“Yes, I know,” K said. “She introduced herself. We had tea. She was weeding a vegetable garden and I practically landed on top of her. She thought you and I were having a deliciously torrid affair.”
“You set her straight about that, of course.”
“Well, no. I couldn’t. I mean, she was so delighted. And I got the impression she hasn’t heard anything about…well, Mr. Sjorgen or Mr. Milliken, so why else would I be climbing over your back fence? I had to have a reason, right? I hope you don’t mind.”
Velma would be more than delighted, of course. Her eyes would glow in the dark for days, like a cat or vampire. Next time I saw her she would pump me for information like bilge pumps on a battleship.
I said, “I’ve never been on the phone this long with anyone whose name I didn’t know. Wouldn’t care to enlighten me, would you?”
“Later, okay? I better go. I’m pretty sure this place charges phone calls by the minute. I might have to sneak out in the morning, early. I’ll be in touch.”
“If you say.” If she was getting as low on cash as it sounded, I thought it wouldn’t be too long before she was back for a refill.
“You—you’re a private investigator now, aren’t you? It was on TV.”
In fact, it was the thrust of both of Leno’s jokes.
“There’s some debate about that,” I said. “Even though I’ve got the best missing persons record in all of North America.”
She gave a somber little laugh. “Gotta go. Bye.”
“Yeah, see you.”
I hung up. Goddamn if I wasn’t starting to like this woman. I liked her voice. And the way she’d looked in my bed hadn’t put me off any, either. I just didn’t want to find her head anywhere, which is a skill I’ve developed recently.
* * *
I stared up at the ceiling. My watch on the nightstand let out a quiet double chirp, announcing midnight. And again at one o’clock. I was still awake, proof that I hadn’t had nearly enough to drink.
Jonnie, you son of a bitch. What were you into? Or was it Milliken? Or was it both of you? Who got you guys?
And Gregory, you dumb shit, what did you stumble across?
Something.
I sat up partway in bed. That was something, right there, a great big something and I’d missed it. Greg had been out beating the bushes, checking out Sjorgen’s various properties or whatever and had come across the killer. Must have. Decapitations aren’t that common.
Where one went, I thought, another could follow.
Right. And what killed one could kill another.
I sank back down on the mattress. Truth was, I wasn’t in any position to assess how good a sleuth Greg was, or his ability at self-defense, but he’d run into something lethal and hadn’t had the wit, strength, or perceptiveness to survive, so he hadn’t been good enough.
And I was an ex-IRS auditor, not a goddamn PI, so where did that leave me?
Great Gumshoe, hell. I couldn’t find a lake up in Wisconsin, much less some lady’s kid.
Suddenly I sat up again, blinking.
Greg hadn’t gone to Wisconsin, either. He’d farmed the case out to someone out there who knew the territory.
Right then I knew what I had to do if I was going to stay in the game, since I wasn’t an IRS agent or a PI—since I wasn’t anything at all now—except, maybe—a middleman.
Come the dawn, I had to go out and hire myself a private investigator.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I DIDN’T FALL asleep quickly, and when I did, I didn’t sleep worth a damn. The way Greg had looked on his desk kept me up past two that morning. For all his stuffiness, he’d been a darn good kid.
When morning came, it came hard. Sunlight blasted through my window like a searchlight. I felt an almost biblical punishment in the brain-searing glare that lit up my eyelids. I never should’ve asked K to clean the windows. I hadn’t appreciated the value of dirt.
That was it, I vowed. I’d had it with beer, anything with alcohol in it, including cold remedies. I turned away from the light, finding myself sore in places I couldn’t account for until I remembered Velma’s clothesline and the six-foot freefall onto my back lawn.
I peeked out a window that faced the street, careful not to move the curtains quickly or let my face show in the window. As I’d feared, news hounds were still out there. K was right about one thing: they were getting to be a bit much.
It seemed as good a time as any to do something about that. What with the change of careers and the recent turmoil in my life, I hadn’t been out for a jog in several days. Somewhere I’d heard a good run does wonders for a hangover, if you can stand the jarring. And if you like to eat, as I do, it helps keep the waistline under control and the cholesterol down. Normally I try to get out three or four times a week for at least five miles, sometimes more. I was due.
And, as a bonus, I thought today’s outing could be made fairly entertaining as well.
To test that theory, I came out the front door at seven fifteen wearing lightweight sweat pants and an old T-shirt. Without a glance at the news vans and wagons, I took off at a lope, headed downtown. Shouts erupted behind me and engines roared to life. About then, I may have smiled.
I pounded along faster than usual, which hurt more than usual. It didn’t take the first van long to pull up alongside, weaving slightly. I hadn’t made it two blocks, and this long-haired kid was leaning out a window, squinting into a viewfinder while shouting inane questions. I doubled back abruptly, a quarter of the way down the block. The van’s brakes squealed, followed by a satisfying crunch, the sound of a
