Chapter 1

This story takes place in July of 2008

"I don't do murders," I said. I was sitting in my high-backed leather chair in my office, looking at the man who wanted to be my client. He was an Anglo, tall and slender, with mousy brown hair and a forgettable face. He'd have made the perfect PI, assuming he was up to the work – no one would ever remember him afterwards. If appearance were the sole criterion, he'd have been a much better PI than I am, for I am anything but inconspicuous in my usual clothing.

"You've done a few." His voice was average too.

"A few, and never because I was eager."

"So what does it take to overcome your not being eager?"

The guy had walked in a few minutes ago. I'd been in the office for almost the first time since the first part of the year, having hit a streak of just not wanting to detect. If he'd come any other day, or any other time during this day, he'd have missed me. But he'd asked the right question, instead of just trying to bulldoze me.

"Well," I told him, "you'd have to convince me that this is a murder that I'd want to solve myself, rather than one I'd be content to leave to the cops."

"And what would that mean?"

I made an exasperated sound. "Oh, shoot, I don't know. I take notions. The last time I took a murder it was 'cause the client demonstrated plainly that they'd whacked the guy just 'cause he was gay. But if he'd come in the day before or the day after, I might not have cared about that."

"Are you gay?" the man asked, ignoring my tangled diction.

"That ain't none o' your business – though they's evidence in this office to answer your question."

He looked around, and I saw his eyes settle on the family portrait that hangs in back of my desk. It's a couple of years old now, and shows me, Cecelia, and Darlia all dressed up ... though my version of all dressed up looks pretty informal compared to Cecelia's everyday. I married a woman who really loves her clothes, and has better taste than anyone I've ever known. "Okay, you're straight."

"Yeah, and it ain't relevant to nothin' we're talkin' about." My English is always informal, and when I'm irritated it gets more so.

"Look, I'm just trying to find out what I need to say to get you to take this case."

"Maybe they ain't nothin' you can say." I could hear the finality in my tone.

I guess he could too, for he stood up. He'd been in the straight-backed wooden chair across the desk for not even five minutes. "Well, you came highly recommended, but if you don't want the job I guess you don't want it. I'll have to try someone else."

"Yeah, that's the idea." I pulled open my middle desk drawer, scrabbled around for a few seconds, and pulled out a card that said Kim, Investigations. "Since it's a murder, a PI who likes to shoot might not be a drawback. This lady'll probably love your case, and she is tough – more than me. An' she does shoot easy."

He reached across the desk and took the card, looking at it – noticing, I'm sure, the phone number in the lower right corner. "Thank you for this," he said. "And for at least listening to me." He looked back at the portrait behind me. "That must be your wife in the outer office."

I grinned. "Yeah, that's her. Without actually deciding to, I've wound up hiring her to be my part-time secretary."

"She's a striking woman." And he turned and went.

It was five minutes or so later that the sound of an automatic weapon came through the glass of the window. Before I could think I was out of my chair and at the window, whose low sill hit me at mid-thigh. I looked down, just in time to see a white minivan squeal out of the parking lot. My visitor, or at least someone wearing his clothes, was sprawled on the blacktop in that careless pose that only the dead can get into – because only the dead feel no discomfort.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, yanking me back. I spun to my right, to find Cecelia's sharp-featured face there. She's only an inch shorter than I am, and that's not enough to matter. I realized peripherally that she had her pistol in her right hand, her trigger finger lying along the barrel as I'd taught her years ago. A glance told me that her thumb has flipped off the safety and that the hammer was back – I had to assume she'd moved a round up into the chamber. "It's okay," I told her. "The shooters did their thing and split."

She nodded and dropped her hand. "I don't suppose they could have hit you from 40 feet down in any event. Such people seldom know how to do more than – what did you call it once?"

"Spray and pray."

"Precisely. From there, shooting upwards, they'd have probably blown out all the windows on the second floor." My office is on the fourth floor of the building.

"Yeah," I said, beginning to shake with adrenaline letdown. "Put your gun away, and I'll call the cops."

Cecelia nodded, and went back through the connecting door. But she poked her head back in. "I presume that you are now involved in this investigation?"

I looked up at her, my hand on the phone that sat on the right side of my desk. "Yeah – right now I am definitely involved."

My un-client had died at 10:30 in the morning, or thereabouts – I hadn't thought to look at my watch until I'd hung up the phone and sat in my chair for a minute. It was still a better estimate than forensics is capable of on its own. By checking liver temperature and looking at the ambient temperature, by judging the degree of rigor mortis and livor mortis, the scientists can make fairly good guesses at time of death, but a fairly good guess is still a guess.

He'd died at 10:30, and it was dark when Cecelia and I walked out of the building. I checked my watch then, and it was just after eight. We hadn't been there 12 hours, but it wasn't far off either. Cecelia held my hand as we walked to my Blazer, where I unlocked the passenger door and then walked around to unlock mine. I pulled my gun off my belt, stuck it in the clip under the seat, and climbed in. I stuck the key in the ignition, but before I could turn it Cecelia laid her hand on my arm.

"Why," she asked, "did you wish me to remain quiet on the matter of you taking the case?"

"Well," I said, "you'll remember I told you not to lie. Shoot, there wasn't anything to lie about, and even in this business I like the truth anyway. But ... well, remember that verse that says you shouldn't worry 'bout tomorrow 'cause you got enough problems today?"