Black Cat Weekly #89

By Liskow Steve, Welsh-Huggins Andrew, Schwetizer Darrell and 6 more

In our 89th issue, Michael Bracken pulls double duty to bring a pair of original mysteires to readers: great tales by Steve Liskow and Welsh-Huggins. Plus we have a crime novel by Johnston McCulley (who also created Zorro—but he tried his hand at a bunch of other heroes and antiheroes, among them The Scarlet Scourge, The Avenging Twins, and a ton of others). There’s also a novel by Western author B.M. Bower. Plus a solve-it-yourself mystery by Hal Charles.

On the science fiction & fantasy side, we have classic tales by Randall Garrett and Murray Leinster, two favorites. Robert E. Howard (much on my mind since returning from our trip to Robert E. Howard Days in Cross Plains, Texas) has a Solomon Kane adventure. And last (but far from least) we begin the serialization of Darrell Schweitzer’s amazing Sekenre: The Book of the Sorcerer, a series of linked short stories that come together to form a novel…though each tale also manages to stand on its own. The first 3 stories are in this issue.
  Here’s this issue’s complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Nose for News,” by Steve Liskow [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Case of the Burgled Bushels,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Supply Chains,” by Andrew Welsh-Huggins [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
The Voice at Johnnywater, by B.M. Bower [novel]
The Scarlet Scourge, by Johnston McCulley [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Needler,” by Randall Garrett [novella]
“Rattle of Bones,” by Robert E. Howard [short story]
“Ribbon in the Sky,” by Murray Leinster [novella]
Sekenre: The Book of the Sorcerer, by Darrell Schwetizer [serial book, part 1 of 4]

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: May 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667682136

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

NOSE FOR NEWS, by Steve Liskow

THE CASE OF THE BURGLED BUSHELS, by Hal Charles

SUPPLY CHAINS, by Andrew Welsh-Huggins

THE VOICE AT JOHNNYWATER, by B.M. Bower

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

THE SCARLET SCOURGE, by Johnston McCulley

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

NEEDLER, by Randall Garrett

RATTLE OF BONES, by Robert E Howard

RIBBON IN THE SKY, by Murray Leinster

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

SEKENRE: THE BOOK OF THE SORCERER, by Darrell Schweitzer (Px 1)

ON THE LAST NIGHT OF THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD

THE SORCERER’S GIFT

KING FATHER STONE

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Nose for News is copyright © 2023 by Steve Liskow and appears here for the first time.

The Case of the Burgled Bushels is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Supply Chains is copyright © 2023 by Andrew Welsh-Huggins and appears here for the first time.

The Voice at Johnnywater, by B.M. Bower, was originally published in 1923.

The Scarlet Scourge, by Johnston McCulley, was originally published in 1925.

Needler, by Randall Garrett, was originally published in Astounding Science Fiction, June 1957.

Rattle of Bones, by Robert E. Howard, was originally published in Weird Tales, June 1929.

Ribbon in the Sky, by Murray Leinster, was originally published in Astounding Science Fiction, June 1957.

Sekenre: The Book of the Sorcerer, is copyright © 2004 by Darrell Schwetizer. It includes"On the Last Night of the Festival of the Dead" (first appeared in Interzone #90, December 1994. Copyright 1994 by Interzone), "The Sorcerer’s Gift" (first appeared in Worlds of Fantasy and Horror #4, Winter, 1996. Copyright 1996 by Terminus Publishing Co.), and King Father Stone (first appeared in Interzone #103, January 1996. Copyright 1995 by Interzone).

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 89th issue is back on a normal schedule. We have returned from our 11-day sojourn to Texas, happy but exhausted, and dived right in.

On the mystery side, once again, Michael Bracken pulls double duty to bring a pair of original mysteries to readers: great tales by Steve Liskow and Welsh-Huggins. Plus we have a crime novel by Johnston McCulley (who also created Zorro—but he tried his hand at a bunch of other heroes and antiheroes, among them The Scarlet Scourge, The Avenging Twins, and a ton of others). There’s also a novel by Western author B.M. Bower. Plus a solve-it-yourself mystery by Hal Charles.

On the science fiction & fantasy side, we have classic tales by Randall Garrett and Murray Leinster, two favorites. Robert E. Howard (much on my mind since returning from our trip to Robert E. Howard Days in Cross Plains, Texas) has a Solomon Kane adventure. And last (but far from least) we begin the serialization of Darrell Schweitzer’s amazing Sekenre: The Book of the Sorcerer, a series of linked short stories that come together to form a novel…though each tale also manages to stand on its own. The first 3 stories are in this issue.

Here’s this issue’s complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Nose for News, by Steve Liskow [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Case of the Burgled Bushels, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Supply Chains, by Andrew Welsh-Huggins [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Voice at Johnnywater, by B.M. Bower [novel]

The Scarlet Scourge, by Johnston McCulley [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Needler, by Randall Garrett [novella]

Rattle of Bones, by Robert E. Howard [short story]

Ribbon in the Sky, by Murray Leinster [novella]

Sekenre: The Book of the Sorcerer, by Darrell Schwetizer [serial book, part 1 of 4]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

NOSE FOR NEWS,

by Steve Liskow

They read, right? You brag about that all the time. Jody Hidalgo-Silver rests her stilettos on the corner of her desk, jeans hugging her slim legs. The stilettos make her five-ten.

Eric Teague—senior partner in Teague and Silver Private Investigators—tries to admire Jody’s legs without being too obvious. "They read all the Harry Potter books and tore the movies apart. And they’ve read the Hunger Games, too. I’m pretty sure."

Do they know the… Jody looks at the ceiling and snaps her fingers. "Wait a second, it’s coming. The Golden Compass is the first one."

You lost me. Teague’s twin nephews’ twelfth birthday looms in two weeks, and he has no idea what to get them. Jody, the youngest of four sisters, has nine nieces and nephews ranging from four to seventeen, so she’s an expert.

It was on TV, a mini-series. Damn, my mind is going to slush.

Well, at your age, you probably need more sleep. Jody flips him off.

I didn’t go out. Well, sparred at the dojo, but that’s not like, you know, a date or anything. Jody holds an eighth-degree black belt in Karate and a fifth degree in Tai Chi.

Now see, you burn all that energy, you come home and the adrenaline’s surging. You need to find a way to relax.

Now you’re suggesting I go out after all, maybe engage in some kind of mindless conjugal activity? Jody’s eyes are black pearls that seem too large for her face.

Well, not random, of course. I could recommend a guy…

Probably your height and weight, same eyes?

Well, not to be modest, but…

We were talking about books, weren’t we? His Dark Materials, that’s the name of the series. I don’t remember who wrote them, but it’s probably on Amazon.

What are they about? Teague never turns on his TV except for sports.

"They’re this steampunk alternate universe, a girl and a boy, they’re about fourteen, and they get mixed up in this conspiracy. You know The Handmaid’s Tale?"

Jody wears her blue-black hair in a ponytail that brings out the clean planes of her face. Teague bets she can still get carded in any bar in Stonebury even though she’s 27 and a widow.

What if they’ve already read them?

The office door opens to reveal a tall woman wearing top-to-toe navy pinstripes. The strap of a briefcase big enough to need a license plate hangs over her shoulder, and a black man in a white windowpane shirt and khakis stands a half-step behind her.

Good morning. Jody stands. Welcome to Teague and Silver.

Ms. Pinstripes stands half a head taller than Jody. Are you related to Abigail Teague, in homicide?

Her cousin. Teague wears slacks and a windowpane shirt, too, business sloppy. I’m younger and cuter.

It’s true, Jody says. We keep him here for eye candy. I tried to get him to change his name to Gold for the business cards, but he thinks we’d sound like pawnbrokers.

The woman’s eyes flick back and forth between them.

Do you just do stand-up, or can you investigate, too?

Jody gestures to the chairs facing the desks. Coffee? Tea? Water?

Coffee is fine. Both visitors sink to the chairs Teague rescued from a tag sale.

Well, Teague says, if you know my cousin, you’re probably either law enforcement or legal.

Legal. I’m Weronika Chudzik. This is Kennedy M’tsumbe.

Teague studies him more carefully. We’ve seen your name.

Then you probably know why we’re here. The man’s voice is a soft tenor with no trace of accent.

We’re not psychic, Teague watches Jody hand the visitors mugs. He puts the man in his late twenties, wiry frame and large hands. We know that Mr. M’tiss… M’t…sorry, you’re out on bail.

Everyone calls me ‘Mitt.’ It’s easier.

Chudzik steps into the conversation. She has dark blonde hair in a razor cut, and Teague decides he wouldn’t want to see her blue eyes across a poker table. She slides to the edge of the armchair, her fingers still wrapped around that huge briefcase.

Obviously, I am defending Mitt and I’d like your help. The police have already convicted him and aren’t doing squat.

Who’da thunk it? Jody puts her phone on the corner of the desk to record the conversation and Teague slides a legal pad in front of him.

According to the media, you found your girlfriend’s body. Is that correct?

Mitt locks his fingers over his knee, his complexion turning gray.

I didn’t kill her, I swear.

Tell us what you saw.

Chudzik takes over for her client. Her consonants betray an East-European ancestry, and Teague wonders if she cultivates the accent for court appearances.

Kennedy M’tsumbe and Regina Brinkley had been a couple for a full year, and Mitt was trying to persuade her to move in with him. The previous Saturday, he used his key to let himself into her apartment and found her in her bathtub. The water was room temperature and the Medical Examiner said she had been dead at least twelve hours.

Did you see her Friday night? Teague asks.

She’s got a few buds, they get together every month, have a few drinks…

So, she’d done this before.

Yeah. I’ve met them. They’re OK, but I was kind of an outsider, so…

When did she get home?

That’s the problem, Chudzik says. Her friends say they weren’t meeting with her that night. And none of her neighbors could say for sure that she went anywhere.

Did she have assigned parking in her lot? Teague scribbles on his pad.

Yes. Nobody remembers if her car left that night.

Teague feels Jody’s eyes look toward his.

She was going somewhere or meeting someone she didn’t want you to know about. Teague barely gets the words out before Jody’s incredulous voice follows.

So, she drowned in her own bathtub?

Mitt shakes his head.

The ME says she didn’t drown. There was no water in her lungs, but she’s got a contusion on the side of her head, near her right temple. And her hyoid bone was fractured.

She was strangled. Teague doesn’t say it out loud, but they all know.

Dead at least twelve hours before you found her, Jody says. Where were you Friday night?

Um, that’s the problem. I didn’t go anywhere either.

Not another bar? Not social media?

Mitt sinks back in the chair. I live online all day. I needed a break. I just stayed home and looked at Netflix.

Which means nobody can give you an alibi.

Chudzik clears her throat.

Mr.—Mitt—and Regina spent several nights a week at one or the other’s apartment, so his fingerprints and DNA were all over her bedroom. The police are leaning heavily on that.

Teague underlines alibi on his pad. That’s pretty weak.

Chudzik rolls her eyes. I guess you really are a detective, aren’t you?

It’s those Hardy Boy books, Jody says. He read Nancy Drew, too, but he’s embarrassed to admit it.

How big was Regina, Mitt?

Mitt swallows. Only about five feet. I could rest my chin on the top of her head.

Jody finishes the thought. So, someone wouldn’t have had to be a giant to strangle her. Or move her.

No.

Where did she work? Anyone there have a grudge with her?

She was a dental technician over on Livingston Avenue. She’s worked there for three years.

Chudzik takes over again. Two receptionists and two other techs, all women. They all liked her and were shocked at her death, and only one of them, one of the receptionists, knew her at all outside of work.

Old boyfriends?

She broke up with a guy a few months before we met, Mitt says. I don’t remember his name.

Teague taps his pen on the legal pad. Social media?

Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, everything. Well, I am, too. But Gina’s phone is gone.

Teague underlines phone? on his pad.

What do you mean ‘gone’? Like missing?

Yeah. Her charger was in the bedroom, but the phone wasn’t anywhere. Not in her apartment, her car, she didn’t leave it at work…

Jody opens a file on her desktop.

Let me print out a contract.

* * * *

Teague deposits Chudzik’s check with his phone before he and Jody examine the discovery files Chudzik emailed them from her laptop. The police report is slightly longer than a grocery list.

There’s more redacted shit than anything else, Jody comments.

Yeah. Teague skims the whole document again.

You used to be a cop. How many pictures would you take at a normal crime scene?

Jody purses her lips. A murder? There should be a truckload of the body alone, especially close-ups of the bruise on her face and marks on her throat. We’ve got six pictures here, and they don’t show squat.

Teague nods.

They don’t even show the bedroom, Jody continues. They mention Mitt’s prints and DNA in there, but there’s not a single effing picture.

Teague looks at the names of the detectives again.

It’s an apartment complex, right? They should have interviewed neighbors and the super. Chudzik even mentioned people not seeing the woman go anywhere.

This stinks, baby doll.

Let’s take a field trip. You want me to drive?

Jody pulls her blazer from the back of her chair.

Might as well. My stretch limo’s getting new carpeting.

You always have trouble parallel parking the beast anyway.

* * * *

Detective Lew McInerney sits at a desk overflowing with file folders, post-it notes, old coffee containers, and a computer monitor that looks older than Jody. He wears a wrinkled white shirt with his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms and an ugly tie loose at his open collar. His hair and eyes are both the color of a new sidewalk. Teague puts him at forty-five going on retirement.

That’s an open case. McInerney’s voice sounds like wet cement.

We know. Teague concedes. We’re working with the attorney. We’re hoping you can fill in a few lacunae in the report.

Lacunae? McInerney’s brows lower.

Gaps. Teague and Jody are the only people in the room not wearing holsters. Discovery means the defense attorney should have all the evidence and details of the investigation, but she’s missing pretty much everything.

Chudzik, right? The Polish Dyke.

Whoa, Jody says. I used to be on the force, too. Was I the Latina Dyke?

McInerney ignores her.

The boyfriend had a key, his prints and DNA are all over the place—well, they were sleeping together more often than not, so that’s no surprise. He wanted the chick to move in with him, and she wouldn’t. Probably slipping out on him with someone else. He found out, he did her in the tub. How hard is that?

Have you found anyone else she was dating?

We’re still looking.

Yeah, you’re just taking a break now, is that it?

McInerney holds up a Dunkin’ cup.

Have any of Regina Brinkley’s friends mentioned her seeing someone else?

McInerney tilts his cup and drinks slowly.

"Jésu, Jody snaps. How you do the coffee and donuts number so well and still keep your boyish figure?"

I work out a lot. Chasing down felons, just like on TV.

Well, why don’t we try something easier, Teague says. You can open the file on your computer and let us read through it. Get a few ideas, the flavor of this whole thing.

Did I say something about a case under investigation a minute ago? McInerney puts his cup back on the desk.

We’re just trying to make sure you explore all the avenues. Teague feels tired. Maybe you’ll build an even stronger case.

McInerney looks across the room.

Yo, Jake.

A detective with a brown buzzcut and a red streak on his left cheek turns toward them, then sticks two fingers between his lips and gives a whistle that pierces Teague’s ears like rusty wire. Another detective in a worn gray suit sees McInerney wave at him and lumbers over to join them. He’s bigger than McInerney, with a square jaw and ruddy cheeks, his eyes and hair the color of fresh sod.

’Sup, Lew?

These two citizens. Donahue makes the word sound like something he stepped in. They’re harassing me and making allegations about how I do my job.

Not even. Jody’s accent becomes a little more pronounced, a sure sign that she’s pissed, too. "We’re asking about an investigation and getting mierda back."

And you expect to get information because…?

We’re working with your main suspect’s attorney, Teague says again. She’s concerned because your department isn’t cooperating and may be violating her client’s rights.

That’s a serious accusation. The guy seems to grow even bigger.

I know you’re a detective, but you’re not on the case we’re discussing, so why did Detective McInerney call you over?

I’m the Union Steward of Police Local 576. If you’re interfering with our work and harassing us, it could be grounds for a labor action.

Jody snorts. Teague locks his eyes with the guy. What we’re doing is called due process.

Maybe. If my colleague is working on a case, the details are closed to the public.

You’ve already made an arrest, Teague points out. The person has been arraigned and released on bail. He has an attorney of record, and the case is in discovery. That means you’re supposed to release all relevant details. List of items found as evidence, witness contact information, forensic evidence. According to what you’ve given the lawyer, you have no witnesses, no items, no motive, and fingerprints that could have been left any time in the last month.

The union man raises his eyebrows.

A wannabe lawyer.

I was in the Military Police, Teague says. You think this is hard, try meeting military standards.

The big man hands Teague a business card. Jacek Pacyna, Detective, Stonebury Police Department. His cell phone and municipal email rest in the lower corners.

Look, Jody. Teague shows her the card. He’s even got it embossed.

Sweet. Jody digs into her purse. Let’s give him ours, too. Then we can trade with all our friends.

Teague hands both their cards to Pacyna, who drops them on his desk.

Can I have one of yours, too, Detective McInerney? Jody says. Then I’ll have the whole set?

McInerney’s card isn’t embossed like Pacyna’s.

* * * *

Back in the parking lot, Teague beeps his windows open to release the heat, then holds the door for Jody because he knows it sets her teeth on edge.

Well, that went well, didn’t it? She shrugs out of her blazer. Got another idea?

Half an hour later, Regina Brinkley’s former landlord—three chins, a combover and a beer belly—unlocks the door of her apartment and ushers them in. They’ve told him they’re looking to rent while they save money for a starter home. Jody peers through the slider.

Oh, look, Sweetums. There’s a courtyard. And a deck. How many units do you have?

Uh, fifty. The guy watches Jody lean forward and look to both sides of the slider, his eyes admiring what he sees.

She points at a smooth lawn dotted with shrubs and two picnic tables.

Do people do things out there? she asks. You know, like picnics or parties?

Sometimes, yeah. I mean, it’s summer, you know?

I guess people get to know each other fairly well, right?

Some, I guess. Most of the people here are young, they work.

Lots of children?

A few, not many.

Teague sees no board or plank in the channel for the sliding door. The lock looks fragile enough for him to break with a good punch, but it seems intact.

Most people would put a stick or something in here, wouldn’t they? For more security?

Uh, probably. But we’ve got decent people here. Nobody’d try anything.

That’s good to hear.

Teague steps into the kitchen.

Honeybuns, check out the stove here. It looks new. And the fridge.

Oooh, Jody coos. And I love the knobs on the cupboards.

Teague opens a drawer and sees a flashlight, masking tape, assorted batteries and the manual for the microwave. The drawer next to the dishwasher holds serving and eating utensils.

This is really nice. Jody widens her eyes. How come a place like this is vacant? It looks like someone still lives here, all the stuff in the drawers…

The landlord clears his throat.

Uh, the tenant died suddenly. She…her family’s gonna take stuff in a day or two. If you like the place, you can take it as is, or we can repaint. That’d take a few more days.

Died? Teague looks shocked. You mean like an accident or a heart attack?

Uh, yeah.

That’s awful. Jody makes her voice small. Did she have lots of friends here?

I suppose, but I don’t know who they were.

Jody seems to gather herself again and steps into the bathroom. Oh, this is awesome. Much bigger than I expected. And the skylight. Sugar Pie, come take a look.

The tub has claw feet and is long enough so Jody could stretch out in it. Teague remembers that Regina Brinkley was tiny and could easily have done the same. The window has wooden blinds, and the skylight, ten feet above, focuses the afternoon sun directly on the tub.

I love this tub. Jody leans forward to give the landlord another look at her rear. And the fixtures.

Yeah, Sweetcheeks, Teague says. Those are awesome.

Jody opens the medicine cabinet above the sink and Teague slides into the bedroom to look at the twin bed and Ikea nightstand and dresser. Uh, the family’s probably going to take this furniture, right? We’ve got a queen-sized bed.

Yeah. The landlord slowly turns away from Jody. Couple of days, like I said.

Jody joins Teague and opens the louvered closet door. Not much closet space.

Uh, we’ve got storage bins down in the basement. Most people switch stuff in and out with the seasons, you know?

Teague checks the nightstand. Tissues, a cell phone charger, and an iPod.

Jody opens the top dresser drawer.

Nice clothes. You said the woman had a boyfriend. Was she young?

Uh, yeah. Probably about your age.

She was quiet. No parties or anything.

Yeah, Teague says. No TV, no stereo. She had an iPod, though, I saw it in the nightstand.

Honey, look at this. Jody leans out the window. Look at these rosebushes.

Teague moves next to her, so he doesn’t spoil the landlord’s view.

Nice, he said. But you’re right about the closet.

He faces the landlord again. Let us think about it, OK? We’ve got another place to look at, and we’ll get back to you.

Back at the car, he holds Jody’s door again.

Sweetie?

Honeybuns? Jody lowers the sun visor.

Hey, you started it.

She adjusts her seat belt. Got you all churned up, didn’t I?

You wish. He pulls out of the lot before Jody speaks again.

They probably cleaned the tub, so there’s no sign of blood. And the place lights up like a photographer’s studio. The cops could’ve taken pictures anywhere in there without even using a flash.

No crime scene tape on the door, Teague adds, and they’ve let the landlord clean up the fingerprint powder that was probably all over the bathroom.

Candylips? Jody doesn’t quite giggle.

Teague looks in his rearview mirror. I never said that. Honey Bun, yes. But not that. Someone letting her naughty fantasies run free?

You wish.

Anything interesting in the bathroom cabinet?

Tylenol, vitamins, birth control pills, toothpaste and brush, make-up. She wore sexy underwear, though. The kind I’d wear on a third date.

Teague lets that one go by.

Phone charger on the nightstand.

Uh-huh. Teague sees movement in his mirror. But no phone. Well, Chudzik told us that.

When he turns left, a car follows them through the yellow, leaving a blast of horns behind them.

I think we’ve got a tail.

They turn into their parking lot and the car that beat the light slows down to pass their driveway before speeding up and turning the next corner.

They enter their office, and Jody snaps her fingers.

Your nephews. Do they have a pet?

Both a dog and a cat, Teague says.

OK, so much for that idea.

Nice try. Teague boots up his computer again.

The good news is that if someone’s following us, we’re doing something right.

* * * *

The youngest of four sisters, Jody Hidalgo was still walking a beat when she met her future husband, start-up wizard Daniel Silver. They’d been married two years when he died in a helicopter crash along with three other young techno-geeks. She miscarried two weeks later. She still lived in the twelve-room house they’d shared, but she left the police force soon after losing her baby.

At some point during her time with the police, she crossed paths with homicide detective Abigail Teague, who pointed her to her cousin Eric. That was eighteen months before, and Teague still remembered standing with his mouth open when the beautiful woman with the damaged eyes walked into his office and told him she wanted a job. With the law enforcement experience, she received her investigator’s license in the time it took to fill out the application.

She’d studied martial arts as a young girl and went back with a vengeance after her husband’s death. Teague suspected beating people up was all that kept her sane. She wore her wedding band when they met, and it took him six months to convince her to take it off. As far as he knew, she still didn’t date.

Back in the office, they both go online again, trying to fill in some of the lacunae—gaps—in the police report.

OK, she says. Mitt wasn’t kidding. Regina’s on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, and Snapchat. I’ve found her accounts on all of them. She’s got a few local buds, too. I found pictures.

Local? Let’s get in touch with them.

Tanya Rios seems to be her BFF. They’re all over Instagram and TikTok together, lots of pictures.

Tanya’s smile shows teeth that look even whiter against her olive complexion, a round face made even rounder because she wears her hair pulled back. She stands a few inches taller than Regina, who holds a glass of wine in the picture. A mirror and bottles stand behind the two women, but nothing distinguishes the bar from hundreds of others in the area.

Birthday two months ago, Teague comments. Doesn’t give her age, but I’d say, what, early twenties? Just out of college?

Regina was 25, Jody says. She’s probably about the same.

Tanya is a physical therapist. She doesn’t mention a relationship, but she likes puppies and hip-hop. She’s heavily into Game of Thrones and Downton Abbey.

Anything special about her you noticed?

She spells and punctuates correctly, if that means anything.

You find addresses for any of them?

Jody shakes her head. Just online. I’m messaging the others, too, but Tanya sounds like our best bet.

Teague closes the police report, such as it is. Chudzik’s notes don’t give us anywhere else to go, especially since the cops are doing so little. Where else do we look until Regina’s friends get back to us?

Maybe Mitt again? He didn’t give us names before, but without that pinstriped buzzsaw hovering over him, he might spill something else.

Maybe his editor, too, Teague adds. Maybe get a look at the whole picture.

Perfect, Jody fluffs her hair. News guys like minority chicks like me. We make them feel even more civic-minded.

They both don their jackets again even though the heat was hot enough to fry eggs on a car’s hood.

He’s probably an old white guy, Jody continues. He’ll appreciate a shapely young tush when he sees one.

Think we can find one somewhere?

Jody flips him off. Outside, Teague holds Jody’s door again.

* * * *

Edward Ned Howard at the Messenger has a glassed-in office barely large enough to accommodate his desk with the computer and two filing cabinets covered with post-it notes and magnetic clips full of faded notices. A small flowerpot with a dead plant stands atop one of them. Teague feels like he’s in a goldfish bowl.

Howard himself looks surprisingly young, but his pallor suggests he’s a vampire. He’s well over six feet and thin as a blue pencil, with light brown hair. His modulated tenor makes Teague jealous.

Mitt’s a pit bull on a story, Howard says. Gets his teeth into something, he won’t let go. Got a fantastic nose for news.

Jody waits until he runs out of clichés before she speaks again. She takes the lead since Howard does seem to like the minority chick. Teague doubts it’s strictly out of civic duty.

Did you know his girlfriend?

I met her at a party last Christmas time. Pretty, type-A like Mitt. That’s about all I remember.

Could he have killed her?

Howard runs his tongue over his lips and listens to the hum of activity outside his fishbowl.

He never mentioned any problems or fights. And they’d been together long enough so they figured out how to be together.

Which means you don’t think he did it.

Don’t put words in my mouth. Howard’s thin forearms are covered with dark hair. But it’s hard to believe. Most of the others, they agree. Mitt’s a tough reporter, but he’s a nice guy. Remembers people’s birthdays, kid’s names, stuff like that.

No enemies around here?

Nope. And this place is stress twenty-four-seven, so if someone had a bug up his ass, I’d know.

So, you don’t have any other ideas. Jody looks through the window at people sitting at computers, drinking coffee and looking like they want a cigarette. It looks like the Homicide squad room minus the guns.

Mitt have any enemies because of his stories? Teague asks.

Howard leans back in his chair. Well, he’s stirred up a few people over that shooting last winter.

Which shooting was that?

Howard rattles the information off as if he covered the story himself.

In February, Stonebury police raided the house of Henry Langloise, who was in bed with his girlfriend, Christine Ferris. They heard someone kick in a door, and he went to investigate. She heard voices and went to join him. Somehow, a fight broke out and shots were fired. One shattered Chrissie Ferris’s pelvis and damaged her lower spine. At 31, she was still—and probably permanently—paralyzed from the waist down. Langloise suffered a broken nose, a broken arm, and a mild concussion. The police had a search warrant to look for firearms and illegal substances but didn’t find either one.

While surgeons worked fourteen hours to extract the bullet from his girlfriend’s lower back, Langloise talked to Mitt in the hospital. He said neither he nor Chrissie owned a gun. The police produced a .38 revolver with the serial number filed off, which they claimed Langloise fired at them.

Nobody checked Langloise’s or Ferris’s hands for gunshot residue, so nobody could say they fired the gun.

Connecticut Inspector General Angela Forrest-Mercado is investigating the case, but the police are stalling her. Five months after the incident, she’s still in court trying to get information the police refused to release.

Mitt’s talked to the Inspector General a couple of times, Howard says. She’s pushing the cops hard, but they’re pushing back. Mitt figures they’ve screwed up somewhere—the warrant, the address, something—and they’re covering their ass. In the meantime, the woman’s probably crippled for life.

That sucks, Jody says. Teague suspects she remembers becoming a widow herself at 27.

Jody looks through the window again.

I’m sure Mitt’s got a particular computer here, right?

Well, people share all the desktops, but they’ve got separate accounts with passwords. And he’s got his own laptop. He does most of his stuff on that. Everybody does.

Jody takes a deep breath and Howard leans forward behind his desk. Teague thinks of a guy moving closer to a woman on a bar stool.

Let me ask you something. Howard’s voice could lube an 18-wheeler How does a woman decide to become a PI? You must have had lots of other…options.

I always loved guns and blowing stuff up.

Howard’s eyes widen.

When Jody stands again, she looks a foot taller. She only needs a cape to be a superhero.

Thank you, Mr. Howard. We will call you if we should think of any more questions.

Teague expects Howard to roll over and beg.

They enter the chaos and find Mitt holding his cell to his ear with one hand and typing on his laptop with the other. He nods at them, and they wait until he ended the call.

You’ve got something.

Just more questions, Teague says.

Oh, well, I guess that’s progress, isn’t it?

Is there anything you know that you’ve held back from us? That someone might know?

Uh, no. Like what?

Your editor says you’ve been pushing the cops on the Langloise and Ferris raid pretty hard, Jody says. How about that?

Well, the cops got the warrant because a confidential informant tipped them that Langloise was holding. I’d love to know who the CI was, ’cause Langloise’s got no record of any kind. He doesn’t have a registered firearm, either. No record, no gun, no drugs. The cops aren’t geniuses, but that’s out of everyone’s comfort zone.

Howard says the Inspector General is looking into it and the cops aren’t helping.

Mitt scratches his chin. She’s trying to go through the courts and get subpoenas, and the police union is fighting every step of the way.

Someone’s got something to hide, Teague says.

Mitt shrugs. It’s easy to think that, even if you aren’t paranoid. But I’m flying blind.

Any ideas? Jody sits on the corner of Mitt’s desk like one of the guys.

Well, if there’s a CI involved, he or she talked to someone in the narcotics division. They were the ones on the raid, so it was probably one of them.

OK, so that narrows things down.

Not much. Mitt looks at his coffee mug. The report on the raid only mentions a few cops by name, but there had to be at least a dozen. They kicked both the front and back doors at the house.

Jody and Teague exchange glances.

I can see them protecting the CI, Teague says, but there ought to be more.

Yeah. I’ve managed to get the report, but it’s got more redactions than it has content.

His lips tightened. Like Gina’s case.

He shifts gears.

You know Martin St. Vincent? At least who he is?

Martin St. Vincent is a local activist, a black professor at Trinity College in Hartford and very vocal in the Black Lives Matter movement.

Is he involved in this, too?

"Yeah, he and I have talked a lot, he’s had an Op-ed in the Messenger and another one in the Courant. He has a lot of credibility and a lot of followers. I like his perspective and try to use it to frame where I’m going. Not that it’s doing any good."

So could the cops be trying to frame you because you’re stirring up such a fuss? Teague asks. Anything else you’re looking at that could upset someone?

Mitt clears his throat. Something I’m still trying to track down. Nothing definite, but I’m hearing rumors about cops stealing evidence.

His fingers dance on his desk.

Drugs. Money. Things that should be in evidence storage but disappear. One of the assistant prosecutors was telling me a few weeks ago that he had a case fall apart because the stuff he thought they had for evidence wasn’t there. The judge tossed a case they’d been trying to build on a guy for months. Down the toilet faster than you can say ‘flush.’

Jody sits motionless, staring at him until he breaks the silence.

I’ve got nothing solid to work with, though. I’m trying to find someone who knows something who’ll chat a little. So far, no luck.

His face tightens. I’m not getting anywhere. I’m not a threat. And Gina…

He closes his eyes. She was so tiny—she makes you look like a basketball player—and… Some nights, I see her again, and I want to protect her and make her happy, then I wake up and…

He drinks more coffee.

I know you said you didn’t hang with her friends much, Teague says. Do you know any of them around here? We looked at her social media and got a few names, but if you’ve got better contact info, it might help.

I know who a couple of them are, but not much else. Gina and I argued a couple of times, I thought one or two of them were…um, a bad influence.

What does that mean? Jody says. Is it anything like when we say someone has ‘bad habits’?

Mitt holds his mug up to his face for so long Teague wonders if he’s drowning in it. He finally lets the mug thud softly on his desk.

Gina had a bit of a coke habit when we met, he says. I didn’t figure it out for a while, but one of her buds did, too, mostly at parties. We were all together for a party on New Year’s Eve, and Gina did a line or two with her. I threw a major fit. Told Gina she had to quit or we were through. I kept at her about it, and finally she went into re-hab.

That’s hard. Jody touches his hand. Really, really hard.

Mitt looks down at his fists in his lap. She went into treatment, and for the next couple of weeks I felt like I was walking over the Grand Canyon on a thread. One wrong step…

When was this, Mitt? That she went into rehab?

Um, we argued about it for a couple of weeks. She finally went in late January.

Teague waits for Mitt to look at him.

Did you know any of her neighbors? Someone she might have let in?

Uh-uh.

Did she keep her slider open? Out onto the deck in her apartment?

I never noticed. She had a few plants out on the deck, she’d go out to water them, but…

When they leave, Teague feels the sun beating on his head and shoulders. He should have worn a hat, but he thinks a fedora would look ridiculous and he’s not a baseball cap kind of guy.

Maybe Martin St. Vincent? he says. He might have a few ideas.

Maybe. Jody looks at him. In this sun, your red hair looks like fire.

Hot-blooded passion, he says. All the chicks love it.

All? She cocks an eyebrow.

Teague nods at a Dairy Queen sign up ahead.

Want some ice cream?

Thanks anyway.

How about some candy?

Are you trying to talk dirty to me? No thank you.

You never let me do anything.

She watches the light turn yellow ahead of them. They stopped when it turned red, and when it turned green again, she finally speaks.

Not on the first date.

We’ve never had a first date.

See? It’s working.

Teague wonders how he got from the Military Police to running a private investigations firm. The answer is easy: he hates taking orders. His ex-wife could have told him as much. Besides, he likes having Jody Silver on his right more than some Ensign who could bench press three hundred pounds. Especially with her martial arts training. He forces his mind back to business.

Maybe we should talk to the Inspector General, too. See if she can add anything.

Jody nods. Sure. Right now, we’re stuck unless and until some of Gina’s friends get back, and we don’t even know if they’ll be any help.

Two blocks later, Jody clears her throat.

How many women have you seen since you and Marie split?

I don’t know. He does, though. Two. Once each.

You were divorced when we met. Jody’s voice is soft enough to stroke a butterfly’s wings. That’s coming up on two years.

He glances down long enough to see her bare ring finger before looking at the traffic again.

Let’s go back to the office and see if we can get in to see either St. Vincent or the Inspector General.

Okay.

When he changes lanes, a car behind him does the same thing.

Look behind us. Four cars back.

Jody flips down the visor and pretends to check her lipstick She watches while Teague takes two more unnecessary turns and circles the block before coming back to their original route.

A dark SUV, but that’s all I can tell. You think he’s following us?

It looks like the same guy that was behind us earlier.

When they reach the parking lot by their office, the other car disappears around the next corner.

Maybe we’re paranoid, Jody says.

Well, there are two of us, it would have to be a pair of noids, wouldn’t it?

I think I see why you don’t get many dates.

* * * *

The following morning, Inspector General Forrest Mercado’s receptionist reminds Teague of the Great Pyramid. Her hair is the color of worn pavement, her eyes slightly darker, and her tan dress is slightly smaller than a sand dune.

Ms. F-M is very busy. Her voice sounds faraway. What is this in re?

It’s in re a police brutality case she’s investigating. Teague hates biz-speak. We hope she can give us some insights.

What case? Maybe I can save you some time.

The Stonebury PD raid on Henry Langloise’s residence last February.

Last winter? I don’t know how much she can tell you.

Because it’s still under investigation?

The woman rolls her eyes. That, too.

How many cases does the Inspector General investigate in a given year? Jody asks.

Not that many. Maybe a dozen. Most of them involve a police shooting, but sometimes there are other issues.

How many involve Stonebury?

A few. The woman’s name plate makes Teague wonder how many mothers still name their daughters Muriel.

The woman picks up her phone, then leads her guests to the IG’s door.

Come in.

Angela Mercado-Forest stands parade-ground erect and has chiseled features emphasized by a razor cut probably as expensive as Weronika Chudzik’s. Her navy-blue suit makes her look even more military, and Teague restrains himself from saluting.

The office is the bastard offspring of a college library and Office Max, dark wood shelves, plush carpeting, and three beige filing cabinets that Teague thinks he can shred with a can opener. An ergonomic chair squats behind the mahogany desk that supports a computer monitor.

Good day. What can I do for you?

Teague presents his license and introduces himself and Jody. We’d like to discuss one of your investigations in more detail. You’ve already gone to court over it, and we’re on your side.

What case?

The Stonebury police raid on the Langloise house last winter.

The woman slides behind her desk and steeples her hands.

There’s a reason God invented alcohol.

We’re looking at another case, Teague says, but that raid might have something to do with it. We know from Kennedy M’tsumbe that they’re stone-walling you.

Is his murder arrest the other case you’re looking at?

Forrest-Mercado spreads her hands, palms up.

Every time I file a request for more information, their Union rep steps in. I don’t know if he’s really protecting anyone or if he’s just power-mad, but the force follows his lead.

The courts aren’t on your side?

The Union has good lawyers, too. Well, you’re working with Chudzik. She’s good, and she can’t get anything from them either.

The woman taps her nails on a letter opener. Teague wonders if anyone sends real letters anymore.

They’ve delayed the next hearing until September. If they’d give me the damn information, I could probably close the case before then.

Just based on what you have, how does it look?

You know the story of the blind men touching different parts of an elephant and trying to describe it? Everything contradicts everything else.

Who fired the shot that crippled Christine Ferris?

Forrest-Mercado leans back in her chair. Teague thinks she might be pretty if she could loosen up a little. But that might involve large quantities of the afore-mentioned alcohol.

Beats the hell out of me. The slug from her lower back was so badly malformed by hitting her pelvis and spinal column that they couldn’t do a ballistics match. I think four different officers fired weapons, but I can’t even be sure of that.

How about the gun the cops took from Langloise?

"It had apparently been discharged, but nothing in their reports mentions finding a slug that matched that weapon, either. If I had to go on the stand, I couldn’t say with any confidence that the gun was fired at that time or in that location."

Jesus, Jody snaps. Are these guys stupid or crazy or what?

Yes, Forrest-Mercado said. And yes, and yes again. I’d love to do more with the damn case, but the State keeps cutting my budget. I have two full-time investigators and two full-time attorneys.

How long do you normally take investigating a complaint? Teague asks.

It depends. It usually takes months to get a complete picture, and that’s if the witnesses are forthcoming and the paperwork all shows up. The more witnesses, the crazier it gets.

Teague shakes his head. This incident would have had officers at front and back doors, and maybe back-up behind them. At least a dozen cops, and any neighbors who heard something, which is likely because shots were fired. That’s a lot of people and a lot of stories, isn’t it?

No shit, Mr. Teague. I have the names of five officers, and none of them admit to firing any shots.

Forrest-Mercado looks as if she’s trying not to grind her teeth.

Were either Langloise’s or Ferris’s fingerprints on the Glock the police confiscated?

I don’t believe so. The woman clicks her mouse and finds the report. She scrolls down, her lips moving slightly.

Jody crosses her legs on the chair. Teague suspects she’s still trying to find a comfortable way to sit in it.

The police report doesn’t mention either Langloise or Ferris’s hands being checked for gunshot residue, either, at the scene or in the hospital, Jody says. That would go a long way to establishing that they shot at the officers, wouldn’t it, maybe even reason to absolve the police? But if it’s not there, the gun is a big elephant in a small living room.

Forrest-Mercado raises her eyebrows at Jody. He didn’t hire you just for your looks, did he?

How were they dressed? Jody asks. Langloise and Ferris?

The woman scrolls through the report again.

Langloise came down the stairs in pajama pants. Christine Ferris wore a bathrobe that was much too big for her. I assume that was Langloise’s and she was in bed with him when the officers breached the doors.

Which indicates they weren’t expecting to be attacked. A drug dealer would have probably been more prepared. And better armed.

Forrest-Mercado nods.

Teague feels encouraged. Neither Langloise nor Ferris has a police record, so why did the cops hit them?

They had a warrant.

Right. Apparently, a CI fingered Langloise. Have they used that person before so he had a record of being reliable? Why is the warrant not even in the material you’re looking at?

"The reporter from the Messenger has been pointing that out, too," Jody says.

Maybe he’d like to come work for me, Forrest-Mercado says. Better fringe benefits and more abuse. Well, maybe not.

Teague hesitates. How many other cases are you still investigating that involve Stonebury cops?

I’d have to check, but three or four come to mind.

Do they involve drug raids?

A couple, yes. I’m not sure about the others. But they’re all the same story. Like trying to dig the Panama Canal with teaspoons.

Teague crosses his fingers. Would you be able to send us that material, too? If necessary, we could have Weronika Chudzik make an FOI request.

Forest-Mercado almost smiles. You should do that. Give me an email address.

Teague hands her his card, and she holds the door for them. The receptionist taps ostentatiously on her keyboard while they leave.

Want to stop for ice cream?

"You tried that yesterday, remember? I’m a grown woman, Chico. Do I look like jailbait?"

I’m trying to change up my game. I’ve offered to buy you a drink a dozen times, and the thirteenth might be bad luck.

Yeah, I guess there’s that. She cocks her head. Carvel or Dairy Queen?

* * * *

Back at the office, Jody works through her banana split and Teague makes coffee to accompany his hot fudge sundae. Jody flicks a dollop of whipped cream off her lip before speaking.

I’ve got more of Regina’s friends bookmarked.

Teague moves his chair next to hers while she brings up an Instagram page.

Shirlee Kumin is African American, with flat features and wide shoulders. When Jody shows a picture of all three women together, Shirlee stands a head taller than both her friends. She works in retail and is in a relationship.

Shirlee and Tanya Rios are the only ones who live in town, Jody says. I found a couple of others who might have been buds in college, but one’s in California, and the other was somewhere down the East Coast. Delaware, I think.

She scrolls through pictures of Shirlee Kumin with a man even taller than she is. Another shows her with several small children and other adults, a family Thanksgiving.

Nice-looking family, Jody comments.

Yeah. Wait a second, back up.

Jody stops scrolling.

Let me see that shot with Regina again. There. Copy that and blow it up.

They stare at Shirlee and Regina Brinkley, apparently at a party somewhere, both in low-cut tops and both with slightly off-kilter smiles.

Jody enlarges the image until it begins to pixilate before she backs off slightly.

She’s wasted, Teague says. Both of them are.

Yeah. Jody looks at the date on the picture. Last winter. What about it?

Nothing special. Let’s message Shirlee, too, and see how long it takes her to get back to us.

Jody shrugs. She may see this in the next five minutes. Getting back to me’s a whole different thing.

She texts Chudzik to request the material from the Inspector General. Morgan St. Vincent answers their text, and they arrange to meet with him in his office at Trinity College the following afternoon.

What now? Jody asks.

I’m feeling antsy. Teague feels his sundae surging through him. Let’s see if we can stir up another hornet’s nest.

* * * *

Mayor Matthew Borden presents himself as the perfect median for any white demographic. He’s about Teague’s height, and an indeterminate age, with receding brown hair, medium brown eyes behind boring frames, and a suit that might have fit him better fifteen pounds ago. His voice is the aural equivalent of a third-generation photocopy.

When Jody and Teague mention Langloise and Ferris, he shakes his head.

Terrible tragedy, he says. But the police were doing their job. They conducted a raid, met resistance, and defended themselves. The Inspector General said so, and I agree.

The Inspector General hasn’t issued her report, Teague points out. The police have been stonewalling her.

Borden raised his eyebrows. I’m sure you’re mistaken.

We interviewed her earlier today. Jody’s voice is soft. Neither Christine Ferris nor Henry Langloise owned a gun, and the warrant was for drugs that weren’t found. Someone screwed up.

But they fired at the police, Borden says. That’s why they returned fire.

A gun was produced at the scene, Teague agrees. But it has no connection to either Langloise or Ferris. Their fingerprints weren’t on it, and neither of them was checked for GSR at the scene or in the hospital. Anyone could have dropped it. And it didn’t even have to be fired at the house.

That’s a pretty wild statement, don’t you think?

The police report doesn’t mention a bullet hole anywhere in the house with a slug that matches that gun.

It might have been omitted because it didn’t matter.

It would prove that the gun was fired in the house. Jody speaks even more softly, and Teague thinks of a dog that doesn’t bark. And maybe in the room where Chrissie Ferris was crippled. If it were somewhere else, it might have been fired at another time. If you don’t mention a bullet at all, it leaves the issue unresolved.

You sound a little bit paranoid. Some big conspiracy, Big Brother, the Dark State, all that stuff.

A journalist is saying those same things, sir.

"That African guy for the Messenger. He’s just a pain in the ass trying to raise his own profile."

Bordon leans back in his chair so he can look down his nose at them. But people in this town support the police. I do, too. The guy is just playing the Black Lives Matter line and talking about defunding the department. That’s so crazy I won’t even discuss it.

How about individual police? Jody says. Police brutality doesn’t have to be an entire group.

Alleged brutality, Borden raises his eyebrows and Teague feels condescension fill the room.

Do you know either of the officers involved? Teague watches Jody’s fingernails digging into the arm of her chair. Or Joseph Pacyna?

He’s the Union rep.

Borden holds up his palm.

The guy and his girlfriend. They’re lucky no one checked them for the residue. If they did fire the shots, they could be prosecuted for resisting arrest, maybe even attempted murder.

The warrant was hinky, Jody says. It says the police got it because of a CI, but nobody’s seen it. We’re wondering if that CI has been used before. Or if he messed up the address and the cops hit the wrong place.

You’re reading that columnist again. He’s a rabble-rouser like all those BLM types. I wish to God he’d just shut up and let bygones be bygones.

That’s right, Jody snaps. This is an election year, isn’t it? You can’t afford to buck the guys who got you elected.

Borden stiffens. I’m not going to be intimidated by threats. You two can leave.

Jody turns to Teague, eyes wide and innocent. Did you hear a threat, Eric?

Not even, he says. We’re being pushy and disrespectful, but we’re always like that. We haven’t even said we’re going to post a crappy review online.

You two need to get a grip. Borden’s face turns red. You’re making wild and dangerous accusations. That’s what that reporter was doing, too, and Karma’s a bitch.

"Are you threatening us now?" Teague stares at Borden until the man picks up his phone. He turns to Jody.

It’s a warm day, Your Honor. Don’t let it get to you.

Jody seethes all the way back to their car and checks her phone after buckling her seat belt. Tanya Rios has responded to her text and is off that afternoon.

We’re in luck. She uses Google Maps to reach the woman’s apartment, a brick building that screams of the eighties with topiary that makes Teague think of The Shining.

Tanya greets them in jeans and a Taylor Swift T-shirt and ushers them into a small living room with potted plants on every flat surface except the chairs and couch. Sun splashes through the wide window and makes the place surprisingly bright.

In person, Tanya is Jody’s size, but her energy fills the space, and her voice is a crisp alto..

Gina, God. She clasps her hands in her lap. I still can’t believe it.

Do you think Kennedy M’tsumbe killed her? Teague asks.

God, he was so into her, Tanya replies. I could see that right away, they were like perfect together.

Gina was with him for about a year, is that right?

Um, I think I met him last fall sometime, and they were absolutely a couple by then. God, so cute. I know that sounds stupid, but…

Do you think he killed her? Jody asks again.

Tanya seems to shrink until Teague fears that she’ll slide between the slats on the back of her chair.

God, I don’t know, it’s all so crazy. I saw him at her funeral, and he looked awful. I wanted to go up and give him a hug, but…

You only saw him a couple of times, though? And were they both long ago?

Yeah. He was a kinda like a big brother, you know? Trying to take care of her. He was…

Tanya twists a lock of her dark hair around her finger and looks toward that sunny window.

He didn’t like you? Jody asks. She glances at Teague and changes the conversation to Spanish. Tanya’s eyes widen, but she replies swiftly. Teague’s Spanish consists of a half-dozen words he picked up from local gangbangers or bad movies, but he hears Shirlee Kumin’s name a couple of times. Jody matches her posture to Tanya’s, and they gradually lean toward each other.

After several minutes, Jody stands and thanks the woman, then glances at Teague.

She’ll text Shirlee and tell her I’m OK and she should call me.

Outside again, they lean against the shady side of Teague’s car.

Gina, Tanya and Shirlee all did a little blow, Jody reports. "That’s why Mitt only saw them