Chapter 1

This story takes place in December, 2006

It was early December and cold. Though it was Friday I'd stayed home from the office – I can go out in the cold if I have to, but I really don't like to, and I'd just finished up a case which had sent me out in the weather enough for a while. Last night, before I'd gone to bed, I'd left a message on the office answering machine for Marla if she came in that day, and now I was being lazy.

I was sprawled out on the sofa reading Heinlein's Citizen of the Galaxy, which I've loved since I was in high school. I had Count Basie on the CD player, and my family was out in the weight shed doing their daily workout – or almost daily, for very occasionally Cecelia or Darlia or both might decide to leave the weights alone for a day. I had on a pair of jeans that were too worn out for even me to wear around in public – the knees were gone, and the cuffs in back where my boot heels step on them were ragged, and they were faded almost white, and the front pockets had so many patches that Cecelia had given up trying to fix holes. For once I had no shirt on – I usually wear one even in the house – and the permanent tan on my hands and lower forearms contrasted with the white elsewhere. I'm half Indian, but I look all white; my brother Memphis looks like a full blood.

It would be Christmas before we knew it. I already had Cecelia and Darlia's presents hidden at the office – not that they'd snoop around in my study, but except for Darlia's school none of our schedules is in stone, and I didn't want to have 'em walk in on me unexpectedly. I planned to do the wrapping Monday – it would still be two weeks before Christmas, but I'd be ready. Some people wait till the last minute, but I don't like to. I don't necessarily have to have everything always ready two weeks early, but I certainly hate waiting till time to leave, or time to wrap presents, or time to get dressed, or whatever, and then rushing around. Maybe it's because I'm from California, though not everyone out there fits the laid back stereotype, but I hate having to go at Mach 25 just 'cause I didn't want to do it earlier.

The phone rang. I got up and walked over to where it sat on Cecelia's desk. Normally I just let it ring, but sometimes I'll check the caller ID – not every call is junk. This one wasn't; it showed APD. That could be anything – one of the area commands, a guy from headquarters downtown, the Osuna substation, or whatever. But it was probably official – I couldn't remember the last time I'd gotten a call with APD in the caller ID.

I grabbed the phone off the charger and said, "Hello."

"Is this Darvin Carpenter?"

"Yeah, mate – who did you think?" I was smiling, for I thought I recognized the voice.

With the next words over the phone my smile disappeared. "Mr. Carpenter, this is Sergeant Miles of the Albuquerque Police Department." I did recognize the voice, but the formality was out of character. "Do you know an individual named Larry Entragian?"

The natural impulse in such a situation is to bombard the cop with questions. But I'd been a cop, and I've been working in crime since 1986; I know that you're not going to get answers till the cop's done what he needs to do. And anyway the cops don't clear cases by telling everyone everything on demand. I just said, "Yes."

"I wonder if you could come over to Mr. Entragian's apartment."

"I can, Jerry—" that being Miles' first name "—but I would like to know why. I'm spending the day with my family and I'm not running all over town just 'cause you want me to."

"Mr. Carpenter, it appears that Mr. Entragian has committed suicide. However, we've been unable to positively identify the body and we hope you can do so."

I forced myself past the mental block that wanted to keep me from saying anything. "Give me a bit. I've got to get dressed and tell my wife." I knew I was in shock by the way I didn't slur my words into "gimme" and "gotta." I hung up without saying anything else.

If I was going to tell Cecelia I had to get dressed; with the cold, going out to the shed shirtless and shoeless wouldn't be fun. I headed for the bedroom. I found one of my winter shirts, made out of a heavier fabric than usual, in a pattern that reminded me of a Scottish tartan. My mother had some sort of Scottish connection, but I'm only moderately interested in Scottish stuff. I know more or less what a tartan looks like, but not which is which. Once I had the shirt on I changed jeans to a presentable pair, and put on socks. My boots were by the living room door. I went into our bathroom and brushed my teeth. I looked at my hair; it was neat enough that I didn't bother combing it. There are advantages to having slightly wavy hair, instead of straight and limp.