830s, plus information from their reputed expert, one Captain Sleeman, this particular type of item was known as a rumal, or strangler's scarf. On the following morning, the scarf had disappeared from Moklal's desk drawer. However, there were certain subsequent times when Theodore swore he caught a glimpse of yellow silk barely showing from inside one sleeve of the executive secretary's suit coat. Theodore figured he didn't need to end up strangled in order to convert that referenced Thuggee allegation into an engraved fact. Nope, if he knew how to work a hammer and chisel, he'd put it into stone himself.

“Moklal,” continued the proprietor, “will go to the county jail as a representative of our bail firm and proceed to interview the good captain to see what he knows about this charge of murder against him.”

The Hindu nodded.

“And me, sir,” inquired Theodore. “What do you want me to do?”

The proprietor made notes on a small square of paper and slid it across the desk.

“You, Theodore, will meet with a certain secretary for Internal Affairs at this address. She will provide you with an envelope containing all reports typed up so far that concern this case. In doing so, you will make no attempts to see her face, or to identify her in any way.”

The bail agent bobbed his head up and down in understanding of the order he'd received.

“Do I need to pay her?”

“That will not be necessary, Theodore. There are other ways to engender one's cooperation under these circumstances. I have already taken care of the matter.”

Theodore bobbed his head again. He knew all too well how these matters worked. He now switched hands to surreptitiously run his right fingers and palm over the top of his perspiring head, especially since conditions now appeared to be getting even more slippery.

The proprietor went back to his paperwork.

Theodore took this as his clue to leave and get about his own business. When he turned to go, he noticed that the Hindu was already nearing the doorway leading out into the front office, therefore Theodore hurried to catch up and pass him.

“Tough luck for the captain, getting crosswise with Internal Affairs,” he murmured, trying to maneuver through the doorway first. “Them guys are going to make our work much more difficult.”

Moklal effectively hip blocked any quick exit by the bail agent and moved his own body first into the doorway. His head inclined slightly forward as if to speak in confidence.

“As the master Mahatma Ghandi tells us in his sayings, ‘Blaming the wolf would not help the sheep much. The sheep must learn not to fall into the clutches of the wolf.'”

Theodore came up short. His brow furrowed.

“Wait a minute. Which one are you calling the wolf? I've seen the results of some of the captain's actions, and he didn't act like no sheep to me.”

Moklal grinned. “And who is the one getting caught here?”

Theodore contemplated the image of a white woolly sheep, and then one of a black wolf with red glaring eyes and long white fangs. The two images slowly morphed into a dark wolf covered in the purity of a white sheepskin. Their bent captain had definitely played both sides quite well. Or had, up until now.

* * * *

Theodore had been in the process of paying for his sandwich and something to drink at the food court in the mall when he was rudely bumped on his left shoulder. He turned quickly in that direction to see who had committed this infraction to his person, but there was no one beside or behind him. When he finally faced forward again, he noticed a woman hurrying away off to his right, but from her backside he didn't recognize anything about her other than she appeared to be dressed for office work. Not wanting to give up his almost purchased lunch and possibly be late for his pending meeting with the Internal Affairs secretary, he let the woman go. Some people just never apologize for their transgressions was his thought.

It was only a few seconds later when Theodore reached into his right side sport coat pocket for enough change to pay the cents portion of his food bill that he realized there was something more than just coins in that pocket. His stubby, almost webbed-fingered hand drew out a locker key with a white number on its red plastic handle. He stared. He'd known he would be contacted, but not how. The bump-and-run sleight of hand by the office-dressed woman was evidently it.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a snide young male voice on the opposite side of the order counter, “you're holding up the line.”

Theodore glanced behind him for the second time. Oh, there were several people lined up there now. He hadn't been paying attention.

“Plus,” continued the voice, “you still owe me seventy-nine cents.”

Theodore counted out the proper change right down to the penny, careful not to lose the key in the process, took his bagged lunch, and hurried away. Holding the bag with one hand and feeding four salty French fries at a time into his mouth with the other hand, he searched for any lockers there might be in the mall. He could only hope that the key wasn't for lockers at a bus or train station somewhere. Seemed airports had already removed all lockers in their buildings as a safety precaution in these terrorist times, so that option wasn't feasible.

Finally, in the last place he wanted to look, near the mall security office, he located a long corridor with a wall of bright yellow lockers where shoppers could store their coats in cold weather or even extra bags of purchases while continuing to shop in comfort.

There it was. Number 23.

Theodore inserted the key and turned.

The door dragged open with a slight creaking sound.

Suddenly remembering the airport scene with John Travolta playing Chili Palmer in Get Shorty, Theodore held the door only partially open while he quickly peered in both side directions to see if anyone was paying attention to him and locker 23.

At the far end of the corridor, a door to the ladies room opened. Metal banged on metal as the door swung shut.

Theodore flinched.

But it was only an elderly lady in an electric, three-wheeled vehicle with a single, rubber-tipped handle for steering and a small red, triangular flag flying from atop a long whip antenna which stuck up from one corner of the cart's rear bumper. Its driver appeared to be attached to a green oxygen cylinder by means of a clear plastic tube which ran from the cylinder strapped in the rear of the vehicle to a clear plastic line under her nose. She breathed heavily and motioned frantically at Theodore, as if he had committed some unknown sin just by being there.

He quickly deduced that she wanted him to get out of her way. Theodore stepped forward toward the locker as she drove past behind him, steered around the corner at the other end of the corridor, and disappeared from sight. He told himself to relax. Surely the police department wasn't so hard up that they had resorted to enlisting senior citizens in their police auxiliary in order to fill current gaps in the Long Blue Line, gaps caused by budget cuts in these hard economic times. Removing a large manila envelope from the locker, he hoped he was correct in his assumptions, and hurried out of the mall.

As extra insurance to ensure he was not being followed by anyone, Theodore drove four times around the same block before returning to the offices of the Twin Brothers Bail Bond. For a moment, he had been concerned about the multitude of moving yellow cabs behind, beside, and in front of him, but then he reminded himself there were a lot of taxis operating in the city. They couldn't all be surveillance cars. Upon closer observation he also noticed that the cabs had different numbers stenciled on them, and none of the same numbers seemed to be parading after him during his around-the-block countersurveillance tour. As a final measure, he parked three blocks away and walked to the office.

Inside the Inner Sanctum, Theodore found that Moklal had already returned and was finishing up his verbal report to the proprietor with the words, “Unfortunately, he has no alibi.”

By that, Theodore assumed that Moklal was referring to the captain. And if the captain had no alibi for the murder, then the Twin Brothers Bail Bond Firm would lose its inside man at the police department. Which meant there would be no further warnings of pending raids on questionable businesses owned by silent partners, no intelligence reports on which criminal organizations various sections of the police department were currently working on, and most importantly to Theodore, there would be no further protection from arrest during one of his “tying up loose ends for the proprietor” escapades if something should go awry, as sometimes happened. For a brief moment, Theodore pictured some of the firm's previous clients who had inadvertently fallen from high places, carelessly gone deep-water swimming without appropriate underwater breathing apparatus, or had been struck by a wayward taxicab, and each time, the firm made an exorbitant amount of profit on their special bail transactions. Although as Theodore reminded himself, those rendered deceased by an errant cab had been jaywalking outside the officially recognized crosswalk at the time of contact. In any case, perhaps he was right to maintain a certain paranoia toward city taxicabs. One never really knew.

“Are you daydreaming?” inquired the proprietor.

Theodore glanced quickly at his boss, realizing that Cletis Johnston was staring directly at him, and had his hand extended as if he were expecting to be handed something.

“Oh, the report.”

The proprietor took the manila envelope, removed the contents, and commenced to read.

“According to this report,” he said, “the Internal Affairs detective was having a couple of drinks in his favorite bar two nights ago with fellow associates. At approximately nine fifteen he received a phone call and left immediately to make an appointment with one of his secret informants. He didn't come into work the next morning.”

“Where'd they find him?”

“Patience, Theodore, we are coming to that part. On yesterday afternoon, the deceased was found lying beside his unmarked police vehicle at the end of a dirt road in the county. He'd been shot three times with an automatic pistol, nine millimeter. Three casings were recovered at the scene.”

“Three times,” muttered Theodore. “Somebody really wanted him dead.”

“Forensics ran a ballistics test on the three slugs removed from the body,” Cletis continued, “but there were no matches in the national files and no fingerprints on the three casings.”

“Then how,” questioned Theodore, “did they pin the rap on our captain?”

“In a later report,” said the Proprietor as he finished shuffling some of the documents, “it seems an anonymous caller suggested that the police department check their own internal files for a ballistics match. They did, and up comes our captain's department-issued nine millimeter as a perfect match.”

That didn't sound right to Theodore. “You mean the police department keeps its own special ballistics files?”

“A mere precaution, Theodore, in some of the larger law enforcement organizations these days when it comes to department-issued weapons. A newly received firearm is discharged into a water barrel to ensure it works properly, the slugs are retrieved from the water barrel, and a ballistics record is made before the weapon is issued to a particular officer. That way, in any questionable shootings involving a policeman, the department can quickly determine from which officer's weapon the bullet was fired. It's like having a DNA data bank already in place, except this one's established for guns instead of people.”

“That's sneaky,” said Theodore. “What's the captain got to say about things.”

“Our good captain says he didn't shoot this particular detective, so Moklal had him go over all his recent activities, trying to find an alibi or a reasonable explanation for the charge.”

“I already heard Moklal say there was no alibi.”

“Quite right, Theodore, which leaves us with finding a reasonable explanation for the charges.”

Theodore waited for more, but Cletis Johnston only stared off into the darker recesses of the Inner Sanctum. Fearing to interrupt the Proprietor's meditation on the situation, Theodore turned to Moklal and whispered, “So what do we know about an explanation?”

“Not much,” replied Moklal in a normal voice. “For yesterday and the day before, the captain was involved with his mandatory semiannual firearms qualifications. During the first day, he fired standing from the fifteen-, twenty-five-, and fifty-yard lines for a numerical score, and on the second day, he shot a tactical combat course.”

Theodore shrugged his shoulders. “That doesn't tell us anything.”

“Actually, it does,” injected the Proprietor. “Moklal, return to the jail and ask our good captain who else was on the firing range with him. I need more details. When you have him in the interview room, call me on one of our throwaway cell phones so I can ask him all the right questions.”

Nodding his head in a short bow, the Hindu turned and was gone.

“What about me?” inquired Theodore.

“Go wait in the outer office while I contemplate a strategy. I think you will soon be dining at the food court in the mall again.”

As Theodore backed away, he noticed that the proprietor had resumed staring off into the dark recesses of the high ceiling at the far end of the Inner Sanctum. Turning abruptly, Theodore hurried his steps toward the door. Even after all his years at the firm, he had never turned his vision upward toward those dark recesses like the Proprietor did. In truth, Theodore was afraid of what he might find lurking there. He strongly suspected it was the lair of something sinister.

* * * *

With a bulky sealed envelope in hand, Theodore returned to the mall food court for an early supper. His instructions were simple: Purchase something which would be placed into a food bag, eat the food, and place any remnants back in the bag. Then, before he threw it into one of the trash receptacles in the food court, he was to surreptitiously insert the envelope into the bag, roll up the bag's top, and then dispose of it like any other customer getting rid of his trash.

Since the envelope had already been sealed, Theodore had no idea what was written on the paper inside. All he knew was that the heavy envelope contained instructions from the Proprietor to the Internal Affairs secretary, and that these instructions were very important to the outcome of the captain's dire situation. After throwing away the bag, Theodore was to leave and not look back.

All had gone almost as planned.

While consuming something allegedly from the chicken family—he had declined to return to the sandwich and fries shop because the snide young man was still working that counter—Theodore mentally picked out one of the nearby large metal trash cans as a drop. The only problem as he saw it was that the mall janitor was slowly moving through the food court, emptying all the receptacles.

Theodore ate slower. He didn't want to finish too soon, throw the bag away, and then have the mall janitor pick up his food bag containing the important instructions along with all the other garbage. In that case, they would lose the valuable services of their bent captain, and he, Theodore, would be in serious trouble with the Proprietor. Theodore figured he already had one broken and improperly set left pinky finger, he didn't need a matching finger on his right hand.

The mall janitor seemed to be working slower.

Theodore ate even slower.

Finally, the janitor emptied the receptacle nearest to Theodore and wandered off with an overfull trash cart.

Theodore breathed a sigh of relief, inserted the sealed envelope into his food bag, and tossed it carefully into the large metal trash can. With all that empty space now in the can, Theodore could hear his bag hit bottom with a muffled thud, but then that bulky envelope of instructions had been rather heavy, heavier than just paper. Before leaving, he glanced all around. None of the other food court patrons seemed to be paying any attention to him.

He left the food court, walked a short distance, and then turned where he could still observe the trash receptacle. Nobody made a move toward that particular can. After ten minutes of boredom, Theodore decided to leave his post and go on up to the mezzanine where he had a better view of the entire food court. True, he wasn't supposed to look back in order to identify the receiver of the bag, or even to see what happened after he left, but this delivery was important and needed to go correctly. Besides, who would know other than himself? He took the escalator up.

If it hadn't been for the large crowds of shoppers on the escalator, plus those taking their own unhurried time along the elevated walkway, Theodore figured he would have arrived at the mezzanine rail earlier. As it was, he showed up just as a second janitor was making his rounds of emptying the same trash receptacles. Didn't these guys coordinate with each other? And, sure enough, there was Theodore's own food bag with the rolled-up top now joining garbage from several other cans.

“Hey,” shouted Theodore.

Without turning in the direction of Theodore's voice, this second janitor, pushing his semifilled cart, slowly meandered off in the same direction the first one had taken. By the time Theodore fought his way back through the crowds and down the escalator, the janitor had vanished. And, so had the food bag with sealed instructions for the Internal Affairs secretary. Theodore wasn't sure how he was going to explain this to the proprietor.

Dragging his feet, Theodore once more returned to the office. Mulling circumstances over in his head en route to the Inner Sanctum, he decided that denial was the best defense. As far as he was concerned, he had done as he was told. Except for the last part, of course, but then he could deny sticking around to see who picked up the bag, and that it turned out to be one of the mall janitors instead of the Internal Affairs lady. This particular error was clearly not his fault; therefore, he'd remain silent on that part.

The proprietor glanced up. “I see you're back. Did you make the drop as instructed?”

“Yes, sir, envelope in the bag, bag in the trash.”

“Good, then all should go as planned and our captain's murder charge will soon have a different explanation.”

“Excuse me, sir, but how exactly do we provide a different explanation for his murder charge?”

Cletis Johnston came as close to a smile as Theodore had ever seen on the proprietor's face.

“Having a working knowledge of semiautomatic pistols is of immense assistance in determining a very rational set of circumstances as to how our captain's gun fired the deadly bullets.”

Theodore, himself, carried a six-shot revolver. Having the extra duty of remembering to thumb the safety on an automatic pistol to an off position was just one more thing that slowed him down when he needed to use a weapon. As he saw it, committing crimes was difficult enough without having your weapon fail to fire because you forgot to flip off the damn safety. A guy could get himself killed that way.

“Automatics of the same model,” continued the Proprietor, “have interchangeable parts. The barrel, that's the piece with lands and grooves which determine an individual weapon's ballistics, of one automatic will easily fit into the slide of a same model automatic.”

Theodore nodded his head as if he understood so far, but in truth, he still didn't get the big picture.

“Since weapons are usually cleaned after daily use on a police firing range,” Cletis went on, “I had Moklal inquire as to who was in the firing lines the same days as our captain. It seems most of the higher brass prefer not to qualify with the lower echelon in attendance at the range. Something about losing face if the brass happen to shoot a lower score than, say a common patrolman does.”

That made sense to Theodore.

“Turns out the only other police officer qualifying on the same two days as our captain was a lieutenant in Vice.”

“But, how'd the lieutenant do it?” asked Theodore.

“During my second questioning of our captain, he remembered being called away to the phone on both days, just as he was in the middle of disassembling his weapon for cleaning. I think the lieutenant arranged those calls in order to swap barrels on that first day, then used his own gun with the captain's barrel inserted to shoot the Internal Affairs detective out on the dirt road, and of course swapped the barrels back during cleaning on the second day. Thus the subsequent anonymous phone call for the department to check its own internal ballistics files. The killer wished to direct blame toward someone else.”

“But,” exclaimed Theodore, “now that we've figured out how it was done, all you have to do is notify the Homicide Squad.”

“Think about it, Theodore. We have no witnesses to the exchange of gun barrels and no actual proof it happened that way.”

“Then what is our strategy? What do we do?”

“I've already done it, Theodore. The envelope of instructions you delivered to the Internal Affairs secretary will take care of the matter.”

“How's that?”

“It seems,” replied the Proprietor, “that Internal Affairs still has the captain's pistol in evidence. It has not yet been test fired again to confirm the original ballistics match. I merely instructed the Internal Affairs secretary to get into evidence and replace the barrel in the captain's gun with a third barrel from an unregistered automatic of the same model. When Forensics fires the captain's gun, there will be no incriminating match. When confronted about the difference in ballistics from when his service weapon was issued long ago, the captain will conveniently remember that he replaced his original malfunctioning barrel a few years back.”

“Smart,” said Theodore, “but where will this new barrel come from?”

“Simple,” Theodore, “you delivered the new barrel yourself in that sealed envelope at the food court.”

“Oh,” said Theodore. He remembered the heavy thud in the bottom of the trash receptacle, then he had visions of two different janitors picking up mall garbage. At this point, he didn't know whether to stay and squeegee, or find an excuse to suddenly be elsewhere.

“What I have also set in motion,” continued the Proprietor, “is to arrange a private meeting with our industrious lieutenant in Vice. Anyone as clever as he is should work for us.”

“Why would he do that?” inquired Theodore, who now felt his brain operating on two tracks simultaneously like subway trains going in opposite directions. One track tried to maintain normal conversation as would any person clearly innocent of malfeasance of duty, while the second track contemplated damage control due to the third gun barrel possibly having ended up in a garbage compactor.

“Don't forget those three shell casings left at the crime scene,” said the Proprietor, “Upon close examination, forensics may be able to determine that the marks left by the pistol's extraction and ejection mechanisms do not match the captain's pistol, but they may match those of the lieutenant's weapon. I wonder if the lieutenant is willing to gamble his life on a test of his department-issued automatic.”

“Excellent strategy, sir,” said Theodore, using the first track of his brain.

On a third track of the same brain, Theodore wondered when the proprietor's phone would ring, and would it come from the Internal Affairs secretary now mad about her lost-in-the-trash instructions, not to mention the third gun barrel, or would it be their bent captain inquiring why he had not yet been released from his holding cell.

“In any case,” said the proprietor, “the captain should soon be exonerated, which will tighten our bond with him.”

“And the lieutenant?” inquired Theodore, as if all was still going according to the proprietor's plan.

“He has the choice of prison or becoming ours.”

At this point, the Inner Sanctum phone rang.

Theodore surreptitiously retreated three steps toward the exit, just in case. The longer Cletis Johnston talked on the phone, the more steps Theodore figured he could take.

“I see,” muttered the proprietor. He hung up.

Theodore took one more step and hesitated.

“That was the Internal Affairs secretary,” said Cletis. “She did as I instructed and the captain is being released at this very moment.”

Theodore gave a sigh of relief. “All's well that ends well then, sir.” Somehow something must have gone right after all. He turned for the door.

“There is one thing, Theodore.”

The bail agent froze.

“Yes, sir?”

“The Internal Affairs secretary has refused to work with us anymore under any circumstances, and she attributes that to you.”

“How so, sir?”

“Disguised as the mall janitor, she was prepared to pick up your bag with the sealed instructions, but you kept eating slower and slower and wouldn't throw the bag into the receptacle. When all the other trash cans were empty, she felt conspicuous and finally had to leave.”

“Sorry, sir, I didn't know that was her, but why is she so angry?”

“In an act of desperation to recover all contents of our envelope, the Internal Affairs secretary had to mug the real janitor back in the maintenance office after he made his own rounds of the food court. Apparently, mugging is not really her area of expertise. She is rather upset.”

“I understand completely, sir.” He slid one foot closer to the door.

“Furthermore,” said Cletis, “she saw you peeking over the mezzanine rail after you left, and she wondered why you were calling attention to yourself by shouting down into the food court. You realize all this will be reflected in your annual performance evaluation at the end of the year.”

“Yes, sir.”

By now, Theodore had inched his way over to the doorway leading into the outer office. He almost bolted. “Just not my day,” he muttered, “everything went wrong.”

Standing nearby, Moklal Feringheea politely held the door open and bowed slightly from the neck. As Theodore passed by, the tall Hindu whispered, “You should consider two sayings of the Mahatma. First, ‘It is a bad carpenter who quarrels with his tools.'”

Theodore waited for the other shoe to drop.

“And?”

“And, ‘Rome's decline began long before it fell.'”

Copyright © 2012 R. T. Lawton

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: GHOST NEGLIGENCE
by John Shepphird

* * * *

Art by Robyn Hyzy

* * * *

“This isn't your run-of-the-mill slip and fall,” Oscar said before sampling his Canadian Club on the rocks. He licked his lips and added, “It's more like . . . a spook and fall.”

I asked the obvious, “And this woman is suing the hotel?”

“For gross negligence. It's a case built on disclosure. Management distributed a memo directing staff not to talk about ghosts and strange occurrences to the guests. And the plaintiff is submitting this memo as evidence.”

“Interesting,” I said, and chewed on that thought while sipping my draft beer. Even though it was raining, we met at Gulliver's in the Marina overlooking yachts docked outside. Oscar defends insurance companies against fraud and, on occasion, he relies on my investigative services. For that I am grateful. Oscar got me into this racket. His old-school style means I usually get a few cold ones along with my retainer.

"Ghost negligence, so where does that come in?” I said, trying to lighten the mood with a joke.

“Gross negligence, Jack, not ghost,” he said firmly, clearly not appreciative of my humor. Or maybe he didn't get it. “Not only did the Hotel Winfield knowingly cover up, but they also allowed a séance the evening that the, um—” He scratched the back of his head. “—phantom threw her out of bed, as she claims.”

“A séance?”

“A spiritualist meeting, in one of their banquet rooms. The Monarch Room, I think.”

“Injuries?”

“She's claiming the neck-and-back routine,” he said, familiar to me as slang in slip-and-fall legalese circles. “She suffered a bump on the head the size of a walnut. It's all on a medical report provided from the emergency room. And she retained Michael Niles, or more likely Niles got her to sign under anesthesia.”

Oscar hates Michael Niles. He claims Michael's shady law firm has an uncanny ability to know the threshold, the exact dollar amount for which insurance companies will settle. Oscar is convinced Michael pays informants within the insurance company's employ for this coveted information. He also claims Niles pays emergency room techs and paramedics for promising leads.

“Think she's a grifter?” I asked.

“Either that, or she's crazy.”

“I'm no lawyer,” I said, “but wouldn't a judge throw this out? I mean . . . ghosts?”

“You'd think, but California law requires full disclosure of stigmatized properties. Homeowners and landlords can't hide a haunted past, or a murder or suicide. What's interesting about this case is applying this law to a hotel.”

Stigmatized property—that wasn't completely foreign to me. I had read somewhere that real estate contracts have clauses demanding full disclosure of a listing's unpleasant history. I always figured those were cases of buyer's remorse—people who felt they overpaid and needed an excuse to back out. But haunting? I didn't believe in ghosts. Not then, anyway.

“Check this woman out,” Oscar said, handing me a snapshot. “See if you can dig up a little dirt. Something I can counter Michael with.”

From the photo she appeared to be a light-skinned brunette, mid twenties. I sensed something melancholy about her—in her eyes.

“Name's Paula Deluca,” he said, “no priors.” He gave me the retainer check and on the flap of the envelope her San Diego street address and phone number. “If she's a pro you'll spot it,” he said. “If she's nuts, well, nobody can spot deception better than a criminal, right?”

“Reformed criminal,” I said.

“Yeah, that's what I meant,” he said, and motioned to the bartender for another round.

“I'm on it,” I assured him.

Years ago I was in the game. I made my living as a con man and ran an assortment of scams. I claimed to be a financial advisor and worked a couple of Ponzi schemes, paying old clients with new investors’ money. I took rental deposits on high-end properties without actually owning them. I even claimed to have found people's lost dogs and had them wire me money to, supposedly, ship their pet home. That was before the car accident that broke me up and disfigured my face. It's not like I'm a circus freak, but it did permanently erase any trace of handsome good looks. The plastic surgeons made me presentable but my confidence never recovered. A con man without confidence—that's when I changed my ways.

In recovery I wrote a book outing popular scams. I went on the speaker circuit. Oscar hired me as an expert witness and then afterward encouraged me to hang my own shingle. I figured what the hell and got my private-eye license. There's enough insurance fraud out there to keep the lights on. jack o'shea, deception specialist is what it says on my card.

“Didn't Houdini,” Oscar asked, “debunk charlatans who claimed they could stir up ghosts and communicate with the dead?”

“After his mother died, that's right,” I said.

In my book I often referred to the magician's craft and explained how deception through a performer's misdirection is similar to many scams. Oscar must have remembered that.

I drove out to Pasadena to check out the Hotel Winfield. It was a Victorian era-style inn covered in dried, gnarled vines. I avoided the valet, self-parked, and went inside.

Antiques dominated the lobby: a massive grandfather clock, a grand piano. I asked the girl at the counter for the manager. Louis Sandoval appeared—over six feet tall with plenty of belly stuffed into an ill-fitting sports jacket.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. I could see he was examining the scars on my face, he and most everyone else I meet, probably not sure why one of my eyes drooped.

I introduced myself, explained I was working on the behalf of the hotel, and gave him my card.

“Mr. O'Shea, how can I help you?”

I asked to see the room. He confessed they had not rented it, “since the incident.”

“Were you on duty that night?” I asked as we made our way through the narrow hallway.

“Yes, on the second leg of a double shift,” he said.

I sensed a hint of resentment in his tone. “You work a lot of double shifts?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Did you notice anything strange about the woman?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said. “It was late. She came to the front desk saying something pushed her out of bed, all disoriented, a gash on her head. We called the paramedics.”

“Ever have an occurrence like this before?”

“Some crazies say this place is haunted, and once in a while someone claims something weird happened, but I've never seen anything.” We arrived and he pulled a roll of Tums from his pocket and ate two at a time.

“So you don't believe in ghosts?” I asked.

“UFOs definitely, but not ghosts.”

We entered the room. It had newly upholstered furniture and vintage-patterned wallpaper. A few knock-off Audubon nature prints decorated the walls and doilies gave it a homey bed-and-breakfast feel. There was a new flat-screen television, minibar, and remodeled bathroom. The single window looked out onto a courtyard with the view of deep red bougainvillea shrouding a white gazebo.

“She claims she was in bed when all of a sudden something unseen threw her out of bed,” he said, then pointed to the wall. “She hit her head on the chair rail.”

“I understand it's policy for the hotel staff to not talk about the hotel being haunted.”

“That's right. They don't want us to scare guests.”

“Can you remember anything about the séance that evening?” I asked.

“The Spiritualist Society schedules a meeting every other month or so.”

“Some kind of club?”

“Seems to be but mostly new people show up every month. I wouldn't call it a séance like, um, sitting around a table or something, like you'd see on TV. They do a PowerPoint presentation and sell books and DVDs afterwards.”

“Did you get the impression she might be involved with this group?” I asked, wondering if she might be an insider.

“I don't know. They were gone by then. Like I said, it was late.”

“Can you provide me with contact information for this organization?”

“That would be Dr. Kendall. He pays for the Monarch Room and their amenities with a corporate credit card, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Amenities?”

“We provide water and coffee service, yes.”

We returned to the front desk and he printed out an invoice with Dr. Kendall's billing address. Sandoval also gave me a pamphlet from the Spiritualist Society. It had their schedule on the back and, as luck would have it, there was a seminar that evening at the Riverside Sheraton. I estimated it was probably a two-hour drive, probably more in rush-hour traffic.

“Can you think of anything else that may be relevant?” I asked him.

“That's the whole ball of wax,” he said while reaching into his breast pocket for his roll of Tums.

I fought rush-hour traffic heading east on Interstate 10 toward the city of Riverside, the heart of Southern California's Inland Empire. Among a cluster of hotels just off the freeway, in between an Applebee's and a Chili's, I found the Sheraton. The event sign in the hotel lobby directed me to one of the smaller conference rooms. There were people already there, middle-aged women mostly. Even though I was a good twenty-five minutes late, the seminar had not started. I paid the twenty-dollar fee and was given the evening's printed program plus the same pamphlet Sandoval gave me.

I took a seat in the back row near a black lady knitting a shawl and tried to blend in.

Small-framed and intense, Dr. Richard Kendall welcomed everyone. I estimated he was in his mid forties. He began by spending a considerable amount of time touting his academic accomplishments and numerous publications in parapsychology, anomalies, and paranormal phenomena. I noted he made sure to associate himself with legitimate institutions including the University of Edinburgh and Princeton. He spoke just enough psychobabble to sound legitimate, but not too much to lose his layman audience. He promised later in the evening, after the break, that all assembled would have the rare opportunity to hear actual audio recordings from souls communicating from “the other side.”

Then he began his lecture. Projected images of assorted photos, colorful graphs, and dynamic buzzwords emphasized each point. He expressed just the right amount of emotion to appear sincere and kept steady eye contact with his audience. From the way he studied the crowd, including me, I could see the predator instinct in him searching for the suckers in this room. Who will take the bait and open their checkbooks?

My impression is that many in the audience really wanted to believe him. They asked questions and seemed engaged by his colorful rhetoric. The common thread was clear—most of these people were looking for a way to communicate with lost loved ones. The doctor's message: It's possible if you try.

Then there was a break and I got up to stretch my legs. Dr. Kendall was speaking to a few people from the front row. A young woman was putting out books and DVDs on a table in the back. I avoided them and was helping myself to a cup of coffee when the knitting lady made conversation beside me.

“Lose someone?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” I said even though I'd heard her loud and clear.

“Have you lost someone close to you?”

“No,” I said, but I had. I immediately thought of Mona. I felt my knees go weak. How did she know?

“I lost my husband. Aneurism,” she said looking away.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said as she added packs of Splenda to her coffee.

Mona was with me that night—the car accident. She didn't survive. I don't think I'll ever get over the guilt. They say it was sudden. That makes sense, since I have come to learn she was, technically, decapitated. I blew through a red light. My Audi convertible went under the truck's wheels and my life in the fast lane came to an end.

I found her picking pockets on Fremont Street in Vegas and talked a pair of Clark County deputies out of arresting her. She was a stray so I took her in. She was great in bed, the best, and one night she whispered in my ear, “teach me what you know.” Mona became my protégé. She would have been brilliant. If I could, if this presumed doctor could somehow send Mona a message I'd say, “Please forgive me.”

I'd seen enough and made a fast exit. If Dr. Kendall was involved in this lawsuit I wouldn't get it out of him, not tonight.

I couldn't approach Paula Deluca as part of the defense team working on behalf of the Hotel Winfield. She wouldn't give me the time of day. I needed an angle, a stealthy way to make her acquaintance. Dr. Kendall's presentation had given me an idea.

It's about a two-hour drive south to San Diego State University. I put together a satchel with a couple notebooks to disguise myself as a professor and scouted the campus. I needed a meeting place that gave me credibility. There was a Starbucks in the student center that looked good. Then I drove east and checked out her residence.

She lived in a neighborhood spotted with tiny clapboard houses. A Volkswagen bus was parked in the driveway. There was a garden out front and an assortment of art supplies scattered on the side of the house. I could see a weight-lifting bench and wondered if she lived with a guy. Then she emerged from the house with what appeared to be a plastic restaurant bus tub and carried it around back. She was slight, her hair tied back, and she wore a red cotton sundress.

There was a pottery kiln and I could see heat waves drifting from the smokestack. She placed a few items inside. I waited until she went back in her house, then pulled over down the street and gave her a call.

“Is this Miss Deluca?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I'm Dr. Bill Petree. You don't know me, but please hear me out. I'm here at the University of San Diego, a professor in the parapsychology department.” The university didn't have a parapsychology department. I gambled she didn't know that. “I understand,” I continued, “that you had a recent experience which caused some bodily harm. Is that right?”

“My lawyer won't allow me to talk about it,” she said.

“Please let me finish. My specialty is paranormal phenomena, and I've recently received a substantial grant from the Carnegie Foundation.” Anything Carnegie sounds legitimate. Sometimes I surprise myself. “This allows me to pay for select interviews, people like yourself who've had encounters. What makes your experience unique is that there was physical harm, and that's quite rare. If you'll allow me just a half an hour of your time I can pay three hundred dollars and keep you completely anonymous.”

There was a moment of silence on the phone. I waited for a response and was half expecting her to hang up when she said: “How did you find me?”

“Yours is a civil case, it's public record.”

More silence, then, “How anonymous?”

“I can guarantee it. We can make up a name, or call you Jane Doe if you'd like.”

“It wasn't the first time,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“It's not the first time I've been hurt.”

That gave me pause. “There have been others?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Deluca, it would be incredibly helpful to speak with you about these encounters. We can meet here at the university. There's a place we can talk, a Starbucks at the student center.”

She agreed. We set a time for two o'clock. I gave her a brief description of what I was wearing. Then I turned my car around, got cash at an ATM, and headed back to San Diego State.

Paula got there early and I pretended not to recognize her. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her scan the outdoor courtyard before cautiously approaching.

“Mr. Petree?” she said.

“Dr. Petree. Call me Bill,” I said, standing and shaking her hand. “Please, have a seat.” She settled in and we made introductory small talk. I regurgitated some of the same rhetoric Kendall spewed the night before, building up my supposed credentials. Then I mentioned his name in hopes she would display some kind of recognition. She gave me no signal. I brought his name up again looking for what poker players call a “tell.” It seemed to mean nothing to her. When I asked what she did for a living she explained she was an artist working in ceramics. She sold her work at crafts fairs throughout Southern California.

“Is that why you were up in Pasadena, for a crafts fair?”

“The Mission West Arts Fair. I go every year, but this was the first time I stayed at the Winfield. I booked it on Priceline for seventy bucks.”

With the mention of money I handed her the cash, pulled out a notebook, then began my questioning. She explained she was in bed reading when she got a chill and felt a pair of large hands shove her out of bed.

“But really hard,” she said.

“So you think it was a he, this ghost?”

“Because of the strength.” She went on to tell me what I already knew, her neck and back trauma plus the bump on her head. I've made a career out of reading people and my impression was that she wasn't lying, and not necessarily crazy, at least not on the surface.

“Do you have any idea why?” I asked.

“A woman I know, Terry, she's gifted. She's got heightened awareness. Terry suspects I'm probably a vessel,” she said. “Entities are drawn to me, for some reason.”

“And why is that?”

“I wish I knew.”

“You said there have been other times.”

She pulled back her collar to show me a bruise on her neck, “Terry thinks that certain entities choose to manifest their anger through me.”

“And you're always alone?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

“No,” she said, then added in a whisper, “I feel their presence.”

“Interesting.” I scribbled in my notebook, having no idea what to ask next. I reminded myself that I needed dirt, something Oscar could use against Michael Niles.

“Have you ever been treated for depression or anxiety, or are you currently taking any medication?”

“No.”

How about over-the-counter medicines, do you take anything for allergies, or pain relievers?”

“Midol when I have a headache.”

“How often do you have headaches?”

“I don't know. Maybe four or five times a year.”

“Migraines?”

“Just headaches, when I'm sick with the flu or something.”

“Are you a recreational. . .”

“Drug user?” she said, finishing my sentence, clearly not liking this cross-examination. “No. I hardly even drink. Wine and beer once in a while, weekends. I'm a vegan, if that matters.”

“Have you experienced any previous emotional trauma?”

She shook her head and studied me. There was an awkward silence and I looked away embarrassed for having asked.

“You're wounded, aren't you?” she asked, reaching out and touching my hand.

“What do you mean?”

“I sense there's something hanging over you,” she said. “Unfinished business.”

How did she know? I was supposed to be reading her. She was reading me. “What makes you think that?” I said with bravado.

“I just feel it,” she said, and returned her hand to under the table.

“Let's stay on track, please,” I said trying to steer the conversation away from myself. “How long, do you estimate, have you been a vessel?” I asked.

“It started when I was a teenager.” She went on to tell me the various injuries she had suffered over the years, scrapes and bruises mostly, cuts, and how the incidents were becoming increasingly more destructive. “If I had known that hotel was haunted I would have never stayed there,” she said. “And since I don't have health insurance . . .”

I was at a loss. She seemed entirely sane, other than believing in ghosts. I had nothing for Oscar, no dirt to report back to him.

“Can you help me?” she asked me, her dark eyes pleading.

I stammered.

“Can you get them to stop?”

Again I didn't know what to say so I pretended to take notes.

It wasn't until after we wrapped up our interview and she left that I came up with the theory. It was the weight-lifting bench on the side of her house and the realization that selling ceramics on weekends could not possibly generate enough revenue to cover rent, even in her neighborhood. There had to be a boyfriend. And maybe this boyfriend is physically abusive. Blaming her injuries on ghosts is her scapegoat.

I drove back to her neighborhood and spied her house from afar. She wasn't back yet. I got out and peeked in the windows for signs of a man living there. I checked out the weight bench and scanned the backyard. There were a few beer cans, but those could have been hers. The next-door neighbor's dog barked at me, rousing suspicion, so I returned to my car.

About an hour or so later the Volkswagen pulled into the driveway. She carried Trader Joe's bags into the house, groceries purchased with the cash I gave her, no doubt. I called Sandoval at the Hotel Winfield and asked if he could review the hotel lobby security tape to see if Paula checked in with someone, a man. He said they had already done that and the tape shows very clearly that she checked in alone.

“Is there any way to determine if someone joined her?” I asked.

“Unless we know what that person looks like, I wouldn't know where to start. Hundreds of guests come and go every day.”

I thanked him, hung up, and waited. Darkness fell and nobody joined her. After another hour or so I decided to e-mail Oscar with a status report. I pulled out my BlackBerry and gave him a brief rundown plus filled him in with my new boyfriend theory. Oscar e-mailed back.

“Halt work on Deluca case.” Oscar responded. “Client has agreed to settle.”

I cursed out loud. All I needed was the violent boyfriend, the smoking gun, and the mystery would be solved. Then it occurred to me that this is San Diego. He could be in the Navy, a sailor out at sea. I drove past the house once more. The lights were on and I could see her in the window watching television alone.

I called Oscar. He said Michael Niles had “done it again,” gotten the insurance company to settle.

“Can they wait a couple more days?” I asked. “I bet I can produce this bastard who's been hurting her.”

“The Hotel Winfield doesn't want the negative publicity. Just send me an invoice for your hours and expenses beyond the retainer.”

On the drive home that night I caught a glimpse of a woman wandering the shoulder on Interstate 5, just north of Oceanside. It looked like Mona. I slowed and craned my neck, searching. Whoever it was disappeared. Was my mind playing tricks on me?

About a month later Oscar e-mailed me Paula's obituary from the San Diego Tribune. I was floored. The write-up didn't mention her cause of death, so I dug out my black suit and drove down for the funeral, all the time wondering if the abusive boyfriend would be there. I got to the service late and slipped in unnoticed. I scanned the folks assembled and saw no one who seemed like her boyfriend. From the pastor's eulogy I concluded that she had committed suicide. I wondered if it was a cover-up for something much more sinister.

Afterward I hung around for the reception. Near the punch bowl I made conversation with a tall, bespectacled woman I guessed to be in her late fifties. She introduced herself as Dr. Roan and asked me how I knew her.

“I was a friend,” I lied.

“That's nice. She didn't have many friends.”

“She was so creative,” I said, mentioning what little I knew about her to keep the conversation going.

“It's really nice they brought some of her work,” she said pointing to a few ceramic masks on a nearby table beside an assortment of remembrance photos. “Her art meant so much to her.”

I checked it out. Hardened glaze represented skin on the mask faces. There was something disturbing about them. Not the kind of thing I'd put on my wall.

“She had a unique sensibility,” Dr. Roan continued.

“I can't believe she killed herself,” I said.

“It came as a surprise. She once confided—” she started to say, then cut herself short.

“What?”

“She once said to me that when she bled, the warmth of her blood reminded her she was alive.”

I didn't quite understand what she meant. “Why would she say that?” I asked.

“She confided a great deal. I was helping her through a number of issues.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I, uh . . .” she paused and in a hushed tone said, “treated Paula.”

“For what?”

“Self-inflicted injury. She tried to keep that, and her eating disorder, a secret.”

I stood dumbfounded.

She must have picked up on my reaction and took my elbow to comfort me. “Cutting and burning herself,” she said, “or purging as she did, served as a way of relieving negative emotions, a release.” She sighed and added, “I'm afraid it went too far.”

Could Paula have slammed her head against the wall that evening and then, because she was bleeding and needed help, claimed it was a ghost? Something did not set right with me.

“In your sessions,” I asked, “did she mention her boyfriend?”

“On occasion.”

“Would you know him by sight?”

“I met him once.”

“Do you see him here?”

“No.”

“Did you ever get a sense he may have been violent?”

“It is not uncommon for women who have low self-esteem to engage in abusive relationships,” she said sounding cold and clinical.

“Could these self-inflicted injuries have come from him?” I asked.

She didn't answer and I could see she was getting uncomfortable. I continued. “What was the method Paula used to kill herself?” I asked.

“You don't know? She hung herself,” she said, saddened.

I remembered Paula showing me the bruise on her neck. Another mourner approached Dr. Roan and she excused herself. They moved off and spoke aside.

A young girl as attractive as Paula would have a boyfriend. But why is he not here? Maybe he strangled her. Then he covered it up by staging suicide by hanging. I considered going to the police and telling them my theory, but I thought I'd go by the house first to see if he was there.

It was dark by the time I reached her neighborhood. There were no lights on in the house, but the Volkswagen was still in the driveway. Trash cans were out, and it looked like they hadn't been emptied. I thought their contents might be able to tell me if a man lived in the house. I got out and examined them. I was opening a white plastic kitchen bag when I saw the flickering light coming from the backyard.

The kiln was on.

I made my way up the driveway. The next door neighbor's dog was absent, not barking at me like before: It was incredibly quiet. I could see the kiln more clearly now, its door slightly open. There was a fire burning within, the only source of light. A warm wind kicked up and it smelled like it was going to rain.

Then I saw the many faces. Her ceramic masks were hung around the backyard fence, characters staring at me with dead expressions, eyes black. Each mask was entirely different. At that moment the thought came to me—maybe these masks represent the souls who tried to manifest themselves through Paula. Even though I was sweating, I felt a chill.

I stepped closer to the kiln.

I was close enough to feel the heat from the furnace but couldn't see what was inside. I swung the heavy door open.

Mona's face stared back at me cast as a ceramic mask.

My heart clinched and I couldn't breathe.

Then someone, or something, pushed me. I fell to my knees and raised my arms defensively, but there was nobody. I remember yelling, getting up, and scrambling to the car. Seconds later, completely out of breath, I sped away.

I haven't been to San Diego since.

If it was her boyfriend who pushed me in the darkness, or some kind of malicious phantom, I'll never truly know.

But my skeptic days are over.

I looked it up on an online dictionary. “Gross Negligence” is defined as “the conscious and voluntary disregard of the need to use reasonable care, which is likely to cause foreseeable grave injury or harm to persons, property, or both.”

Grave injury.

Exactly.

That frames it. I've led the negligent life. I'm the haunted one—ghost negligence. Consider this is my full disclosure.

I am stigmatized property.

Copyright © 2012 John Shepphird

[Back to Table of Contents]

Department: BOOKED & PRINTED
by Robert C. Hahn

For years, consolidation among book publishers was a cause for alarm among authors, agents, booksellers, and readers: as the number of big publishers dwindled, the concern ran, the fewer would be the opportunities for midlist authors to be published, and the narrower would be the range of works offered to readers.

But nature abhors a vacuum, and in the mystery field especially, smaller, more agile, and more focused alternatives have sprung up to meet the demands that the few remaining big houses no longer satisfy. Moreover, advances in printing and information technology have lowered the barriers to entry for aspiring new publishers who know the mystery market well enough to identify a niche that they can fill.

Within recent years, for example, Hard Case Crime and Akashic Books have brought a hardboiled sensibility to the mix, joining such established indy publishers as Crippen & Landru (which specializes in short story collections) and Poisoned Pen (traditional whodunits). Melville House has introduced a line of international crime fiction, adding a depth to the bookstore shelves that complements the offerings of Soho Crime. And Oceanview Publishing has joined Five Star in bringing out terrific books by overlooked authors.

This month we look at recent books from three of the newer indy publishers and imprints. These books also share common thematic elements as each incorporates filmmaking as an essential component of their mystery.

* * * *

Arundel Publishing is a brand-new independent publisher of non-fiction, mystery, and young adult fiction headquartered in Warwick, N.Y. Their initial mystery title, These Violent Delights ($14.95) by Sharon Linnéa, is also the debut of a new series set in the movie industry.

As the twentieth anniversary of the film classic Tristan and Isolde approaches, studio Paramount prepares its first ever DVD release, but a planned reunion of cast and crew faces certain challenges. For director Pierce Hall, who also played King Mark, the film was both his greatest achievement and his final one: He died just before the film's initial release. The movie's male lead, Peter Dalton (Tristan), had other major roles, but then he disappeared completely a decade later, his fate unknown. And though the film made a star of newcomer Anastasia Day (Isolde), she subsequently appeared in only a play and a couple of movies before marrying the elderly Sir Neville Huntington and becoming the Duchess of Esmonde; since his death, she has lived as a virtual recluse in their stately home.

* * * *

* * * *

When Anastasia receives a call from Leah Hall, the daughter of Peter Dalton and now a director, she realizes just how many of the cast and crew of Tristan and Isolde are already dead. Three died violent deaths and a number of others could be considered suspicious. As the date for the reunion draws closer, there are more deaths and both threats and attempts on the lives of other cast members.

Linnéa delivers a romantic suspense novel in which the fatal triangle that ensnared Tristan, Isolde, and King Mark is reflected in that which ensnared the three movie stars, making the two tragedies seem equally inevitable.

* * * *

Créme de la Crime has been around since 2004, but in 2011 it became an imprint of Severn House, where it publishes new works by some of Britain's most well-established crime writers, such as Simon Brett and Paul Doherty, as well as some less well known to American audiences, such as Paul Johnston. Johnston writes three series, including the Quint Dalrymple procedurals set in near-future Edinburgh, and the Matt Wells mysteries, which feature a crime novelist.

Johnston's half-Greek, half-Scots P.I. Alex Mavros is the focus of the third, a delightfully offbeat detective whose specialty is locating missing persons. The Silver Stain ($28.95) is his fourth outing.

* * * *

* * * *

Mavros is visited by American film director Luke Jannet and his assistant Alice Quincy, who offer him an exorbitant fee to go to the site where they are filming “Freedom or Death,” a movie about the Battle of Crete in 1941. The personal assistant to the film's star, Cara Parks, is missing, and Cara is refusing to perform until she is found.

Memories of the war are still bitter on Crete, and the enmity is personified by two foreigners who have made Crete their home and are acting as consultants on the film. Rudolf Kersten was among the Nazi paratroopers who invaded Crete and began the bloody struggle. Acquiring great wealth after the war, Kersten returned to Crete and attempted to make reparations by building the Heavenly Blue Resort, a first-class hotel that provided employment for many Cretans during its reconstruction and afterwards as well. Englishman David Waggoner was a Special Operations Executive who fought with the resistance against the Nazis; he now lives in a remote village and doesn't believe that Kersten was innocent of participation in German atrocities.

Mavros handles a coin theft for Rudolf Kersten, then makes quick work of finding the star's assistant, Maria Kondos, helping to rescue her from the village where she had been taken. Unfortunately things heat up once more when one of the consultants is found dead, and Maria, not yet recovered from her first ordeal, is kidnapped again.

A vivid background is supplied with snippets of memoirs from both Waggoner and Kersten, and as Mavros probes the antagonism between the men he discovers an unexpected personal connection to the events on Crete.

Johnston's resumption of the Mavros series after an eight-year hiatus is welcome indeed and should encourage readers to seek out the earlier novels.

* * * *

Camel Press, a new imprint of Seattle-based publisher Coffeetown Press, bills itself as “a feisty little publisher with a mission” publishing “romance, mystery/suspense, science fiction, horror or any combination of the above.” One of their new publications is the debut novel by James L. Conway Dead and Not So Buried ($15.95).

* * * *

* * * *

Conway's debut introduces Hollywood P.I. Gideon Kincaid, a former cop in L.A. who planted evidence used to convict a man who was certainly guilty—but not of the crime for which he was convicted. That event likewise triggered the end of his marriage to Stacy Wilson, a fellow cop whose career suffered as a result of Kincaid's actions.

Gideon scrapes by on few cases and sets his dreams on his just-published novel Rear Entry, which shows no signs of being the hoped-for breakthrough. But a call from Westside Cemetery changes everything. The remains of fabled movie star Christine Cole, who died an early, tragic death, have been stolen and a two-million-dollar ransom has been set for their return. The kidnapper's note demands that Gideon be the one to handle the payoff.

The perpetrator is failed actor Roy Cooper, whose career consists of heartbreaking near misses. He decides to get even with those he considers responsible for his lackluster career by first extorting money from them and then knocking them off. Gideon's connection to Cooper and his offense will become clear later but meanwhile Cooper has other targets in mind and Gideon is destined to play the role of messenger as Cooper targets various producers and directors and actresses he blames for his failures.

Conway plays much of the novel for laughs, poking fun at the vagaries of show business, Gideon's desire to become a best-selling author, his love-hate relationship with Stacy, and his obliviousness to the affections his lovely young secretary Hillary feels for him. But Gideon also has to contend with the very real killings Cooper is committing, the attempts of his ex-wife's new partner to frame him, and other misadventures. Conway plants some neat twists that should have readers struggling to catch up as Gideon tries to figure out the identity of the kidnapper and save lives.

* * * *

all points bulletin: Deadly Pleasures has announced their Barry Award nominees for Best Short Story, and they include three from AHMM: Doug Allyn's “Thicker Than Blood,” Jeffrey Cohen's “The Gun Also Rises,” and Eric Rutter's “Purge.” Visit www.deadlypleasures.com/news for voting information and to see the rest of the nominees. * SleuthSayers (www.sleuthsayers.org) continues to run regular blogs by many AHMM authors and other short story mystery writers. * Author Eric Cline has launched a new blog: www.cruelcline.blogspot.com. * Hush Now, Don't You Cry, the eleventh book in Rhys Bowen's Molly Murphy series, 2012 from St. Martin's Minotaur; the movie version of Her Royal Spyness is currently in development.

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Fiction: 364 DAYS
by John R. Corrigan

The photograph was fading, its edges turning up. Oil smudges from his fingerprints aged the image. Ten-year-old T. J. Reynolds pressed the picture against his thigh, an effort to flatten its corners, a desperate attempt to add days, hours, even minutes to the life of the photo. For three hundred sixty-four days it was all he had.

He set the picture beside him on the sofa, went back to his Xbox game, Splinter Cell: Conviction, and absently shot three people.

“T. J.,” his mother called from the kitchen, “Marty is coming over at eight to watch a movie. Stay in your room, okay?”

T. J. didn't answer, didn't look up from his Xbox. On the screen, he kicked in the face of an enemy. It exploded like a dropped tomato. The move earned him fifty points.

“Did you hear me?” his mother shouted.

T. J. kicked the enemy again. “Whatever.”

The wall clock read seven forty-five. He paused the game, set the joystick on the sofa, and left the trailer, walking out the front door without telling his mother where he was going. And without her asking.

He wasn't about to watch her kiss Marty at the door again, didn't want to hear them laughing in the living room. Even worse was when the laughter stopped and a long silence followed. His ten-year-old mind ran wild during the silence.

T. J. walked down the dirt road, tattered Champion sneakers his grandmother had bought him at Wal-Mart untied and scuffing, scattering rocks as he shuffled. He didn't like this walk. It was bad enough seeing Leon Landis every morning on the way to school. But he didn't want to be home.

He turned the corner. Before he could catch himself, tell himself to keep walking no matter what they say, just keep walking—he froze.

And Leon Landis saw his hesitation.

The Landis family lived at the corner of Ridell Road and Main Street. There was no getting downtown without passing the Landis home. Leon was in the driveway (theirs was paved), and Leon was shooting baskets, a light-skinned African-American boy in T. J.'s class, bigger than the other boys; his father had steady work on the assembly line at the Hyundai factory. “Those rich people wouldn't have no car doors,” he often reminded his peers, “if it weren't for my father.” And, as if the very mention of fathers triggered Leon's memory, he routinely swung the conversation—and its finger of ridicule—to T. J., swiftly turning a roomful of boys against him.

This evening it was just the two of them.

“Where you going?” Leon said, dropping the ball and walking to the edge of the driveway.

The thump of the bouncing ball grew quick, then died like a heartbeat, turning rapid before the end.

“Store,” T. J. said.

“How's your father?”

T. J. started walking again, stride now elongated, pace quickening.

“I know what tomorrow is,” Leon said.

T. J. stopped ten feet away. “You know?”

A crooked smile, one corner of Leon's mouth rising. “Your face even paler than usual. Tomorrow you going to Garriston, right? See your old man.”

T. J. nodded. Leon was three inches taller. Somehow he now seemed much larger.

“How come you only go in there once a year?”

T. J. shrugged. Here was unfamiliar territory: Leon seemed genuinely interested.

“My mother don't take me,” T. J. said.

“Ain't you afraid to go in there?”

“Sort of.”

“I knew it,” Leon said, the seriousness leaving his face. “You afraid of your own father. ‘Cause you know he ain't never getting out. And guys who ain't never getting out got nothing to lose. My father told me that. My father got a good job. See my new bike. Cost a hundred dollars. Where you get that shirt? Salvation Army? Too small for you.”

“We're going to Disneyland when he gets out,” T. J. shouted and started walking again, not knowing why he said it. It wasn't a retaliatory insult or even a defense.

This time, the audible sounds of Leon's words grew faint, but his statements did not.

You afraid to go in there? Afraid of your own father. He ain't never getting out.

* * * *

Southerland had one traffic light, the parking lot at the town hall had never been paved, and the post office had only three employees. Flanking the traffic light was Jay's Country Store, cluttered and smelling of meat from the deli counter in the back. To the left of the front door, freezers lined the wall, holding ice cream, beer, milk, and TV dinners. The aisles contained an assortment of food products (both snacks and staples) and toys, everything from baseballs to bikes.

The worn floorboards hadn't been swept. The dirt beneath T. J.'s shoes scraped like sandpaper against the wood. Jay was cutting meat for Mrs. Tortorella, T. J.'s fifth-grade teacher. Jay's wife, Carlene, worked the counter and smiled at T. J. when he pushed the door open and the bell chimed against the door.

“Hi, T. J. How are you?”

He didn't want to talk, only nodded. Started toward the arcade in the back. Then he paused, looking at a silver BMX bike near the door.

“It's a GT Mach One,” Carlene said. “Your friend Leon Landis was in here and wanted to sit on it. Bunch of kids have. That's not allowed.”

T. J. looked at the bike, saw the $219 price tag dangling from the handlebars.

“Here to play Super Mario?” she asked.

Nod.

“You okay, sweetie?”

“Fine.”

“Your mom know you're here?” She glanced at her watch.

“No school tomorrow.”

“But it's getting dark. She drive you here?”

T. J. looked at the floor. He could hear Jay and Mrs. Tortorella talking, could smell chicken; his stomach burned. He hadn't eaten since lunch.

“Jay can drive you home again,” Carlene said to T. J.'s back, as the boy walked toward the dark arcade.

* * * *

The next morning, the gymnasium was filled. Green jumpsuits lined the bleachers on one side, across the basketball court a sea of purple RETURNING HEARTS DAY T-shirts.

T. J. beamed when a man in a blue suit stood at a podium near the basket and read “Hank Reynolds.” One green jumpsuit stood, took the bleacher steps two at a time, met T. J. on the gymnasium floor, and swept him up in his thick arms. The tattoos on his forearms moved like dancing purple worms as he squeezed T. J.

The embrace wiped away everything T. J. hated about the place: the grinding noise the fifteen-foot metal gate made as it opened (T. J. told his mother it sounded like something from Avatar and reminded him of an open mouth preparing to bite), the metal detectors beeping and flashing; the search of his mother's handbag, and the confiscations of her mace,which she kept for her nightly walk from the 7-11 back to her car. He hated the way the hulking, blank-faced guards insisted that all visitors wear the purple returning hearts day T-shirts, which T. J. knew was only so guards could tell the inmates from guests. More than anything, he hated the way the guards walked with a hand near their holstered pistols. That made him worry about his father because his father wasn't afraid of anyone. At night, when he lay in bed thinking of his father, he was ashamed for backing down from Leon.

“When I get out,” his father told him again, squeezing his shoulder as they walked into the yard, now converted to a carnival, “no matter how old you are, we're going to Disneyland.”

“I know.”

Holding T. J.'s hand now, he said: “I promise.”

Around them, laughter, shouting, even sobs.

“Daddy, are you crying?”

He nodded.

“I didn't think you cry.”

“Cry a lot, late at night. But that's different. Let's pet those horses.”

At the petting zoo, his father asked, “How you doing in school?”

T. J. shrugged.

“I guess it don't really matter,” Hank said, knowing well what it was like to be the son of a convict. “Kids good to you? Don't push you around, do they?”

T. J. looked his feet. Could feel his face reddening.

“Listen to me, T. J. All you have is dignity. You don't let no one take it from you. You don't let no one push you around.”

“It's hard, Dad. I wish I was with you.”

“And I wish I was with you. But you gotta understand how things work, why things happen. You ain't got money, you can't control what happens in life. You do your best, and sometimes you end up inside, in here. All you got is the respect you can get from other people. Don't let no one take that away. It's all you got, boy.”

They were near the softball toss when T. J. started to cry.

“We moved to a trailer across town. Leon, that's his name.”

Hank took T. J.'s arm and gently steered him to a bench.

“He says about how you're in here, and how I'm afraid to visit.” T. J. wiped his eyes.

“It ain't nothing being in here,” Hank lied. “Don't worry about that. Don't be afraid to visit.” He felt his chest constrict, like the day they told him his father had been shot. “Don't ever be afraid to visit.”

T. J. nodded.

“This some rich kid giving you a hard time?”

“No, he's like me, except black.”

“A black kid? Some coon? Listen to me, T. J., you got to know how to handle them. We ain't got much, but we got more than them. Don't you forget that. Next time, he teases you, you tell him this.”

* * * *

Sunday afternoon, T. J. walked, alone, down Main Street. Past the burned-out remains of Finnigan's, the scent of charred wood still in the air. Past the broken glass littering the sidewalk in front of Manny's Liquors, jagged edges of a bottle jetting from a paper sack, wine soaking the pavement like blood. Past a group of boys playing basketball, three on three, shirts and skins. The pavement was cracked; only one rim had a net.

“How was Garriston?”

T. J. recognized the voice, turned, looked Leon Landis in the eye but said nothing. Leon had a long, lean frame. He had been the lone all-star on T.J.'s Little League team. T. J. had watched with envy each time the ball had shot off the end of Leon's bat, clearing the fence.

Skeet McCrory stood next to Leon. He'd been on T. J.'s Little League team too. He was usually nice. But now he was with Leon.

“Went to see your dad, T. J.?” Skeet asked.

T. J. nodded.

The remaining four boys continued the game, Leon and Skeet moving to the side.

“Scared when you was in there?” Leon said.

“No.”

“You lying.”

“Wasn't scared. I was with my father, Leon.”

“Your father scare everyone. He was scared, Skeet.”

“I don't know,” Skeet said, “T. J. say he wasn't scared. Maybe he wasn't.”

“Who you going to believe?” Leon glared at him.

Skeet looked away, then at T. J. “Guess you right, Leon.”

“I wasn't scared,” T. J. said. “See this hat? My father won it for me.”

“He steal it for you? That what you saying?”

“Leon, you're a nigger. You'll always be one. So I'll always be one up on you ‘cause I'll always be white.”

For a moment, no one spoke. T. J. heard a crow caw on the power line overhead. Then a paper bag skittered past like a rustling leaf. How proud his father would be: He'd said it exactly as his father had told him. And Leon stopped dead in his tracks, just as his father had predicted.

“You shouldn't have said that, T. J.,” Skeet said slowly, his eye on Leon.

T. J., too, turned to Leon, and saw the same expression. Still glad he followed his father's instructions, he knew what would come.

* * * *

“What in God's name . . .” His mother didn't finish her question, running to meet T. J. at the front door.

His right eye was swollen shut, his lip was cut, and blood soaked the front of his T-shirt.

“I'm okay.”

“You can barely walk. You're swaying. Come here.” She put her arm around him, steered him to the living room sofa.

“It ain't nothing.”

“Just sit there,” she said and went to the kitchen to get a wet dishtowel, which she pressed gently to his eye. “No big deal? Who did this to you?”

“No big deal,” he repeated, and flinched at the sting of the facecloth. “I talked it over with Dad.”

“What? How? Yesterday?”

“Yeah.” The room looked fuzzy, and T. J. blinked and squinted.

“Your father told you to let this happen?” His mother leaned back against the sofa, arms folded sternly across her chest.

T. J. held the facecloth now but was no longer focused on the icy sting. He heard anger in her voice. “No, just . . . You won't understand, Mom. Just forget it.” He stood to go to his room.

She caught his arm and pulled the ten-year-old back onto the sofa.

“Listen to me, T. J. I know this isn't easy, but your father is no good. And he's in jail for the rest of his life because of it.”

“No.”

“He's no good, T. J. The sooner you realize that—”

“No. No! He's getting out. And we're going . . .” He stopped then, confused by his mother's sad frown, her shaking head, and leaped to his feet. “No! He is getting out. Anyway, he's better than Marty will ever be!” He ran out of the room, slamming his bedroom door. His Little League cap, which had been hanging from a hook on the back of the door, fell free.

He sat on his bed, knees drawn to his chest, staring at the door, glad he didn't hear the trailer floor creak: His mother wasn't coming to his room. He didn't need her anyway. Just like she didn't need him. She had Marty. And she sure didn't need his father. So she didn't—couldn't possibly—understand what was between them. This was father-son stuff. His father understood, knew all about people like Leon. He knew just what to say, didn't he? His father would have been tougher, though, wouldn't have lost the fight.

T. J. hadn't anticipated Skeet jumping in, hadn't expected the look on Skeet's face when T. J. said it, didn't think Skeet would be angry too. Skeet didn't understand, just like his mother. Neither of them understood his father.

T. J.'s head ached. So did his ribs, where Leon kicked him. He wished his father were there now. He'd ask him if he'd done well, what he could have done differently. And his father would explain it all to him.

* * * *

Monday, recess didn't go well. Leon ran the playground, so he chose who played four square and then basketball. Other kids knew this, had heard of the slur and ensuing fight. T. J. was a playground leper.

“Hey there, T. J.,” Mrs. Tortorella said. “Don't feel like playing today?”

“Not really.” He was leaning against the brick wall. Studied a stone on the pavement, nudged it with the scuffed toe of his sneaker.

“You okay?”

Nod.

“T. J.?”

He looked up at her.

“Did you get to see your dad this weekend?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you get the black eye and bruises?”

“Huh? Oh, I fell down.”

She sighed, blew out a long breath. “Five times?”

He didn't say anything. He'd always liked Mrs. Tortorella, liked her genuine smile, her jokes, even her bright yellow sweaters. Wished his mother wore them. But he wouldn't talk to her about this. This was father-son stuff. And no one seemed to understand it. Just his father.

Mrs. Tortorella moved away, and T. J. stood staring across the playground at Leon and Skeet and the others playing basketball.

* * * *

That afternoon, T. J. stopped at Jay's Country Store, put his backpack down, and sat on the GT Mach One, rubbing his hand over the smooth finish of its frame. His bike, leaning day and night against the trailer, was cancered with brown rust spots, which often rubbed off on his pants in the winter and his bare legs during summer.

T. J. got off the bike.

“She's a beauty, isn't she?” Jay had come out from behind the meat counter. He was a big man, wearing jeans and a bloodstained apron.

T. J. looked at the price tag, and nodded.

“Ought to put a steak on that eye,” Jay said.

“What do you mean?”

Jay smiled. “Just a joke. An old remedy boxers used when they got shiners. You put a steak over it. What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn't look like nothing.” Jay shrugged, took a white towel off his shoulder, and wiped his hands. “If you want to talk about it, I'm always here.”

T. J. said nothing, and after several long moments, Jay walked away.

“Already got someone to talk to,” T. J. muttered, his hand running over the metallic blue frame.

* * * *

At three ten that afternoon, T. J. turned from Main Street onto Ridell Road and leaned forward under the great weight of his book bag. The swelling around his eye had diminished, but the bruises remained, and he was tired of answering questions (and lying) about them.

He wished he could talk to his father about it all. Did his father know Leon would react that way? Had he known he'd have to fight? Sometimes T. J. wondered what his father had been like when he was ten.

T. J. emerged from his daydream when he heard the basketball slapping the pavement, shouts of recognizable voices. He straightened, saw the after-school four-on-four game, watched Leon Landis directing play, dribbling, pointing, shouting instructions from the point-guard position like a film director steering his cast.

T. J. reached the driveway, when Leon caught the ball on the dribble and held it. The game stopped as if a button had been pushed.

T. J. didn't know what to do. Leon was staring at him. Should he continue walking? Could all be forgiven? Could he possibly be asked to play like before, the recess banishment being enough?

Moments passed, Leon's gaze seemed to grow in its intensity.

T. J. hunched forward, as if the weight of his backpack was now unbearable.

“I told my father what you called me,” Leon called. “He said the apple don't fall far from the tree. That's why your old man got sixty years. That's why things never change in the South.”

No one on the court moved. Skeet shot T. J. a hard stare.

T. J. leaned forward, like a boy fighting a headwind, and walked home.

* * * *

At five thirty, T. J. poured a glass of milk, made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and sat on the couch, playing Xbox until someone pounded on the door. He got up to answer it.

“How's it going, dude?” Marty wore a red University of Alabama T-shirt and carried a square-shaped paper sack. T. J. recognized it at once as a six-pack.

Marty stepped around T. J. and called to his mother. “I'm here, babe.” Then he turned to T. J. “Why don't you go to your room, Sport, do some homework or something.”

T. J. played on his Nintendo DS until eight, when he left his room to get a drink. The living room was dark, the TV splashing light in occasional bursts. On the sofa, Marty lay atop his mother, a blanket covering them. T. J. saw Marty's shape beneath the blanket rise up, then fall, heard his mother moan softly.

Continuing to stare, T. J. retreated to his room, shuffling backwards, closing the bedroom door behind him.

* * * *

The moon was full, and it was cold at eleven p.m. when T. J. slid his bedroom window up and jumped to the ground. The houses along Ridell Street were dark, and no traffic moved along Main Street. He thought of how much things had changed in one day, of standing alone at recess, of being on the road while the others played basketball, of the image of Marty and his mother.

He wondered what his father was doing right now. What had he done that day? He was sure his father thought of him as often as he thought of his father.

And he was frightened, not of what he was about to do, but of how alone he had become in the past twenty-four hours.

He was about to change that.

It was unexpectedly easy.

Under a bright autumnal moon, it took only a single rock, like a fastball from twenty feet, and the front door's glass rained down. The alarm chimed like a repetitive blaring song, the circular red light flashing like a steady pulse.

And the bike was his.

But he didn't take it home. He rode in circles in front of Jay's Country Store until the first cruiser arrived. Then he stopped and stood, arms folded across his chest, the blue bike leaning against his side.

“Did you take that bike, son?” the officer asked, eyes narrowed, head tilted to the side as if uncertain of the situation. He was a large black man and kept looking from T. J. to the $219 price tag hanging like a written confession from the handlebars.

“Uh-huh.”

The man's dark face shone, glistening beneath the moon.

“You did?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

T. J. didn't answer. He stood staring at the ground.

“Son—” The man knelt beside him. “—do you know what you've done?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“You took the bike just to ride it in front of the store?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Son—”

“I'm not your son.”

“—you're in a lot of trouble.”

T. J. nodded.

“Why did you take the bike?”

He looked at the man. Then he looked away, back toward Ridell Road, where his mother was still with Marty, where his days of playing basketball were over. Finally, he turned back and refocused on the ground. “Because once a year ain't enough,” he said.

“What?” the officer said.

“Put me in Garriston,” T. J. said. “Once a year ain't enough.”

Copyright © 2012 John R. Corrigan

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Black Orchid Novella Award: INNER FIRE
by Jolie McLarren Swann

Congratulations to Jolie McLarren Swann (take note of that name), winner of the fifth annual Black Orchid Novella Award, co-sponsored by AHMM and The Wolfe Pack. As usual, the BONA recognizes an original novella that exhibits the spirit of ratiocinative detection exemplified by the great Nero Wolfe. The pseudonymous author of this year's winning story assures us that it is the first in a new series, and we look forward to its sequels. But there's a special puzzle here for AHMM readers—it turns out that hidden in the Swann alias is the author's true name. Welcome back, James Lincoln Warren, familiar to our readers for his many stories in these pages, including those in his popular Treviscoe series. Moreover, Swann/Warren promises us that the anagrammatical fun continues in the story itself.

INNER FIRE

It may be brain dead, but nothing boosts my confidence like a good hair day. Susan Sherman, my best friend in tenth grade, once gave me some excellent advice: “Never date a guy with hair more beautiful than yours.” For once, there was no danger of that. My flaxen coiffeur was fit for the red carpet on Oscar night.

So I wasn't intimidated by the big, handsome Pacific Islander's glossy, flowing raven locks in the elevator of the Global Trade Tower in Century City, where MTRG had its headquarters. He looked like a running back, broad shoulders, tiny waist, dressed in a well-tailored midnight blue suit with a lemon yellow tie and matching pocket square, secure enough in his virility to be wearing a pink button-down shirt. No tassels (those are always a danger sign) on his pebbled calfskin loafers. By all appearances, not your usual surfer dude, but to my experienced eye I knew he'd be a natural balanced on an Oahu North Shore gun, shooting a thirty-foot breaker. Plus, he was checking me out. I flashed my flirtiest smile.

“Floor?” he asked.

“You've already pressed it.”

“MTRG? Excuse me, but you don't look much like a technogeek.”

“Neither do you.”

“I'm not,” he said, smiling, showing perfectly straight white teeth and dimples to die for. “I've got . . . other business there. You?”

“Just meeting a girlfriend for latte and a muffin.”

Short silence. Finally he smiled again and said, “I'm Adrian Tabi.”

“Erica Wooding.”

More floors whizzed by.

“What business?” I asked.

He assumed that roosterlike look that presaged the claim that he was a jet airline pilot or worked for the CIA. Disappointing, yes, but boys will be boys. “I'm an insurance investigator. Working on a big case . . . but it's not really something I can talk about. Client confidentiality, you understand.”

“Wow,” I said. “That must be fascinating work.”

“Sometimes,” he said, assuming a strong-but-silent display of masculine modesty. “Who's your girlfriend? Maybe I know her.”

“Probably not,” I replied. “She's a temp. Bunny Fredericks?”

“No, sorry,” he said, and I was saved from further prevarication by the door sliding open.

“After you,” he said, holding out his hand like a maitre d’ in a snooty restaurant. He walked over to the big glass doors that opened into MTRG's reception area and held one open for me.

I couldn't very well let him figure out I didn't really have a girlfriend on the premises, so I fidgeted and looked around, wide eyed.

“Thanks,” I said, “but first, the powder room?”

He smiled. “To your right. I hope to see you later.”

“That would be great,” I said. “Sorry, gotta go. I mean—”

He gave a casual wave and went inside as I traipsed off to the loo. I knew he'd let me go. I've noticed that men would rather stab themselves multiple times in the abdomen with a K-bar than wait outside a women's toilet.

I took a few seconds to admire my new hairstyle in the mirror and refresh my lipstick before emerging to make sure Adrian was gone. Then I went in.

There was a tall, thin man standing at the high curved counter giving the bimbo receptionist a major-league tongue-lashing. The man wore what must have been a bespoke suit in dark gray with gold pinstripes—it had surgeon's cuffs and British double vents, and looked like vicuña. Anyway, it went perfectly with the gold Audemars Piguet chronograph on his left wrist. He was not a happy unit and was giving the bimbo the benefit of pointing his well-manicured finger in her face.

“The next time that wog Tabi waltzes in and I don't hear about it first, you'll be looking for a new job,” he said in clipped Londoner tones. “And you won't find one. Am I clear?”

The receptionist pursed her lips in suppressed anger and meekly replied, “Yes, Mr. Pippinger.”

He turned from her and I got a good look at his face. Vulpine, I think the word is, mid forties, good looking, if your taste runs to strong, cruel faces. He scanned me up and down, taking in everything all at once, obviously coming to the conclusion that I didn't have any potential, because he didn't pause a microsecond before striding off. He didn't slam the door of his corner office shut: There was already a flunky there to do it for him.

I approached the receptionist. Her desk placard said she was Rachel Dunn. Her lips moved as she muttered something inaudible for her own benefit. From what I could guess, it was “pommy bastard.”

“Hi,” I said. I looked down the hall at the closed door of the rich man's office. “Why do men all have to be such assholes?”

She didn't react at all, other than looking at me as if I had toilet paper sticking out of my waistband.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a dreadful Australian whine.

“I don't know. That gorgeous guy who just came in a couple minutes ago, I think his name is Adrian? I met him in the elevator.”

She assumed a knowing look. No pity, only disdain. “Get in line.”

Then she took a deep breath and her chin started to tremble.

I decided to ignore the scorn as if I hadn't seen it and barreled forward. “I think he said something about Lloyd's America?”

I took a chance with that. It might not have been Lloyd's that he worked for, but since they're the biggest marine insurance group in the world, it was a good guess.

“That's right.”

Two points!

But that public dressing down she'd just been given must have stung worse than an eyeful of iodine. Her face threatened to crumple, but she overcame it in a flash of indignation, and seized on the distraction I'd provided.

“Big-time insurance investigator,” she said, sniveling. “Big-time jerk, you ask me—almost as bad as Mr. Colin Blobhead Pippinger.” She shifted her eyes toward the corner office. Then suddenly she opened up. “About Adrian. I'd forget it if I were you. Been there, got the T-shirt.”

“Really? He seems like such a nice guy.”

“Oh, he is. For as long as it takes to get what he's after. You're right. They're all the same.”

I folded my arms and put my elbows on the counter, leaning toward her in just-between-us-girls confidentiality. “He isn't really here about some missing boat then, is he?”

That was too quick, because now she was suspicious.

“Who the hell are you?”

Tap-dancing, my specialty. “Oh, I could tell you stories. I'll bet you didn't know that Adrian was married.”

She frowned, thought better of it, and then smirked, but realizing what she must look like, just as quickly assumed a mask of sympathetic distress. “His poor wife!”

“Look, I didn't really lie about meeting him in the elevator, because I've never actually seen him before—but the truth is he's seeing my sister, and she's so naive—I don't want her to get hurt. She's crazy about him and I could just tell from the way she described him that he was bad news. So I'm sort of checking him out, and guess what? Married. Four kids. House in Encino, minivan—the works. And smooth? He gave her some line about looking for this stolen superyacht, but I thought it was all bullshit.”

“That whacker,” she breathed. “The best liars always throw in a bit of the truth, don't they? The superyacht is missing.”

I nodded. “That fits. He's a charmer, all right. Tall, dark, and mysterious—my God, it's such a cliché. But who could steal a yacht? Sounds pretty far-fetched to me.”

Rachel leaned forward. “No, that much is true. We think it was an inside job. Adrian really shouldn't have talked about it, though.”

“Well, it worked, because Barbara was all impressed. Listen, Rachel, if I call you later, can you talk to her, and help me prove to her that he's just another sexual predator?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“I'd better get out of here before Adrian sees me and gets suspicious,” I said. “Our little secret, right?”

“Right. I wish I'd had a sister like you when I met that ratbag.”

We shook hands briefly but intensely, and I slipped out just as she called out, “Wait! What's your name?” Naturally I didn't bother to stop—I needed to make my getaway. I was in such a rush that I almost forgot to take the stairs down a flight so Adrian Tabi wouldn't see me if he left MTRG before the elevator came.

True master detectives know when to improvise.

* * * *

The job started with a bang, an explosive fireball erupting on the ocean. I didn't know anything about that at first. If anything, my life at the time was more of a whimper. Living in L.A. was turning out to be a lot more expensive than I had figured, and to complicate things I'd just been fired. Pete Grady, the P.I. who hired and then canned me, said our “relationship” wasn't working out, and he was right, because there was no way I was going let that cheesy fat sleaze bucket get in my pants. Standards, I got ‘em.

Then I spilled coffee all over my laptop in a café, frying the motherboard. So much for Facebooking with my friends. Now I couldn't even troll the Net for sympathy, because there was no way I could afford a new computer. So I was feeling angry and sorry for myself.

That's why when I was asked to come downtown for an interview I was cheered up enough to break into spontaneous dance, much to the annoyance of my downstairs neighbor. The call said nothing at all about explosive fireballs. All I knew was that I finally had an appointment with a potential client. And man, did I need a client.

Dad desperately wanted me back home—you know what some fathers are like when it comes to their little princesses, not that at five foot ten I'm remotely little, or have ever been anything like a princess unless princesses routinely skin their knees falling out of trees.

Anyway, he knew all about my financial smackdown and figured he could use it as leverage.

“I'm raking it in, Erica,” his voice said, buzzing out of the cell phone sitting on the dresser. I needed my hands free because I was changing into something more professional than jeans and a tank top. The voice kept on talking. “The recession hasn't hurt our business. It's booming. I'll pay you straight salary.”

“I'd rather work on a fee basis, Dad. Like I'm doing right now.” Actually, what I was doing right then was tugging on a stubborn zipper on my skirt, but he didn't need to know that.

“I get it. I do. You want to strike out on your own. But I'd feel a lot better if you lived closer to home. Los Angeles is dangerous. People disappear there.”

Nice try. I was done with Fresno in general and with Sherwood Brothers Bail Bonds in particular. I wanted to do real detective work, for real people who needed real help, not just track down bail-jumping knuckleheads.

When I finished pulling on my left shoe, I picked up the phone, took the call off speaker, and put it up to my ear.

“Exactly,” I said. “People disappear in L.A. That's why I'm here, to find them. In case you forgot, you trained me to be a skip tracer, and that's how I qualified for my license. Besides, I like it here. I can go surfing whenever I want, and there are real beaches where you can play real beach volleyball.”

I heard something suspiciously like muffled speech. That meant Dad was holding his hand over the phone, either speaking to an employee about work or something much more sinister: calling in the cavalry. I decided I'd better get off the line.

“Listen, love to talk, but I've really got to go. I have an appointment with a rich client downtown in forty-five minutes and I'll need every bit of it to get there in time.”

“Break it. Downtown L.A. is hell's half acre.” This from a man whose office is a hundred yards from the Fresno County Jail.

“You haven't seen this block of downtown, and I guess you missed the important part.”

“Rich?”

“No. Client.”

“Oh, Erica,” he said, and I could hear the disappointment in his voice. “Mom wants a word—”

“Sorry. Gotta run. Love you.” I hung up before Mom joined the charge, waving her saber amidst blaring bugles and the thunderous thud of hooves. My family, gotta love ‘em.

I checked my purse to see if I had enough money for gas. Damn. Looked like I was taking the bus.

* * * *

I only had to walk a short distance from the bus stop to get there. The McKinley Building was half a city block of art deco steel and cast cement that had once housed a bank at street level and large swanky office suites above. It had recently been restored to its Roaring Twenties glory, only now it featured high-end retail on the sidewalk, with the rest of the building divided into outrageously expensive condos for the urban ultracool.

In the lobby, a bored guard made me sign in after making a call upstairs to make sure I had a legitimate reason to be there. He reluctantly let me through to the bank of elevators. I went to the one at the end, at a right angle to all the others, because it was the only one that went up to the penthouse loft. The private one.

When I got out at the top, I was met by a smartly dressed woman, brunette, maybe ten years older than me, who could have been anything from a CEO's executive secretary to an archduke's housekeeper.

I was a little slow introducing myself because I was trying to take everything in. Sometimes a moment of silence can have a dramatic effect. At other times, it just makes you look dumb. This was one of those other times.

“Hi. I'm Erica H. Wooding.”

I thrust out my right hand. The woman pressed my fingers for a split second as if to say, I'm only doing this to be polite.

“I have an appointment with Ms. Fowler.”

“You are expected, Ms. Wooding,” she said, like I didn't already know. Her accent said upper-crust East Coast. “I'm Fredericks, Miss Enola's valette. May I take your coat?”

First of all, there's no such word as valette, she just made that up. Now, a valet in L.A., and probably where you live too, is usually somebody who parks cars. But I could tell she was saying she was a sort of female Jeeves. Not a mere lady's maid, but a valette. Secondly, there was the Miss Enola instead of Ms. Fowler, like something out of Tennessee Williams.

“Coat?” I had on a short leather jacket. Nobody ever wears a coat in Los Angeles unless it's raining, and you know how often that happens. “I didn't bring one, Ms. Fredericks.”

Somehow, even though she didn't change expressions, I could tell I'd disappointed her, as if a lady always had a coat, and therefore Erica H. Wooding must not be a lady.

“Just Fredericks. This way, please,” she said, leading me into the loft.

The first thing I noticed was soft classical piano music being piped in, as if I were shopping at Nordstrom's. Then the decor struck me. What would otherwise have been a huge single space was divided into rooms by Japanese paper screens extending from floor to ceiling between square pillars holding up the roof. From the look of them, the screens could be slid or moved to reconfigure the floor plan. The ceiling itself was high and made of pressed tin tiles painted copper, uber-retro but nice, punctuated with sprinkler heads every six feet or so. The floor was teak and maple parquet, polished to a brilliant sheen, with fine woolen rugs centered in each room. There was very little furniture, all of it in Mission-style oak, austerely elegant—minimalist, you could say.

She led me all the way back to some tall French doors that opened north onto the rooftop patio. The air had been blown clear by the Santa Ana winds the day before, so to the far left you could see all the way to Century City, Santa Monica, and the ocean. On the near left were the Hollywood Hills. North and east, skyscrapers glinted in the sun. The sky was a glacial blue.

There were Heritage rosebushes and garden herbs planted in big terra cotta planters along the balustrade, and not quite a soccer field away at the other end of the patio was a glass hothouse. Fredericks kept going that way so I followed her.

She opened the door to the hothouse and led me in. Humidity swept over me like I had wiped out on a rogue wave. My silk blouse was already starting to stick to my skin.

The second thing I noticed was a wheelchair, one of those fancy motorized scooter gizmos, basically a one-seat Cadillac convertible. The woman in it was older than Mom, but younger than either of my grandmas. She was doing some pruning and didn't look up as I came in. The same piano music as in the living quarters accompanied the clip of her shears.

The hothouse was full of antheriums blossoming under potted Sago palms. Most people don't know what this kind of flower is called, but everybody's seen one: a big, single, heart-shaped, leaflike petal, usually scarlet or orange but sometimes white, with a thick yellow erect stamen jutting up from where the stem joins the petal. They're really almost obscene. I knew what they were because before I was old enough to help Dad at the bail bonds boutique, I worked a couple of summers in my aunt's flower shop.

Fredericks discreetly coughed. “Miss Enola, your appointment.”

Miss Enola, again. All right, I could cope. While I was waiting for her to look at me, I got a good look at her. She was a little thing, and reminded me of a tiny songbird, sharp-nosed and bright-eyed. Adding to the effect was a bright yellow dress trimmed with green and black. Her hair was dyed a lustrous mahogany brown and was slightly gray at the roots, cut short and parted on the left, sweeping back behind her ears.

Finally she stopped and looked up at me. She stared at me for several seconds, then turned her chair to face me.

“You're too tall,” she said abruptly. She had a high little soprano, but well modulated. “Your hair is too long and your skirt is too short. But at least your shoes are sensible, and you don't wear too much makeup or have talons instead of fingernails.”

I raised my eyebrows. “As far as I'm concerned, high heels and long nails are for women who don't work.”

“Even so, your appearance gives me the impression that you may be a little too fond of men.”

“Some men, maybe,” I said. “Personally and professionally, I don't always trust appearances.”

She nodded curtly. “Sit down.”

Where? But Fredericks was unfolding a low metal chair, really a backed stool. Then she vanished like a ghost. Well, that's what it seemed like.

I sat down as ladylike as I could, which isn't as easy as it sounds when your legs are as long as mine. I really should have worn a longer skirt, I guess, but it was a little late to worry about that.

“How can I help you . . . Miss Enola?” I asked in my best business voice. Sometimes being a P.I. is like being a therapist or a bartender. Look interested even if you aren't, then shut up and listen. You'll learn more that way.

“Erica H. Wooding,” she said, staring at me appraisingly. “What is the ‘H’ for?”

That took me off guard. “Oh. It stands for Holmes, my mother's maiden name. I was named for my grandfather.”

Miss Enola was amused, and though she compressed her lips to keep from smiling, the rest of her face opened up like a daisy.

“A private detective named Holmes. How droll. You're blushing, my dear.”

“No, I'm just very fair and it's a little warm in here.”

“So you were named after a man,” she said, disapproving.

What was that all about? “And, Miss Enola, you were, what, named after the B-29 that nuked Hiroshima?”

Then she did smile, but just as soon it was gone. “Quite a bedside manner you have, Erica.”

“You want a good bedside manner, hire a nurse. I'm an investigator, and my name and my hair and my skirt have nothing to do with it. I'm good at what I do, and if you want to know if I'm the right woman for the job, I suggest you ask me about that.”

“I had a background investigation performed prior to making our appointment, Erica. I know all about your professional abilities. The firm that referred you to me, Cal Ops, is very good, for a competitor. Their report was quite positive.”

Which was big news to me. Cal Ops, short for California Operatives, Inc., was an elite Beverly Hills agency where I had once unsuccessfully applied for a position when I came to L.A. Actually, I had unsuccessfully applied for a position at every reputable agency in Los Angeles before the Grady calamity, so going independent had been a last resort. The recession may not have hurt Sherwood Brothers, but it was killing me. Getting Cal Ops to check me out was like driving a Bentley to a car lot to shop for a Honda. Mucho bizarro. If she had hired Cal Ops, what did she need me for?

And what did she mean by competitor?

“I think you might do,” Miss Enola said. “I am not a termagant, Erica, my unconventional interview technique notwithstanding. I needed to judge you for myself. Your predecessors lacked the necessary character, but they were all young men. None of them lasted longer than a month. I've interviewed a few other women, but they were either too demure or too pugnacious. I need someone who will not wilt at the first sign of confrontation on the one hand, nor go for the throat at the minutest challenge on the other. She must hold her own and maintain her dignity.”

Dignity isn't a word I hear applied to me a lot. I said, “I'm not sure what we're talking about.”

“We will start on a trial basis. If you prove suitable during our investigation, I will consider making the arrangement permanent.”

"Our investigation? Make what permanent?”

“I trust a twenty-five hundred dollar retainer will be sufficient?”

I quickly nodded, afraid that if I opened my mouth, I'd knock my teeth out with my foot again.

“Excellent. Now, as to the terms of your employment—”

“I'll need to know something about your case first. There are some things I won't do, like divor—”

“Nothing so sordid, I assure you. Details will be provided.”

“I brought a standard contr—”

She waved me off. “Unnecessary. Let us retire to the office.”

With that, she whizzed out the door. I closed it behind me as I left.

I followed her across the patio back to the French doors. Inside, Fredericks was waiting for us with a checkbook, a brandy-colored leather portfolio, and a fountain pen. She handed the portfolio to me and the checkbook and pen to Miss Enola.

Miss Enola opened it, signed a check, pulled it out, and handed it to me. Then she led us into a large windowless space dominated by a long wraparound desk with nothing on it but a light headset with a microphone, a wireless keyboard and mouse, and three wide-aspect computer monitors. There were three chairs facing the desk, but none behind it, so that Miss Enola could wheel in to work. The Japanese screens that acted as walls were hung with delicate Zen scroll paintings of tall bamboo and exquisite birds.

She motioned us to be seated. I took the closest chair, on the right, and Fredericks took the chair on the left. From somewhere, Fredericks had produced a touchscreen computer which she hefted like a steno pad, to which she applied a sterling silver stylus with a rubber nib, taking notes as Miss Enola talked.

“Your initial trial period will be for two weeks,” Miss Enola said. “After that, if you prove suitable, you will become a probationary employee for six months. You will move out of your current lodgings and move here into private quarters. I shall not charge you for room and board. We shall not terminate your residence at your current address until the end of your two-week trial. I will pay any rent owed on your apartment during the trial period. Fredericks will provide you with the appropriate tax forms—”

“Easier if I bill you,” I said. “I can handle my taxes on my own. And I'm sorry, but there's no way I'm moving in. It's more convenient if I maintain my independence and regularly report to you on my progress.”

“Erica, you misunderstand. It may seem more convenient to you, but it is not remotely more convenient to me. I am hiring you not as an independent contractor, but as a salaried employee, like Fredericks here, to be available at any time of the day or night that I may require your services. This is not a nine-to-five job.”

“Well, investigations never are, but—”

“No overnight visitors. No loud noises. Otherwise, you are free to act as you please, within reason.” She turned to Fredericks and said, “Make arrangements to have whatever personal items Erica may need—clothes, toiletries, and so forth, delivered from her apartment, although I think perhaps a shopping trip might be in order to bring her wardrobe up to snuff—and show her to her room.”

I stiffened. Like I'm going to let some stranger go through my underwear drawer.

“Right now I think I'll have a rest,” she said, completely unaware I was offended.

“Yes, Miss Enola,” Fredericks said, nodding.

“Erica, we'll discuss the case after supper,” Miss Enola said. “Familiarize yourself with the contents of the portfolio in the meantime. We dine at seven. I should warn you that this is an organic vegetarian household.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Nobody's going through my things. And my landlord will go ballistic if he thinks I'm moving out.”

“Don't worry about your landlord,” she said. “He will be addressed.”

“And what about my car?”

“That will also not be needed, but you may store it in our garage during the trial. After that, if you continue with us, you should probably sell it. Or you can give it to charity.”

“I'm not selling Rhonda. How am I supposed to get around?”

“You took the bus to get here,” she replied, “but in the future, you can drive the Tesla.”

“Tesla?” I know squat about cars in general, but since I hadn't heard of it, my guess was it must be a pretty exclusive ride. “I don't know what that is, but I'm guessing it's expensive.”

“Moderately,” she said. “It was just under two hundred thousand. The Tesla Roadster is an electric-powered sports car that does zero to sixty in less than four seconds.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“You're an attractive young lady, Erica,” Miss Enola said, frowning, “so do try not to sound like a celebrity party girl.”

The idea of taking such an outrageously expensive car out for a spin on the insane L.A. freeways struck me as about as smart as juggling the White House china at a state banquet. Don't get me wrong, I'm a pretty good driver in the right vehicle, say, one slightly less costly than a private Caribbean island—but I'm a lousy juggler.

Besides, I loved my car. Rhonda was a Chevy HHR woody that I had won at an auction for a song. It was love at first sight, and I named her after an old Beach Boys song Dad used to sing to me when I was a little girl. We had bonded. Plus, imagine me toting my beat-up old surfboard to the beach on the roof of an exotic sports car. Or toting grocery bags in the passenger's seat. It would be like wearing pearls and a sleek black cocktail dress to In-N-Out Burger.

Then something she'd said hit me.

“Uh—how did you know I took the bus?”

But she was already rolling away. “We'll discuss it later. Welcome to the Fowler Investigative Analysis Team.”

“The Fowler Investigative what?”

She stopped. “The Fowler Investigative Analysis Team. We are licensed to perform confidential inquiries for select clients.”

Miss Enola was a detective?

“You mean you're a licensed P.I. too?”

“That is correct, but the FIAT—” She pronounced it to rhyme with “high hat,” and I subsequently noticed that whenever she said it, it was always the FIAT. “—is not your garden variety rent-a-cop shop.” She started rolling away again.

I could believe that. “How many agents are there on the team?”

“Formerly one. Now there are two. With occasional supernumeraries.”

“Wait—”

But she had turned a corner and I wasn't sure if I should go after her.

“Ms. Wooding, if you will please follow me,” Fredericks said before I could make up my mind. Because I didn't know what else to do at that point, I obeyed.

I was still a bit stunned as Fredericks led me to “my room,” which turned out to face west, with a view almost as good as from the patio. The bathroom was as big as my whole Studio City apartment, dominated by a recessed pink granite tub, with all sorts of colored bath oils in glass bottles around it, which I thought a little girlie given how Spartan everything else was. I was afraid there might be a futon instead of a real bed, what with the Japanese screens everywhere, but I was wrong—it was a queen, in that spare Arts & Crafts style like all the other furniture, covered with what had to be a hand-stitched quilt. Instead of closets there were two big wardrobes of pale oak with full-length mirrors on the doors. A huge HDTV sat on a wide stand next to a vanity dresser on the wall opposite the bed. It was a wonderful room. But not wonderful enough.

Reluctantly, I faced Fredericks and handed her the check.

“I can't do this.”

Fredericks let me hang for a moment, and then sighed.

“I will talk to Miss Enola about your car,” she said at length. “I'm sure we can arrive at an equitable arrangement. And we shall go together to gather your things after dinner, so you don't have to be worried about your privacy.” She paused. “Ms. Wooding, may I speak plainly?”

“Go ahead, and call me Erica,” I said. “Everybody else seems to.”

“My first name is Brunella,” she said drily. “Now you know why I go by Fredericks.”

“Ouch. I sympathize. What were you called growing up?”

“Freddy. I hated that too. But please listen.”

I sat down on the bed. “I'm all ears.”

“I am going to ask you to reconsider, or at least to postpone your decision until after we dine. Do you know why it was that Miss Enola decided to hire you?”

“She said it's because I'm a woman.”

Fredericks smirked. “Well, of course there's that. But only a certain kind of woman might be considered.”

“Big blondes?”

Her face went solemn. “Please do not make light of this, Erica. I am talking about who you are, not what you are, but even more about who Miss Enola is.”

This time I think I might have blushed.

“The reason she decided to consider you is because you had made it very clear that your motivation in working as a private investigator was to help people who can't help themselves.”

I know I blushed then. “Oh.”

“Erica, that idea is the only thing that gets Miss Enola out of bed in the morning.”

“This is too weird. She's a private detective herself, and successful as hell, judging from this place. So how come I've never heard of her?”

“She prefers to be called an investigative analyst rather than detective, since she demurs from collecting evidence herself—I believe that will be your contribution. You've never heard of her because she is, shall we say, exclusive. To call her clientele select is something of a euphemism. They come to her by reference only, and she is extremely discriminating regarding whom she will accept, even when the references are satisfactory. There are far more important criteria.”

“What do you mean?”

She paused. “Looking around here, you may be impressed by all that she has. She is surrounded by fine objets d'art, and every comfort consistent with a subtle and refined nature. You might think that she has gained the world. But this is nothing compared to what she has lost.”

It didn't take a genius to light on Miss Enola's most obvious disadvantage, so I asked. “How exactly did she wind up in a wheelchair?”

Fredericks frowned. “It isn't my place to speak where she has been silent, Erica. But I will say that if you think that Miss Enola is a zealous Xanthippe who finds joy in inflicting her will on others, a heartless harridan motivated by her own petty sense of prerogative, then you suffer from a meaner incapacity than she. A crippled imagination is the worst affliction of all. Trust your imagination, Erica. I promise that it will be rewarded.”

Wordy, right? I guessed Fredericks had been one of those snob English majors who wrote incomprehensible free verse and read opaque fiction to prove how smart they were, but I was still impressed.

The question was whether Fredericks was pitching a dramatic speech to arouse my curiosity so I'd stay, or if she was being on the level and there was more here than met the eye. I reckoned the bloated pomposity of her plea was unintentional, since being pompous rarely recommends sympathy, so maybe there was something to what she said—but I was pretty weary of the high-handed way Miss Enola was treating me. I changed the subject.

“So, Fredericks. Harvard, right? English Lit?”

“Vassar, actually. You?”

I guffawed. “Three semesters at Fresno State in theater arts.”

She smiled, but it was a friendly smile. “An actress manqué, then.”

“I don't know what manqué means, but don't worry, Fredericks. I didn't move to Hollywood to be discovered or anything.”

“And yet that's precisely what has happened,” she said, and then she left.

Huh.

I dug into my purse, pulled out my cell, and speed-dialed Sherwood Brothers. I stared at the check in my hand.

“Hi, Dad,” I said. “You're not going to believe this.”

* * * *

The portfolio was full of goodies. There was a state-of-the-art smartphone, with a Bluetooth earpiece, hallelujah! Adios to my primitive prepaid cell, and welcome back wireless social networking. There were the keys to the Tesla and the penthouse. Also a stack of about fifty business cards reading

* * * *

Erica H. Wooding

Licensed Field Agent

F. I. A. T.

The Fowler Investigative Analysis Team

with both the smartphone's number and one labeled “McKinley Building” printed below my name, no other address. And a small-business credit card with my name on it, oh my goodness. From the cards I deduced that Miss Enola had decided to hire me even before our interview.

Cal Ops’ background information about me was there in a thick manila folder. It contained a lot more than I would have imagined, all of it strictly accurate, even to my high school letters in track and volleyball and my mediocre transcripts from Fresno State. I didn't need to ask how they'd got hold of all this—I'm a skip tracer, remember?

And then there was the case file.

A lot of it I didn't understand. Expert network firms. Channel checkers. There was a lot about offshore bank accounts and the Securities and Exchange Commission investigating insider trading at hedge funds, like I even knew what a hedge fund was except that it had something to do with greed. One name popped up again and again: Oliver Long, B.A. Stanford, M.B.A. UCLA Anderson School, Vice President for Account Management for the Manufacturers Trend Research Group (MTRG), whatever that was. Frankly, reading it all was starting to make me go cross eyed. But then came some stuff I could sink my teeth into.

Long had disappeared into thin air. Now we were talking.

* * * *

I wandered into the kitchen mainly out of curiosity to see who was cooking, but my cover story was to offer to help. I'm no foodie, but I do know my way around kitchen knives and pots and pans.

Given that this was an industrial-sized kitchen, I fully expected Miss Enola to have a bevy of private cooks, but she was preparing everything mostly by herself, with Fredericks assisting. Miss Enola looked rather silly in a tall paper chef's hat and a cotton apron that looked more like a surgeon's smock than anything else, but her face wore that frozen humorless mask that signals absolute concentration. At that moment she was precisely cubing slices of eggplant with a long, damascened Santoku, the knife slithering through them at full speed and clicking on the cutting board like a telegraph key in an old western. On the stove beside her, onions and garlic were sautéing in olive oil in a wide cast-iron frying pan. My mouth watered.

Fredericks tossed the salad.

Most of the counters were only three feet high in deference to Miss Enola's wheelchair, but a couple were tall enough to stand at. The most interesting thing was the low six-burner stove, a custom job no higher than my knees.

“Wow, that smells great,” I said. “What are we having?”

“Nothing fancy,” Miss Enola replied. “Simple cuisine du pays. Crepes avec ratatouille nicoise."

Okay. “Anything I can do to help?”

“You can help by not getting underfoot.”

Right.

Fredericks looked up from her labors. “Veronica Cross will be here in about half an hour, Erica. If you would be so kind, greet her when she arrives and offer her a glass of sherry in the drawing room.”

I didn't know where the drawing room was, or even really what a drawing room was other than something from Jane Austen, but I figured it must be the room where I'd find the sherry. I felt I should know who Veronica Cross was, but I couldn't put the name to a face.

“I read the file,” I said, more to be saying something than for any other reason.

“Of course you did, my dear,” Miss Enola said. “But we'll discuss that after supper.”

* * * *

I found the drawing room not far from the vestibule. The sherry was in a round, broad-based cut-glass decanter, on a sideboard next to another one filled with port. Pretty masculine tipple, I thought, given that we were in something of a henhouse, although there wasn't any whiskey or brandy there, which I guess there would have been had there been any concessions to the Y-chromosome afflicted. I'm not much of a drinker myself, being more your basic diet-soda connoisseur.

When the doorbell rang, I answered it. That's when I remembered.

“I know you. You're Veronica Cross!” All right, the fact that she was Veronica Cross probably wasn't that much of a surprise to her.

“Call me Nicki,” she said, extending her hand, beaming like I had just handed her a four-foot-long million-dollar check from the Lotto. “You must be the new girl.”

“Erica. Erica Wooding,” I said, taking her hand. I did find it a little, what's the phrase?—cognitively dissonant to hear the word girl drop so casually from the mouth of a big-time feminist lawyer. But I was starstruck.

Really good lawyers, like good doctors and good ministers, have the gift of putting people immediately at ease. This gal had it like a biker broad has tattoos, except that Nicki was stylishly sporting a rough silk suit worth more than my car. Her black hair, pale makeup, and shoes were letter perfect, but that just amplified the effect. I guess it was charisma—I mean, she carried an alligator attaché case that with anyone else would have drawn your attention away from whoever held it. Not her, though.

“Miss Enola and Fredericks are in the kitchen,” I said. “If you'd like some, I was asked to offer you some sherry.”

“Don't bother,” she said, marching in. “I can serve myself.”

She poured for both of us, parked herself unceremoniously on the sofa, and said, “So, Erica, tell me about yourself.”

If I could pump somebody like she did me, I'd call myself a detective. I don't think there's anything about myself I didn't gratefully tell her all about. When I got to my education, she asked, “So what did you learn in theater arts?”

I said, “Don't date actors.”

We both laughed, and only then did I realize how she'd played me. I guess I got that blank look on my face that betrays vulnerability because she put her hand on my knee and said, “Don't worry, Erica. We're friends.”

And you know what? I believed her.

I was saved from gushing my appreciation by the sudden appearance of Miss Enola. Everything stopped. She has that effect. In this instance, though, it wasn't for more than a second.

“Enola!” Nicki got off the sofa and crossed the room, bending down to give Miss Enola a hug. Miss Enola clenched her eyes shut as if she were squeezing a long-lost sister and holding back a decade's worth of tears. All right, so she was prickly, but at that moment I knew that Miss Enola really did have a heart.

I decided I might spend the night after all.

* * * *

Dinner was fabulous. But what made the meal truly interesting was the conversation afterwards. Fredericks wasn't there for that. She vanished as soon as she bused the table.

“The SEC was ready to fall on Oliver Long like a nonunion coal mine,” Nicki said. “His disappearance has seriously crimped their plans.”

“Nicki, I don't really understand any of the ins and outs,” I said.

“Let me explain,” she said, and then she did.

So I was treated to Networking Firms 101. I won't bore you with all the details. Suffice it to say I learned all about channel checkers and other minutiae, and what it boiled down to was that MTRG, the company Oliver Long worked for, specialized in setting up meetings between people with too much money and people with too much information, and charged a commission to do it. The idea was to educate the high rollers so they knew enough about the industries being traded and market conditions to make intelligent investments. It was all pretty complicated, but the bottom line was that Oliver Long and MTRG were suspected of using this as a front for insider trading by dealing in trade secrets under the counter. Sort of like a prostitution ring disguised as a dating service.

“It might not be the whole company,” I said. “Long may be doing it on his own and the rest are just patsies.”

“The management certainly claims they know nothing about it,” Nicki replied, “but they're the ones setting up the deals. They are not mere naifs.” (Honest, that's the word she used.) “They know the score. Investors want as much information as they can get, and it doesn't get any better than trade secrets. If MTRG can deliver trade secrets disguised as networking services, they can make a lot of money, and I mean a lot of money. There's a complex financial trail leading back to Long from his investors that doesn't stand up well under scrutiny, and it's hard to believe he's acting alone. Unfortunately, we can't ask him.”

“Because he's done a runner to keep from going to jail.” I sighed. It looked like I wasn't out of the bail bonds biz after all. “All right, so it's a standard skip trace. I thought I was done chasing down felons, but I guess not. How big is the reward?”

“We are not bounty hunters, Erica,” Miss Enola said, radiating disapproval. “We aren't looking for Oliver Long.”

“We aren't?”

“Well, in a sense we are,” said Nicki. “We're actually trying to find a member of Long's crew.”

“Let me guess. We're trying to find the guy who squealed on him to the SEC.”

“You misunderstand, Erica,” Miss Enola said. “In this case, the term crew does not refer to Mr. Long's criminal associates. It is meant quite literally and refers to the crew of MTRG's corporate oceangoing superyacht, which vanished at the same time as he.”

“The man whom the FIAT has been engaged to find is named Ray Zielinski, steward aboard the motor yacht Chengfeng," Nicki said. “I'm told it's a Johnson 103, whatever that is, worth seven and a half million, which makes its disappearance of interest to quite a few people. The boat is technically homeported in Curacao in the Dutch Antilles, but MTRG's lease of the vessel includes a berth in Marina del Rey. We're not interested in it for its own sake. We only want to make sure that Mr. Zielinski is alive and well.

“So you see, I am your client. My client is Ray Zielinski's wife, Melita. She hasn't seen him in five days and she's worried.” She pulled an eight-by-ten photo out of the briefcase and handed it to me. It was a standard department store studio portrait of a couple dressed in their Sunday best, a pretty Filipina woman and a big-boned blond man with a flattop, gray eyes, and wide, high cheekbones. As I memorized the face, Nicki said, “According to his wife, Mr. Zielinski hated Mr. Long, but he needed the job to support their family. He's the last person on earth to assist Long in escaping, yet both he and the yacht are gone.”

Nicki looked me straight in the eye, her manner solemn. “I think Ray Zielinski, along with the rest of the yacht's crew, was kidnapped.”

“So the first order of business is to make inquiries at MTRG,” Miss Enola said.

* * * *

I'll say this for the Tesla. Although it will never replace Rhonda in my heart, it's a lot of fun to drive. Cute too: an exotic low-slung red sports car that wouldn't look out of place being driven by an Italian movie star. After supper, I got behind the wheel with Fredericks in the passenger seat and drove to my apartment. There wasn't much there that I really needed, but enough that I loaded it up in my own car, which unlike the Tesla has enough space in it for stuff that takes more room to pack than French lingerie. I borrowed ten bucks from Fredericks to gas up Rhonda, and off we went. By the time we got back to the McKinley Building, it was late, so we both headed off to bed.

Sometime around three in the morning, I awoke to the sound of hysterical sobbing. Worried, I slipped into my faux fur-lined moccasins and padded through the maze of screens, looking for its source. It faded away just before I found Miss Enola's room. Fredericks was there in flannel jammies sitting by Miss Enola's bed, her hair bound in a single thick braid like something out of a storybook, holding Miss Enola's left forearm folded at the elbow against her left shoulder. She held a thin empty syringe in her right hand. Miss Enola was breathing deeply, eyes closed.

Fredericks looked up at me. “It's all right. I'm an RN—all part of the job. I've given her something to help her sleep.”

“Oh.” I wasn't sure what to think. “What's wrong?”

Fredericks made a tiny frown. “Not to be evasive, but even if the stipulations of my employment allowed me to disclose anything of a personal nature regarding Miss Enola, which they expressly prohibit—there's still the matter of patient privilege.”

Should've seen that coming. No point in getting up in arms over it. “But she's going to be okay?”

Fredericks gave the slightest nod of her head. “She'll seem fine by morning. She probably won't even remember. She's had a stressful day.”

I watched Fredericks bend the needle against the nightstand and drop the hypodermic into a small plastic sharps container, which she deposited in a doctor's bag on the floor.

“You should go back to bed, Erica. You've got a full day tomorrow. Miss Enola's hairdresser will be here by eight.”

“What's that got to do with me?”

“Oh, he'll definitely want to meet you before he sees Miss Enola.” Fredericks smiled thinly and looked down at her patient. “The gray is starting to show. A girl's got to look her best, doesn't she?”

* * * *

I ran into him the next morning as he got off the elevator.

He was in his forties with a salt-and-pepper Caesar haircut, which I thought a little passé but what do I know, and had a face that belonged on the cover of a romance novel. He wore a muscle shirt under a black leather suit and cockroach-killer ostrich cowboy boots with silver tips on the toes.

“You must be the new girl,” he said, his eyes darting all over my head. “I'm Wayne. May I?”

He reached out and touched my hair.

“Too much time at the beach, you naughty thing,” he said, “but by applying heroic measures, I think I can make you presentable. What's your name again?”

“The New Girl,” I said. He looked a little confused, so I said, “Actually it's Erica.”

Fredericks appeared by magic again and took him by the elbow. “Not too chic, Wayne. You know Miss Enola's preferences.”

“Freds, my sweet, say no more—I am as patient as a Galapagos tortoise. And don't worry that magnificent brain of yours about my being too flamboyant with your new helot's pretty blonde head. Elegant restraint is my very métier. Too chic? Mais non! Just chic enough to make all those skinny weathergirls on TV sick with envy.”

“You can turn it off, Wayne. I think Erica gets the point,” Fredericks said. She looked at me and said, “He only acts this way around us. In front of Miss Enola he's as dignified as the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Spoil my fun, Freds,” he said. “Now not a word, Erica. I have my orders. Come with me.”

He dragged me to Miss Enola's bathroom, twice the size of mine and containing everything a hairdresser needed, including a barber chair and one of those weird sinks with a curved brim to prevent cricking your neck when you're bent backwards over it.

“Sit!” All the fey posturing was gone.

He talked as he washed my hair, he talked as he snipped my flaxen locks, he talked as he applied highlights, and I don't remember a word except that I learned his last name was Pelletier and he was from Baton Rouge, whereas Miss Enola was from St. Tammany Parish. I don't think he expected me to remember any of it—he just wanted me relaxed, and that was how he made sure I was. It was like listening to your favorite voice on the radio with your eyes closed. I was in heaven as his strong fingers massaged my wet scalp, as he firmly but gently moved my head during the cut, and when he applied the stiff-bristled brush for the blow-dry with the artistry of a van Gogh daubing a canvas.

He said he'd make me presentable. Presentable? Ha. I looked dazzling. I'm not really used to being dazzling, so frankly it made me a little nervous at first, but not for long. Later, when I found out how much Wayne charged, I nearly gagged. Luckily, I wasn't expected to pay.

I wasn't ready to take on the Tesla by myself, so I drove Rhonda instead. Even so, I was in a funny mood when I showed up at MTRG. But that's not why I wound up trashing the reputation of Adrian Tabi, a guy I hadn't even met before getting into the elevator, to his really angry corporate receptionist ex-girlfriend. That was the sultry Adrian's own fault, as far as I was concerned. Too gorgeous for his own good.

* * * *

After making good my escape from Century City, I made it back just in time to wash up for lunch, yum, parmesan-crusted oat bread sandwiches with sliced avocado, red onion, alfalfa sprouts, and homemade mayonnaise.

Miss Enola looked sternly at my new ‘do but said nothing. I'd already noticed that she was pretty miserly when it came to praise, especially regarding appearance, but maybe she thought the new cut was too much. I mean, Wayne hadn't really shown the restraint he said he would.

She avoided discussing business while we ate, just like she'd done over our dinner with Nicki, but after Fredericks cleared the table, we talked and I told her what I'd been up to. The food must have put her in a good mood because she was almost merry, if not being as brusque as a prison matron is merry.

“I hope that in the future, you won't depend on serendipitous encounters in elevators to obtain investigative results,” she said.

“Yeah, I admit it was nothing more than dumb luck running into that guy from Lloyd's, but as they say, audentis fortuna iuvat," I said, exhausting my repertoire of Latin proverbs.

Miss Enola slowly blinked. I could tell I had shocked her to her innermost core.

“'Fortune favors the bold.’ Virgil. Wherever did you hear that, my dear?”

“From my acting teacher at Fresno State,” I replied. “She used it to encourage us to put everything we had into our performances.”

“I believe it was Stanislavsky who observed that a whisper can be as effective as a shout. There is nothing more tedious than a ham actor.”

Whatever.

“Now tell me why you didn't speak to anyone but the insurance man and the unfortunate nymphet.”

“Well, Adrian was there for the same reason I was. I didn't want to tip my hand.”

She pursed her lips. “That shows an unexpected discretion, Erica. Misplaced, perhaps, but nevertheless I approve. What are your plans for the afternoon?”

I was expecting her to give me some more orders, but I guess not. “The only other place to ask about the boat is at the marina. Maybe I should head over there.”

She nodded. “Yes, I think you should. And, Erica—take the Tesla this time.”

What was she, psychic?

* * * *

With a horde of butterflies trying to crawl up inside my chest from my tummy, I drove the Tesla to the Santa Monica Freeway, flew to the San Diego Freeway, headed south, and took the Marina Freeway all the way to where it terminated at Lincoln. Then I slowly cruised into Marina del Rey. I'd driven by there before, but I'd never gone in.

The marina isn't just a place where people keep boats. It's a self-contained neighborhood, like the Malibu Colony or Little Tokyo. Aside from all the boat slips, the place consists of exclusive multistory condos, expensive eateries, and even an upscale shopping mall. The sort of folks I wanted to talk to, though, wouldn't be dressed in cashmere sweaters and Italian shoes. More likely they'd be in coveralls and old tennies.

What's the last thing you do before you take off on a long road trip? You gas up the tank. If you're really conscientious, you'll take the old jalopy in for an oil change and check the tires too. I figured that if somebody was going to abscond in a hundred-foot yacht, they'd want to fill ‘er up first and make sure the boat was in Bristol fashion. If the good ship Chengfeng was off to some faraway destination, there was one place I could probably find out about it—Royal Landing, the only fuel dock in the marina, and which also incidentally operates the facility where the few superyachts are berthed.

Fueling was done at the very end of the pier, where a ramp led down to the floating fuel docks. A man was there pumping diesel into a big sailboat.

There are times when you want to seem something you aren't when you interview someone, and times when you want to be straight upfront. It depends on the circumstances and who you're talking to. One look at Marshall (last name unknown, as it was not stitched on his shirt) down on the dock below told me not to get cute. Late forties; square, muscular carriage; grizzled as only somebody who makes his living in the raw sunlight can be; economical of movement. A tough guy, but not a mean one. I sauntered down.

“Hi.”

He squinted at me. “What can I do for you?”

“I hope you can help me with some information. My name is Erica Wooding. I'm a private detective—” I flashed my license. “—working for a woman whose husband is missing, and I'm trying to find him. He was on the crew of a superyacht that was berthed around here, had a Chinese name—”

"Chengfeng. Means ‘to ride the fair wind,’ to make the most out of an opportunity. Better name for a windjammer than a motor yacht, you ask me. People usually don't. What's his name, this missing crewman?”

“Ray Zielinski.”

He scowled and regarded me with suspicion. “I ask because you're not the first person come around here with questions about that boat.There were two guys in dark suits and sunglasses. I don't know who they were and I didn't like it.”

“I don't know about that, and I don't care, and it probably has nothing to do with me anyway. I heard the company that owns the boat may be having trouble with the government, but that's not my job. Zielinski, the guy I'm looking for, is the steward on the yacht, and before his wife Melita hired us, I didn't even know there was such a job. Frankly, I don't care about the boat or the owners or anybody else, only him. The thing is that I heard it got underway unexpectedly, and I think he's on it.”

He nodded. “Yep. I know Ray. Good guy, ex-Navy snipe like me. Missing, you say?”

“His wife hasn't heard from him for several days, and says it's not like him.”

Marshall nodded again. “He's the reliable kind, all right. I've met Melita. Seems like a nice lady. Wish I could help, but I have no idea where Chengfeng was headed, or exactly what time she got underway, except that it must have been in the wee hours when nobody was around to see it. She's been gone about three days, and she topped off the day before leaving. Cruises at nineteen knots, but if she puts a bone in her teeth she can do twenty-four. She could be anywhere within a thousand miles.”

“Anything unusual in her preparations for the trip? I mean, she didn't just get up and leave, did she?”

“Just the usual,” he said. Then he paused. “Except for one thing, probably doesn't help much, though. Herb Holloway, he's the engineer, had her LM-200 tanks replenished, which seemed a little odd.”

I had no idea what an LM-200 tank was, but anything a little odd might mean a whole lot. “Did you do that for him?”

He laughed. “Hell, no. The fire suppression company did it at the factory. Anybody else screws with the system and there goes the warranty.”

“Oh, right. I don't suppose you remember which fire suppression company?”

“Sure. Sea-Spark.”

“Maybe they can help me. Thanks, Marshall.” I walked back up the ramp, turned and waved, and Marshall waved back. Then I left.

Only I wasn't alone.

I wasn't sure I was being followed so I got off the Marina Freeway at Centinela to make sure. I cruised up to Washington Boulevard, turned right, and they were still with me. Two guys in a huge, honkin’ maroon Dodge Ram pickup truck with no front plate—that's illegal in California, so it wasn't a good sign.

When I got to Culver City, I got back on the 405 and headed up to the 10. They stayed with me, and now there was no doubt.

Now what?

Then, right before I got downtown, the truck blew past me, missing me by inches, its slipstream violently buffeting my car and nearly making me lose control, then peeled off into the exit lane to the northbound Pasadena Freeway so I couldn't follow. At first I was really pissed off, but then the post-adrenaline jitters set in. What if I'd wrecked the Tesla?

What if I'd been killed?

* * * *

Miss Enola sat behind her desk, her fingers steepled and her eyes closed. I was still a little jangly. I took several deep breaths to calm myself and sat down across from her.

Without opening her eyes, she said, “Well?”

So I filled her in, word for word and event for event. She didn't move the entire time. After I shut up, I waited.

Finally the bird-bright eyes opened, and pinned me to the spot like an insect on a card.

“Do you know what Marshall meant by calling himself a ‘snipe'?”

“I don't know, guttersnipe? Though why anybody'd call himself that is beyond me.”

“I'd say he meant another species of snipe entirely.”

“Okay,” I said, not getting it but afraid to say so.

“About the unknown persons asking questions, the ones Marshall didn't like. Do you think they might have been the SEC? Or perhaps federal marshals?”

“No, I don't. Feds always identify themselves and flash their credentials when they're investigating, unless they're deep undercover. Undercover cops don't get noticed at all. So whoever it was probably wasn't official. I'm thinking they were probably the same cretins who followed me.”

“Hmm. But let's get back to the investigation of the yacht. Is there anything else?”

I shrugged. “I'd like to know exactly when she left her slip, but I don't see how.”

“Have you considered making an inquiry of the Coast Guard?”

Oops. I should have thought of that. They might not know anything, but on the other hand, maybe they did. A boat the size of Chengfeng isn't exactly inconspicuous. “I guess I'd better, huh.”

“Leave that to me,” she said. “I can probably learn more with a single phone call than you can trying to ingratiate yourself with callow sailors.”

“I'm not that kind of a girl, Miss Enola.”

“I didn't mean to suggest that you were.” So much for sarcasm.

I stood up to go back to my room.

“Erica.”

I turned back to face her.

“Your hair is lovely.”

I really hate that, when someone I'm irritated with says something nice. All that perfectly good self-righteous indignation wasted.

* * * *

After dinner, which was risotto with butternut squash, leeks, and basil, followed by poached pears in a Pinot Grigio-cinnamon sauce for dessert, Miss Enola got down to business.

“Have you had any luck with the Sea-Spark lead, Erica?”

Uh-oh. “I'm afraid I haven't quite gotten around to it, Miss Enola.”

“Then don't bother. According to my sources, Sea-Spark went out of business six months ago.”

“But that means they couldn't have replenished the tanks.”

“Quite. Furthermore, my query to the U.S. Coast Guard was not without results. At 3:36 a.m. on the morning she got underway, Chengfeng was heard to advise a southbound merchant vessel in the San Pedro Channel off Santa Monica Bay that she would turn right and pass across its stern. This suggests very strongly that the yacht was heading out into the open ocean. Rather suggestive, I think.”

Suggestive of what? But I wasn't going to admit I wasn't following. “But still no sign of her?”

“None. There's nothing more we can do in that regard for the time being. Our next move, however, is glaringly self evident.”

Luckily, she didn't keep me long in suspense.

“We must confirm that Chengfeng's assistant engineer is a smoker.”

That was so glaringly self-evident, I don't know why I didn't think of it myself, other than the fact that it seemed completely off the wall. “Miss Enola, correct me if I'm wrong, but we haven't heard anything to suggest that there even is an assistant engineer. How can you know if he exists, let alone that he smokes?”

“You gave me the data yourself, Erica, although I could be wrong. I hope I am. If not, I may have good reason to ring CUS in Little Creek, Virginia, something I'd prefer to avoid—but that will have to wait. We'll know more presently.”

I guess I'd gotten a little used to her being cryptic, because I let that last part slide, but not the first part.

“Cus? Who's that?”

“The United States Navy, child. Don't forget to look into the Chengfeng's assistant engineer's filthy habits tomorrow. It's important. I eagerly await whatever unconventional stratagem you devise for finding out.”

* * * *

My stratagem was about as unconventional as ordering a side of fries and a Coke with a Big Mac. Marshall might know if Holloway had an assistant, so after breakfast, off I toodled to Marina del Rey again in the Tesla. There wasn't anybody at the fueling dock this time, so I went into the Royal Landing shop, which was pretty much the maritime equivalent of the convenience store at some small interstate truck stop, except that it also sold bait.

The clerk on duty was the kind of Hollywood Peter Pan—more pretty than handsome, with the requisite three days’ stubble on his chin. If he'd been a waiter in a Melrose restaurant, I would have pegged for a struggling young actor. He was dressed in khaki cargo pants and a white polo shirt with a Royal Landing logo on the left breast, above which was stitched “Brent.” Sometimes I think they're all named Brent. Or Cody.

“Hi,” I said. “Have you seen Marshall around?”

“Lucky Marshall.” He grinned, cocking his head to one side. I guess he thought that must be adorable. “He's got the day off. But maybe I can help.”

“I was told to ask for Marshall, but all right. Do you sell cigarettes here?”

The smile faltered a little. “Sure.”

“Oh my God, not for me! Remember that big motor yacht that left four or five days ago? The Chengfeng?"

“Oh, yeah. Hard to miss.”

“Maybe you remember a guy who worked on board who came in here to buy cigarettes. The assistant engineer?”

The smile was replaced by a puzzled frown. The poor dude was trying hard to think, but I don't think he was getting very far. “What's this about?”

Time to pull out the charm. I applied the old giggle-and-wiggle, which is something I really hate to do, but I had to get down to this guy's level if I was going to get anywhere.

“I don't know if I should tell you,” I said. “You're probably going to think it's really stupid.”

The smile came back in full force. He seemed to like stupid, oversexed girls.

“Let me be the judge of that,” he said, suddenly all sophistication.

I shrugged. “Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. About a week ago this guy hits on me and my girlfriend in the bar at Vu?” This is about the chichiest restaurant in the marina, which I certainly couldn't afford even if I hung out in bars, but Brent wouldn't know that. He was more your imported-beer bistro type. “He's like getting totally hammered and he's all, “I work on this awesome boat, wanna check it out?’ Like we're going to leave with a guy like him. Anyway, he says he's stepping out for a cigarette, and Becca, she's my friend, she bets he's a Marlboro Lights man, but I think he's like more, pretentious? So I go, “He's probably lighting up a Sherman's or something.’ She says no way, and now there's a round of Cosmos on it.”

“What if you're both wrong?”

I giggled again. “Then I guess the bet's off.”

“Sorry. Camels.”

I looked skeptical. “Are you sure we're talking about the same guy?”

“Clint Roland, the assistant engineer on the Chengfeng. Buys ‘em by the carton.”

“Oh,” I said, crestfallen. I shrugged. “She probably won't believe me.”

“Tell you what. Vu's a little out of my league, but I know a great little place in Santa Monica, no cover and they make a killer Cosmopolitan. I could meet you and Becca there and she could hear it from me.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“Why don't you give me your number? I can call and give you directions.”

The moron hadn't even asked my name yet and already he was trying to get my phone number.

“Sure.” He gave me a blue Bic and a scratch pad and I scribbled down an alias and the number to a gay escort service I had memorized for just such an occasion.

“Jeri,” he read. “Cute name! I'm Brent.” Like I couldn't read, but then again, most of the girls this guy hit on probably couldn't. He grinned. “Call you tonight?”

“Kewl!” I fluttered my fingers at him in farewell and bounced out. Pinhead.

I didn't worry too much about my humiliation after leaving, though. On my way out of the marina, I was followed again, and this time it wasn't the humongoid truck.

* * * *

Note to file: It's just about impossible to lose a tail in Los Angeles when you're driving an exotic sports car. The Tesla has an advertised max speed of a hundred and twenty-five mph, but try finding a clean stretch anywhere in town where you can push it past forty-five for more than five seconds. The traffic is just too congested. And the Tesla isn't exactly what you'd call inconspicuous.

Not that it would have helped even if I'd been able to open her up because, as it turned out, my shadow could have topped one fifty. (Later I learned it was a 650i model BMW coupe. I figured I'd better learn something about makes and models if this was to become a common occurrence.) It had illegally tinted front windows, which usually means some undercover cop or gangsta at the wheel—somebody who doesn't want to be recognized. No such thing as a legit unmarked police Beamer, not given budget shortfalls and the heart attack-inducing size of the sticker. Gangbangers got the cash, but they prefer rides that can seat more than two homies—extra firepower for when they pepper the tract homes of their rivals’ moms. So I had absolutely zero idea who it was. But this time, I had a plan.

Instead of getting off the 405 onto the 10 and heading directly back to the McKinley Building, I kept going north and exited the freeway at Sunset. Lots of twisty residential streets in the neighborhoods around there, you see. But then I had second thoughts. If I didn't lose the rolling surveillance right away in the suburban labyrinth, he'd definitely figure out I was onto him.

So Plan B: Find a public parking structure with more than one exit. A mall would be perfect. There I'd have a couple of options. I could probably shake him or I could park the car and pretend to go shopping. Maybe he'd follow me on foot as I walked into the mall, and then I might be able to identify him. If he didn't get out of his car, I could ditch the Tesla, take to the sidewalk and catch a bus—didn't think he'd expect that—or I could start the whole merry chase all over again, maybe heading up into the Hollywood Hills for a spin on Mulholland.

Since I had already gotten off the San Diego Freeway, the Galleria in Sherman Oaks was out. That left Beverly Center in West Hollywood.

He kept with me past the winding rollercoaster heights of Bel-Air and the flat civilized stretch of Beverly Hills, all the way to the gaudy club-strewn Strip, discreetly keeping his distance, and followed me when I turned south on La Cienega. I still hadn't made up my mind what I was going to do when I arrived at the mall. I drove in, keeping half an eye open for a space.

Luck was with me. By the time the BMW could follow me in, I had slipped the noose. He'd have to search all eight floors to find me. I wouldn't be there.

I exited and headed west on Beverly Boulevard, doubling back toward Beverly Hills, then turned left on Doheny Drive and scooted down to Wilshire. From there I leisurely ambled downtown, as free and footloose as a Venice Beach sidewalk skater. I was pleased with myself: Erica H. Wooding, P.I., sexy and tough and smart, and completely at ease in a completely bitchin’ sports car. Take that, ye minions of darkness.

Wrong. By the time I got to the McKinley's garage, he had already parked in a guest spot and was waiting for me. Different suit, same lustrous black hair and wide shoulders. He leaned his tight buns against the back of the Beamer, arms across his chest, and watched as I parked in my reserved space.

I stepped out of the car and stared at him staring at me. Finally he shifted off the car onto his feet and dropped his arms to his side.

“You could have just told me that you were a private investigator yourself instead of giving me that song and dance about coffee with a girlfriend,” he said.

“So you looked up my license with Consumer Affairs,” I said. “Maybe I should be flattered, but I don't think so. I shouldn't have given you my real name.”

This was met with a short, sarcastic laugh. “So you really are Erica Wooding—good to know. But it wasn't your license I looked up, honey. It was the license plate on the Tesla—amazing what you can do with a smartphone and a good app, even in traffic. Registered to Fowler Investigations.”

“The Fowler Investigative Analysis Team,” I corrected him.

“Whatever you say. It might have occurred to you that we're on the same side.”

“Really? I thought we were rivals.”

“What for? I'm on salary, get paid either way—and I'm ineligible for the reward, because I work for the company offering it. So I won't stand in your way. Hell, I might even help you collect.”

“What reward?” I asked, as nonchalantly as I could.

“The two hundred fifty grand for finding the Chengfeng, as if you didn't know. But even if you didn't, you can bet your precious Miss Enola does. How else do you think she pays for that penthouse?”

Now this was a very good question, but when embarrassed I'm least likely to back down. Sexy and tough and smart? Yeah, got that covered, but only when I'm not being sticky and stubborn and stupid.

“If you think that, you don't know Miss Enola,” I said, which of course was probably more true of me than of him. At least he'd heard of her.

He shrugged. “Forget about it. What I want to know is why you lied. And also what you said to that Aussie tart Rachel. Whatever it was, she told everybody else at MTRG and suddenly it was like I had the plague.”

“My heart bleeds. But I'll bet you already know all about tarts,” I said, with astonishing originality and sparkling wit. “I don't suppose you'd consider what you did to her as taking advantage.” Great. Now I was defending Rachel's all-too-easy virtue.

“Listen, I asked Rachel out because I wanted to question her about the yacht, and the next thing I know she's on me like a leopard on a wounded wildebeest. So yeah, maybe I should have done the noble thing and turned her down. So I didn't call her the next day, sue me. She's not the kind of girl you call the next day. I have more respect for myself than that.”

“Respect? Really.” I shook my head in disgusted wonderment. “That's so, so like a guy.”

“Hey. You don't know me at all. The biggest difference between men and women is that women think they understand men. Men know they don't understand women.”

“Then why do you care what I told Rachel?”

“Never mind. You're right. This is getting us nowhere. But I was serious when I said we're on the same side, so listen up. I know who made the Chengfenggo missing.”

“What? Who?”

“Here's a hint. There's an eight-million-dollar insurance policy on the boat and a four-million-dollar life policy on Oliver Long. Guess who took them out?”

The life insurance policy might be for Long's mother as far as I knew, but there was only one party I could think of that would insure the yacht. “MTRG?”

“Very good. And guess who owns MTRG.”

I knew the answer to that one, if I could remember the name. Rachel's arrogant ratbag blobhead. No, wait, Adrian was supposed to be the ratbag, so just the blobhead. Mr. Blank Blobhead Blank . . . in a flash I had it. I'm not always slow and stupid. “Colin Pippinger.”

He gave me a coyote smile. “Colin. Pippinger. So do we go talk to Miss Enola?”

If we really knew who and the why (money, apparently, big surprise), thehowcouldn't be far behind. I wasn't too sure about the most important question as far as the FIAT was concerned, though, which was where. But Miss Enola had an idea about that, didn't she? The one she was going to call the Navy about.

“Let's go,” I said. “Be warned, though. She can get—”

“Crotchety. Yeah, I heard.”

Don't you hate being interrupted? I pulled out my new smartphone and speed-dialed the office. Fredericks answered with a flat “FIAT” instead of saying “hello” or anything normal, but I could be terse too.

“I'm bringing in Adrian Tabi.”

“Please hold.”

A few seconds later Miss Enola picked up the line. “That will be satisfactory, Erica.”

* * * *

“In short, your theory is that the boat was stolen and Oliver Long kidnapped and murdered at the behest of this man Pippinger for an insurance payoff,” Miss Enola said. “Very interesting. How do you suggest they dispose of the yacht?”

“I've got a theory about that too,” Adrian said. He sat in the middle chair between Fredericks and me, his left ankle on his right knee, as relaxed as a team owner lounging in a stadium luxury box. “I'll bet you didn't know that the SEC has evidence that MTRG may have been laundering money for a Mexican drug cartel, but that they quit that line when they started attracting attention. You don't walk away from a deal like that without consequences. It occurs to me that Chengfeng, probably under a new name, wouldn't get a second glance in Acapulco or Cabo San Lucas—handing it over to a drug lord would appease the cartel and make the boat fall off the radar. I've heard you're well connected. I suggest you get your friends at the DEA to look into it. And have the Coast Guard look for Long's body. It's almost certain to wash up somewhere along the Mexican coast.”

Miss Enola treated him to a frosty smile. “I'm afraid you overestimate me.”

Fredericks's phone chirped and she put it to her ear. “FIAT.” Pause. She lowered it to her lap and addressed Miss Enola. “The U.S. Navy on line one.”

Adrian grinned. “Really?”

“Please excuse me, Mr. Tabi,” Miss Enola said, reaching for her headset.

Adrian seemed reluctant to stand until Miss Enola raised an eyebrow at him. Then he got up, smoothed his trousers, submissively nodded, and walked out of the room.

I started to stand up myself so I could keep an eye on him, but Miss Enola motioned me back down. She shot a glance at Fredericks, who discreetly acknowledged the unspoken order and followed him. Miss Enola put the headset on and tapped the keyboard.

“Hello, Commander,” she said. “Thank you for returning my call. . . . Yes, I have reason to believe it was caused by a massive explosion on board a large yacht. . . . I shouldn't think so. The yacht, or what was left of it, almost certainly would have sunk, but there's bound to be flotsam and jetsam. . . . Somewhere along a course between Los Angeles and Hilo. . . . I have already confirmed that it had scheduled to be refueled there but missed the rendezvous and hasn't been heard from since. . . . Thank you. I look forward to it.”

She tapped the keyboard again and removed the headset.

“The Chengfeng blew up?” I asked.

“So it would appear.”

“That's terrible.”

“It is, but that isn't all, I'm afraid.”

I'd say that usually Miss Enola has a poker face like an Easter Island monument, but this time I could actually see her expression switch tracks. She tapped the keyboard again, and Fredericks brought Adrian back in.

“You have provided me with several interesting leads, young man,” she said. “I'm grateful. Fredericks will see you out. You may rest assured that you will hear from me soon.”

“Like I said, we're on the same side,” Adrian replied. He beamed at her and then he beamed at me and then he beamed at Fredericks and then he left.

Miss Enola gazed off into thin air for a second and then said, “I'm glad you decided to keep your own car, Erica. How did you enjoy being shadowed by Adrian Tabi?”

“About as much as a root canal.”

“How would you like to return the favor?”

* * * *

Before I left, Miss Enola reminded me to get the Nikon D3X out of the Tesla's trunk and take it with me, since she wanted pictures. That was good, because I had no idea it was even there. Now, this is a slightly better camera than the one in my smartphone, the same way that the Koh-i-Noor is a slightly better rock than a piece of gravel stuck in your shoe. It was in one of those fancy aluminum cases with a bunch of different lenses and other accessories stowed in black, shockproof foam plastic, but I was still deathly afraid of dropping it when I lifted it out.

Rhonda is not quite as conspicuous as a fire-engine-red Tesla, but even so, woodies aren't exactly the rage these days, so I wanted to be well back when Adrian exited the parking garage in his Beamer. As it turned out, I don't think he even bothered to check his rearview mirror. People with fast cars are often like that. It's like anything behind them is unworthy of notice.

It would make the job a lot easier if every time you tailed somebody, he took you directly to something interesting. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way.

Remember how I told Miss Enola that I didn't do divorce work? This is not because of any ethical qualms on my part. There are people going through divorces who are victims and can really use the help of somebody like me. But it's not on my menu because either it's too exciting, or it's too boring. First of all, by the time an unhappy couple gets to the hiring a private investigator stage, one or both of them have gone crazier than honey-bucket rats and will do deranged things with all the restraint of rabid wolverines, like destroy valuable cameras or attack private eyes’ cars with sledgehammers. But more commonly, one of them is trying to hide something from the other, usually an affair or a large sum of money squirreled away somewhere safe, and they can get very, very sly about it. The P.I. is hired to dig it up. That means hour upon hour of lethally dull surveillance, usually over several weeks, for a five-minute payoff. Pays the bills great, but majorly sedates the brain, not to mention the never-ending fun in the sleep deprivation department.

Such is direct surveillance in all its manifestations. And so it was being close on Adrian's heels. The first day was a bust—the office, dinner and a beer at Karl Strauss in Universal City Walk, home again to a nice apartment in Los Feliz. The next day, more of the same, but dinner at the Pacific Dining Car downtown instead. So I learned he didn't cook. Hurray.

On the third day as I waited for something to happen, by now feeling pretty confident it wouldn't, I mentally went over what I'd learned about the case. In particular, I was trying to figure out what Miss Enola obviously knew that I didn't.

The Chengfengassistant engineer's bad habits. Nothing.

The Navy. What was that about? Search and Rescue at sea is the Coast Guard's job, so it wasn't that. Maybe it had something to do with Ray Zielinski's service record, but if that was the case, what did somewhere between L.A. and Hilo, Hawaii, have to do with it? Wait a minute. Adrian was a Pacific Islander, so he was probably Hawaiian himself. Was that important?

Then there he was, driving out of the lot. A little early for lunch. I put Rhonda in drive and slipped into traffic. He was headed for the Westside, maybe even the marina again. Okay, this could be interesting.

But he wasn't going to the marina. It was a bowling alley on Venice Boulevard in Mar Vista.

A bowling alley?

I weighed the factors—Adrian Tabi, bowling alley, Adrian Tabi, bowling alley—nah. It didn't seem right. You probably think it's pathetic that I could get excited about a guy going into a bowling alley. But anything out of the ordinary can be significant. Adrian Tabi renting bowling shoes? This I had to see.

I parked, luckily finding a rare open meter halfway down the block from the bowling alley, and regarded myself in the vanity mirror on the visor. Wayne's beautiful cut went into a ponytail, cascading out the back of a pink Dodgers ball cap above the adjustable sizing band. I had on a dark orange T-shirt and black jeans faded to charcoal, nothing very distinctive, so as long as I kept my distance, I hoped Adrian wouldn't even notice me. Not much of a disguise, I admit. I needed something more.

A girl should never be without her compact, especially if she's a private eye. I don't wear much makeup as a rule, and then not very often, but you'd be amazed at how a deft stroke here and there can improve one's appearance—that is, if you think being made up like a drag queen is an improvement. It's all a matter of context: If it keeps me from being recognized, then you bet it's an improvement. For it to work, though, it's important to get the shades all wrong. Glittery blue eye shadow (ugh), a brown eyebrow pencil, and some red lip liner to alter the appearance of the shape of my mouth, and presto, I was set.

The final touch was posture. You have to be careful here because usually when people try to disguise the way they move, they overdo it and look false. Luckily, part of what I had learned back in my acting classes was how to pretend to be someone else. So instead of standing tall with my shoulders back and charging in like I owned the place, I slouched a little and sort of shuffled.

Adrian had only seen the confident, tasteful Erica. He might not recognize the insecure, painted Jezebel version. No way I could bring the Nikon in with me without people noticing, so I did the next best thing. I pulled out my smartphone and pretended to be texting like mad, oblivious to the world, when what I really was doing was using the camera.

I stood near the entrance and saw Adrian sitting at the snack bar with two men. They looked like they could have been bikers if they'd been dressed differently, only they were wearing blue workmen's utilities instead of denim and leather. One was in his forties, slim and weasely with slicked-back dark hair and large teeth. The other was a huge, carroty redhead with a gut like a propane tank, his mouth covered by a bushy moustache over a long beard and his hair pulled back in a ponytail. They appeared to be not very happy with Adrian. I snapped a couple of shots and retreated.

When I got back to Rhonda, I called the office. Fredericks answered per usual and put Miss Enola on the line. I briefly told her where I was and e-mailed the photos to her.

“Erica, drop Mr. Tabi and pick up the red-haired man,” she said.

“Can you tell me what's going on?”

“We will know very soon. The dark-haired man is Herbert Holloway—don't bother with him. He will be very easy to find again.”

“So who's the redhead?”

“All I have at present is a supposition, but I suspect he is Ray Zielinski.”

"What?"

“Do not let him get away without finding out where he is going.”

“But he doesn't look at all like Ray Zielinski.”

“Erica, did you sail into the bowling alley under your own colors?”

I figured out quickly enough what she meant: Was I in disguise. “Not exactly.”

“Well, neither did he.”

“Okay, maybe he didn't. But if he is Ray Zielinski, then we've done our job. The investigation is over.”

I heard her sigh. “Erica, it is in the nature of our work that the initial objective is rarely the final objective.”

“You're the boss. Follow the fat man. Check.”

Adrian left first. I slid down in my seat as he drove past. About five minutes later, the other two emerged and walked to a big maroon pickup truck and climbed in. Holloway was at the wheel.

They headed east toward the San Diego Freeway, turning south on Sawtelle to get to the entrance. They got off at Artesia Boulevard in Torrance and drove east again to where it transformed into the Gardena Freeway before exiting on Lakewood Boulevard. Eventually they pulled in front of a small house in Lakewood, got out of the truck, and went inside.

This time I did use the Nikon, with a telephoto lens big enough to swat baseballs with that I found in the case, and I got some great pics, including the license plate on the truck. I gave them ten minutes to get settled and then drove by to get the number on the house. When I called the office to report my progress, Miss Enola told me to come home. And then she said something else.

“Why don't you call and invite Adrian to dinner tonight, dear? I'm preparing a lovely coconut mango yuba knot curry.”

* * * *

“That was delicious, Miss Enola,” Adrian said. “I feel like a fatted calf.”

There were five of us at the table: Adrian Tabi, Veronica Cross, Fredericks, Miss Enola, and me. Miss Enola was at the head and Adrian sat to her right, next to me. Nicki was on her left and Fredericks directly across from me.

“I am so glad,” Miss Enola replied. “Thank you.Your compliment is particularly apropos. It is customary, after all, to provide a condemned man with an excellent repast before turning him over to the hangman.”

At first we thought she was making some kind of joke. Miss Enola had been gracious all through dinner, witty even, so everybody's first reaction was puzzled smiles at the blatantly poor taste of the gag. After looking at Miss Enola's eyes, though, our smiles slowly faded.

“Excuse me?” Adrian asked, trying to retain his composure.

“I have a confession to make,” Miss Enola said. “I asked Erica to invite you tonight so we could get to the bottom of things. Fredericks, will you kindly serve coffee?”

“Yes, Miss Enola.” Fredericks got up from her chair and went into the kitchen.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Adrian said.

“Of course you do,” Miss Enola said. “I'm talking about your murder of Oliver Long and the crew of the Chengfeng."

Adrian started to stand. “If you have evidence of any murder, you should report it to the police.”

“Sit down, Mr. Tabi.” It had been “Adrian” all through dinner. “You are not playing this at all wisely. The smart thing to do, the thing to do if you wished to deflect suspicion from yourself, would be to stay and listen. Instead, you react with the flight response.”

He slowly sat down again. “You have made an outrageous accusation against me. I don't put up with that kind of insult. If you were a man, I would punch your lights out.”

“Better. It's only fair that you be given the chance to defend yourself.”

“Enola, what's going on?” Nicki asked, her eyes wide.

“I've found Ray Zielinski, Veronica, or rather Erica has.” Adrian shot me a quick hostile look, but otherwise didn't react.

“Oh, my God,” Nicki said. “He's dead.”

“No, Veronica, he is quite alive. Unfortunately, he was one of Mr. Tabi's confederates in the commission of the crime.”

“Never heard of him,” Adrian said.

“Don't be absurd. Mr. Tabi, I give you leave to object to any of my conclusions, but please do not think that you can convince me of anything by bluster or equivocation. Let me tell you what I know, and how I know it, and then you can say whatever you like to refute it.”

“This is all crap. Oh, all right, go ahead.”

“This matter all began with Oliver Long's illegal amassment of an immense personal fortune. He was under investigation by the SEC for insider trading. We may accept his guilt as fact because it was to escape arrest that he fled from the country in the superyacht. In this, all parties are in agreement. But we must ask ourselves why he chose such an unorthodox avenue of escape. Wouldn't it have been simpler and faster to get a flight out of the country?”

“Not if he were on a watch list,” I said.

“Exactly, Erica. The Chengfeng is under Dutch registry. The Netherlands take the strictest view of any nation on earth concerning the territorial sovereignty of vessels under their flag. Unfettered by the security constraints at an airport, Chengfeng's departure from the United States was simply a matter of weighing anchor and leaving. And she was capable of traveling several thousand miles before needing to refuel. What could be better?

“But where would Long go? His first priority would be a safe haven. His second would be the money. At first blush, one would suspect somewhere in the Caribbean or Atlantic—the Caymans or the Bahamas. That would mean going through the Panama Canal, though, where he could be stopped. Besides, Oliver Long was a man of the Pacific Rim, being Chinese.”

“Chinese? Not American?” I asked.

“He had an American education, Erica, but he himself was from Hong Kong. The surname Long is a common Chinese one, meaning “dragon,’ and he had even given the yacht a traditional Chinese name.”

I mentally kicked myself. I had been so busy looking for the boat that I forgot to take a good look at the man.

“Offshore banking is a burgeoning industry in the Pacific,” Miss Enola continued. “Hong Kong has a thriving international banking trade, as does nearby Macao. Several Pacific Island nations have established offshore banking facilities. So on balance, a better option was to head west. This conjecture is supported by the discovery that Chengfeng crossed the San Pedro Channel on her departure instead of entering its southbound lane, as she would have done had she been headed for the canal. The only way her actual course made sense is if she were transiting the open ocean.”

“But even the Chengfeng couldn't hope to cross the whole Pacific Ocean on a single tank,” I said.

“Of course not. Long must refuel somewhere, but this was simple because the only place within reach is Hawaii.”

“But wouldn't he be taking a big risk by refueling in the U.S.?” Nicki asked “He could be arrested.”

“A small risk, rather. If he remained on board and if the yacht refueled at anchor from a barge instead of pierside, most people would never know he'd been there. So I subcontracted an agency in Honolulu to check for any superyachts contracted to be refueled by barge in any Hawaiian ports within the time that Chengfeng might be expected to arrive. As it turned out, such an engagement was made for the port of Hilo on the Big Island. After learning that, the next thing I needed to know was if the yacht would make the rendezvous. I had a strong feeling that it would not.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“You provided the necessary data yourself, Erica. You found out that the LM-200 fire suppression tanks had been replenished.” She pointed to the ceiling at one of the sprinkler heads. “Do you see those nozzles? You would be correct in assuming that they are there to combat a fire should one erupt, but you would be wholly incorrect to assume that they spray water. In fact, they are part of an LM-200 fire suppression system. LM-200 is a suppression agent stored as a liquid but discharged as a gas, designed to immediately extinguish flames without causing water damage. It is the preferred agent for many applications, such as vaults containing precious art, and for ships’ engine compartments.

“The Chengfeng's LM-200 tanks were replenished, most likely replaced. Why?”

“The stuff must have been past its sell-by date,” Adrian said, smirking.

“Nonsense. It is entirely stable and does not require replacement at any interval unless it is used. The only reason for changing the tanks would be to prevent the system from putting out a fire. But that is a rather baroque method for disabling the suppression system, since it could have been done by any number of less detectable means, and makes little sense—unless whatever substance replacing the agent was itself designed to actually exacerbate the problem.”

She looked up at the sprinkler heads again. “I told you that LM-200 was discharged as a gas. There are other agents that are discharged as a fine spray, like gasoline through a fuel injector in an internal combustion engine. What if the LM-200 were replaced by something as volatile as gasoline?”

“Uh-oh. It would turn the whole engine room into one big bomb,” I said. “It would still need something to spark it, though.”

“Precisely. Something like a cigarette, my dear,” Miss Enola said. “The tanks were replaced by Herbert Holloway, the engineer, who could be safely numbered among the conspirators. He would have a plan, something simple. What if he knew his assistant would provide the spark himself?”

“So you asked me to find out if the assistant engineer was a smoker.”

“Correct.”

“That's crazy,” Adrian said. “You decide the ship exploded because you guessed somebody liked to smoke? How could you know he'd light up? How would you get the system to discharge even if he did? It only goes off if there's an actual fire.”

“There are any number of means of forcing it to discharge, Mr. Tabi. Such systems have manual releases—one of them could have been tampered with. I'm sure you came up with an elegant solution. An infrared sensor designed to trip the system at the flick of a lighter would be very simple to install.”

“Then why didn't the Chengfeng blow up in Santa Monica Bay, the first time the guy lit up?”

“Because the sensor wasn't activated. It would be configured to some other device, perhaps a timer, to make sure that the explosion occurred far away from likely observation. Personally, I like the idea of it being activated by GPS when Chengfeng would be safely in the middle of the ocean.”

“More unsupported guesswork.”

“Nevertheless, let us accept it as an hypothesis. If true, then Holloway would have needed help setting it up. Hence my reference to him as a conspirator, since he couldn't have accomplished it on his own. I would guess, for example, that the nozzles required replacing to effectively distribute the aerated gasoline or whatever replaced the LM-200. A time-consuming task. Obviously, he couldn't enlist Clint Roland, the assistant engineer, who was intended to be a victim. So to whom else might he turn? Again, Erica provided the answer.”

“I did?”

“Do you remember what Marshall said about Ray Zielinski? “Good guy, ex-Navy snipe like me.’ Snipe, Erica, is Navy slang for engineer. Who else better to assist Holloway in his crime?

“This also explained a discrepancy regarding Zielinski's disappearance. Melita told Victoria that her husband had been missing for five days, but Marshall informed Erica that the yacht had been gone for only three. So either his disappearance wasn't related to the yacht at all, or it was more complex than his simply having been on board when she got underway. If he was Holloway's helper, the last thing he would want was to be aboard when it went to sea, and that meant he would have to be unreachable before the yacht got underway.

“I suspect what he wanted, aside from money, was to get out of his marriage. His wife is a Filipina, and traditional Filipinos have strong family ties. When a man marries into such a family, he is not taking his bride away from her parents. In effect, he is marrying not only her, but also her parents, and her brothers and sisters, and even her cousins—he is expected to provide what he can to the entire clan.”

“So he deserted her. That son of a bitch,” Nicki said.

“Where's your evidence?” Adrian asked.

“Thank you, Mr. Tabi, we are coming to that. The test of an hypothesis is made by observing if its predicted results occur. If the boat were to blow up, the hypothesis would be validated.”

“But nobody would know about it if it happened in the middle of the ocean, because there wouldn't be anybody around to see it. The fact that the yacht never made it to Hawaii doesn't prove anything.”

“Nobody would see it. But that doesn't mean that somebody wouldn't hear it.”

“That makes even less sense.”

“Only because I presume you are unfamiliar with the Integrated Undersea Surveillance System, the U.S. Navy's worldwide network for tracking hostile submarines. Its primary component is acoustic. If there is an explosion at sea, especially anywhere close enough to our coastline to be a possible strategic threat, the Navy is virtually certain to know about it.”

“Sounds like science fiction. Anyway, that sort of thing is so highly classified that they wouldn't tell you squat, even if they did know about it.”

“You show a lack of understanding as to the nature of intelligence apparatuses, Mr. Tabi. They collect information, so the way to deal with them is to offer information. I accordingly contacted CUS, the office of Commander, Undersea Surveillance, and told them I could explain the mysterious explosion they detected in the middle of the Eastern Pacific. If I were wrong, they would ignore me and write me off as a crackpot. But if I were right, then I was in possession of data they needed, and I would certainly hear from them right away.

“As I did. You yourself were present when I received the call. By the way, via aerial surveillance, they have subsequently found exactly where Chengfeng sank. You destroyed the vessel, but you could do nothing about the fragments of the wreck floating on the surface. The weather has been particularly fine in the Eastern Pacific lately, and it was all still there.”

He clenched his jaws. “All right. Maybe you're right about the Chengfeng. But it doesn't have anything to do with me.”

“Then why has almost everything you've told us about the case been a lie? For example, you let Erica believe that MTRG was the beneficiary of the insurance policy on the yacht. The yacht was leased, Mr. Tabi, as you must have known. The beneficiary of the policy would be the owner, not the lessee. And perhaps you might explain why you followed Erica home from Marina del Rey when she was performing a follow-up to our investigation.”

“Easy. I was there following up the matter myself, and I saw her go into the store. I knew as soon as I saw her that our meeting at MTRG hadn't been a coincidence. I needed to find out who she was, so I followed her. It's what any competent P.I. would do.”

Miss Enola shook her head. “You were not there conducting a follow-up. You never investigated the yacht's disappearance in the first place because you already knew what had happened to her. In fact, you directed attention away from what had happened to the yacht, as you were in a perfect position to do as the investigator assigned by Lloyd's America. Erica, do you remember what Marshall told you about someone asking about the yacht before you did?”

“Yeah. He said somebody else had been asking around, and he didn't like it. I knew it wasn't the SEC because federal officers always identify themselves.” I looked at Adrian. “I thought it was the guys in the pickup truck.”

“What pickup truck?” Adrian asked.

“The one that attempted to intimidate Erica after her first visit to the marina, Mr. Tabi, which we've since established belongs to Herbert Holloway. He and Zielinski were staking out the marina after you learned questions had been asked. Somehow, Zielinski and Holloway recognized Erica as a threat. How could that be, unless you were there, too? You saw her, and as you say, realized that your encounter at MTRG was no coincidence. It must have shaken you badly, so you sent them after her to scare her off. But they weren't the men who interrogated Marshall. Marshall knew both Zielinski and Holloway, so whoever asked him about the Chengfeng had to have been someone else.”

“All right. Who?”

“Who else had an interest? Whose money was missing? MTRG's. We know firsthand that Colin Pippinger, the head of MTRG, was inimical to your presence. He must have been conducting his own inquiry. At first, you thought their inquiries had yielded nothing, but to be certain, you and your accomplices kept watch at the marina in case they returned. Instead, Erica showed up. Now you had to worry about her too. So to see if your scare tactic had worked, you waited to see if she would come back. It must have been an unpleasant shock when she did. You accordingly forced a meeting with us to promulgate misinformation.”

This time, Adrian just stared at her.

“Now let's examine the matter of the offshore bank where Long stashed the money. After Hawaii, his only logical destination could be Tahiti; first, because other than North America, it is the only place within Chengfeng's reach after refueling, and secondly because it is in French Polynesia, and France has no extradition treaty with the United States. He would be completely safe there. This suggested to me that his bank might not be in China, but somewhere closer to Tahiti.

“Many Pacific Island nations now have offshore banking industries. Among them, Vanuatu is less than three thousand miles from Tahiti. Not close, but close enough, comparable to the distance between Los Angeles and New York—a five-hour flight. Unlike France, though, Vanuatu does have an extradition treaty with the U.S. If that's where Long put his money, he would need someone else to retrieve it for him, a hidden partner who could travel there and back without arousing suspicion.

“Is it a coincidence, then, that “Tabi’ is a male Vanuatan surname?”

Adrian shook his head. “This is unbelievable.”

“Is it? The destruction of Chengfeng would only be possible if the murderers knew her exact itinerary. And who would have known about it except for Long's partner? You decided to cut Long out of the picture and keep the money for yourself. Holloway and Zielinski would take much smaller slices of the pie than Long.”

“Except that I don't know any Holloway or Zielinski.”

“Drivel. You met them at a bowling alley in Mar Vista this very morning. Erica took your picture.”

Adrian visibly started at this, giving me another venomous glance.

“So you see, I'm afraid we have you.”

He did stand then. He stared down at little Miss Enola and shook his head. “You have absolutely nothing, Miss Enola. No concrete evidence whatsoever tying me to anything. So I know Holloway, and maybe you have him, but that's not nearly enough. I can say that I met him in the pursuit of my investigation. Take this paper-thin story to the cops, and you'll be laughed out of the station.”

Miss Enola then laughed herself. She had such a little voice that you'd think her laugh would be a twitter, but it was full and rich. “Cops? How quaint. I have no intention of taking this to the police, young man. No, the person I informed is the man who so desperately wanted to know about it: Colin Pippinger. He believed every word of it.”

She looked at him with something akin to pity. “Frankly, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. I think he may react unpleasantly. Even violently.”

Adrian rapidly reached behind his back a pulled out a SIG Sauer P229 chambered in .40 caliber S&W. (I might not know a lot about cars, but I got guns covered.) He pointed it at her and then swiveled it toward Nicki and me. “Nobody move and nobody will get hurt. I'm leaving. Now.”

He slowly backed away, then turned and ran to the elevator. The car was already at the top, so all he had to do was open the doors and push the down button. As soon as we heard the doors close, Nicki and I rushed into the vestibule, followed closely by Miss Enola, whose wheels were not as fast as our feet.

Fredericks was already there, standing by the doors. She opened the panel above the call button and flipped a switch inside. The descending elevator's noise abruptly ceased.

“He should be stuck about a third of the way down, Miss Enola,” she said. “As soon as the authorities get here, I'll turn the power back on and they can meet him at the bottom.”

“I presume you got everything said and done in the dining room on video,” Miss Enola said.

“In living high definition. He looked right into the hidden camera without even realizing it.”

“What a fool he is,” Miss Enola said, shaking her head, “believing I would have dealings with a man the likes of Pippinger. Men are such children.”

“Wait a minute. Hidden camera?” I asked. “In the dining room? Where else have you got hidden cameras?”

“Everywhere, dear,” said Miss Enola, “including the garage. How did you think I knew you had ridden the bus to our first meeting?”

“When were you going to tell me?” By now I was turning red. “Everywhere? Even in my bedroom?”

“Only when you aren't using it.” She turned to Nicki. “I should have anticipated the pistol, though heaven knows why he thought he'd need it. Veronica, I trust that you will see to it that the proceeds from the reward will go to Melita Zielinski, less our expenses and fees.”

Finally, she turned back to me.

“Your conduct of the investigation could have been much better, Erica, but as the results are more or less satisfactory, no more need be said.”

More or less satisfactory? I bit my tongue.

She sighed. “Now I think I'll go lie down.”

Let the old biddy go to bed. That way I wouldn't have to look at her.

* * * *

That night, I heard the sobbing again. I pulled my pillow over my ears and tried to go back to sleep, and eventually I dropped off again.

The next morning, when I showed up for breakfast, Fredericks was already at the table with a big pot of black coffee. Without a word, I poured myself a cup and sat down. Fredericks looked like she hadn't had a very good night. Tough.

Her face tensed up as she struggled with a decision. Then she started to talk.

“Let me tell you a story, Erica. Once upon a time, there was a notorious private security firm that was contracted by the federal government to perform their particular services in a foreign nation invaded and occupied by U.S. forces. Most of the employees were big tough men, essentially mercenaries, former Special Forces warriors reeking of testosterone, gunpowder, and sweat, who thought more of themselves than of the military that had trained them. I make no excuses for them, but given how stretched national resources were at the time, their employment was appropriate in the face of what was a fanatical and violent insurgency. One of the company's employees, however, was a woman.”

“Let me guess.”

"Her duties were more specialized. Her job was to collect and analyze data in order to predict and counter terrorist activity; in other words, she was an intelligence analyst.”

“What a great job.”

“Her résumé was most impressive, but her previous employer and she had parted on somewhat acrimonious terms. Nevertheless, she felt it her duty to serve, even if in a purely civilian capacity, and so accepted a position with the firm.

“One day, she deduced from a variety of disparate sources that a moderately large attack was imminent on an American diplomatic convoy. When she provided her superiors with her conclusions, her warning was haughtily dismissed as unsubstantiated and improbable, given the extensive security measures already in place. To aggravate matters, she was ordered to provide a canned intelligence summary on behalf of the security company to a senior diplomatic official during the convoy's transit. When she refused on the grounds that such an order would directly place her in harm's way and was therefore contrary to her contractually noncombatant status, she was ordered, I might mention at her own insistence in writing, to present the briefing, or else be summarily dismissed for insubordination.”

“I can't imagine.”

“Then try. To get to the point, it was quite typical of her extraordinary foresight: Her prediction turned out to be entirely accurate. The vehicle she was in was bombed. Sixteen civilian bystanders and four Americans died, including the senior diplomat. In the ensuing melee, eight insurgents and twenty-three more civilians, including three children, were killed by the return fire of the private security forces. The consequences were disastrous on every level. She survived, but not without sustaining a debilitating spinal injury. She considered herself fortunate to be alive, and was very angry at all the death and damage.”

Suddenly I didn't feel like I'd been treated so badly.

“Notwithstanding her extreme disillusion, her resolve remained undaunted, her inner fire unquenched. She sued her employer and received a substantial, some might say exorbitant, settlement, enough to set herself up in luxury for life. But she vowed that she would never again be the victim of an arrogant and incompetent authority, nor would she suffer others to be such victims, if it was in her power to counter it. She accordingly set herself up as an independent intelligence analyst, and chose to dedicate her singular gifts to those in need, to protect them against the violent, the callous, and the officious. Because such a service is not valueless, she modeled it after a commercial detective agency, charging her clients according to their ability to pay.”

“And that's how the Fowler Investigative Analysis Team began?”

“It's just a story, Erica. I have mentioned no names. You won't find it recorded anywhere, at least not as I have told it.”

She waited a beat and then continued. “She was once young and impetuous too. She's wiser now.”

I slowly took a sip of coffee. “Where is she now?”

“In the hothouse, attending to the antheriums. She is not to be disturbed when she's gardening, except by her express orders.”

“Okay. I guess I can wait.”

I gazed out the window at the bright summer sky behind the gleaming skyscrapers. I had a job, I had a great place to stay, maybe I even had a future. All in all, things could be worse.

It looked like it was going to be a good day.

Copyright © 2012 Jolie McLarren Swann

[Back to Table of Contents]

Department: THE STORY THAT WON

The January/February Mysterious Photograph contest was won by Sheri Graziano of Wheatfield, New York. Honorable mentions go to Wayne Savicki of Wyandotte, Michigan; Pamela Klacar of Exmouth, West Australia, Australia; Michael Haynes of Canal Winchester, Ohio; Nikki S. May of Lyons, Michigan; C. Rochelle Weidner of Kaneohe, Hawaii; Ronnie Stahlman of Payson, Arizona; J. F. Peirce of Georgetown, Texas; Benjamin H. Foreman of Port Orange, Florida; Gil Stern of Las Vegas, Nevada; Patrick Harrington of Needham, Massachusetts.

* * * *

Copyright (C) 2012 Ke Wang/Shutterstock.com

* * * *

LAST CALL

Sheri Graziano

It was a cold night. Vagrant Vince was amazed at his find, a fully enclosed phone booth, with an ocean view no less!

Kole would be so jealous . . .

Vince removed his top layer of clothing and began setting up house for the evening.

His two quarters jingled in his pocket. He fingered them thoughtfully as the temptation teased his mind.

Back in the old neighborhood there was a pay phone attached to the outside entrance wall of the drug store. With protection from the elements, the entrance way was a nice sleeping option he and Kole ewere constantly coming to fists over.

Kole would be there now, thinking he had beat Vince for the coveted spot. Ha ha. He would have the last laugh on Kole tonight. He giggled as he dialed.

When morning came, the paper boy stopped for a rest by the phone booth. He glanced over the cliff and noticed a pile of rags at the bottom.

He mentioned it to his mother when he got home. Disgusted, she called the police and reported the disgrace.

When the police responded they were shocked to find Vagrant Vince's body beneath the pile of clothing. From the footprints at the top of the cliff they deduced there had been a scuffle before the deadly fall.

They had no suspect until the next night when Kole showed up with his shopping cart full of personal effects, all set to decorate his new place.

Copyright © 2012 CoolR/ Shutterstock

[Back to Table of Contents]

Department: COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2012

BIG WATTS by Doc Finch

BEEHIVE ROUND by Martin Limon

BRUTAL by Robert Lopresti

[Back to Table of Contents]

Linda Landrigan: Editor

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Kevin Doris: Senior Typesetting Coordinator

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Terrie Poly: Digital Publishing Manager

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Peter Kanter: Publisher

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[Back to Table of Contents]

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Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine (ISSN:0002-5224), Vol. 57, Nos. 7 and 8, July/August 2012. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. Annual subscription $55.90 in the U.S.A. and possessions, $65.90 elsewhere, payable in advance in U.S. funds (GST included in Canada). Subscription orders and correspondence regarding subscriptions should be sent to 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Or, to subscribe, call ‘-800-220-7443. Editorial Offices: 267 Broadway, 4th Floor, New York, NY 10007-2352. Executive Offices: 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. © 2012 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. The stories in this magazine are all fictitious, and any resemblance between the characters in them and actual persons is completely coincidental. Reproduction or use, in any manner, of editorial or pictorial content without express written permission is prohibited. Submissions must be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. POSTMASTER: Send changes to Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. In Canada return to: Quad/Graphics Joncas, 4380 Garand, Saint-Laurent, Quebec H4R 2A3. GST #R123054108.

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