"Damnedest burglars I've ever seen, washing dishes and leaving the money."
She stared at the phone for a moment and stood like a statue, plotting her next move. That girl could be ice if she wanted to, just like the Sidhe, no reaction or a flip comment where a sane person would dash around in panic. David headed for the apartment door, to check with the Mendozas and use their phone.
Yellow plastic streamers barred the door, "Police Line" in reversed letters in the hall light. "Jo . . ."
He felt her behind his shoulder, tallying up the evidence like a cyborg. "How long have we been gone?"
Brigadoon. Rip Van Winkle. Spend a night in Faerie and find a lifetime has passed when you return.
David clenched his fist and gnawed on a knuckle, staring at the door. A glued paper seal had joined the frame to the metal door, someone's signature now split by a rip through the middle. Proof the door had been opened, tampering with evidence. Jo studied it, calmly adding another tick-mark to her checklist.
She's inhuman. He shuddered, realizing that the phrase meant just what it said.
She nodded, computer run complete. "Okay, we need some excuse for opening the door, some way to toss off a few weeks without a story."
She glanced up. The stairwell light flashed blue and went dark, filament burned out. She flipped the kitchen light off, plunging them back into night. Enough light filtered up from the second floor so that David could see her climbing through the tape, leaving it in place. He followed her, numb, and pulled the door closed behind him.
She ticked off one finger on her right hand. "First thing we do, we buy a pint of booze and split it. We're drunk. Dark hall, drunk, we didn't notice the tape and seal in time. No criminal intent, no crime."
Second finger. "We've been drunk or stoned for weeks, no idea how long. Off on a trip with Brian and Mo, celebrating. They're engaged, we're engaged, big party, got crazy and took it on the road -- out west, down south, Canada, don't have a clue where and when, you and I tell different stories, no problem."
Third finger. "They've just dropped us off, Brian drove away, no idea where they're going. I've got to get back to my job, you've got gigs to play. Gonna be a hell of a hangover."
* * *
The chairs hurt. David couldn't recall anyone mentioning that in the detective movies, but his ass said that the chair had been designed to be uncomfortable. And they weren't even "under interrogation," just sitting in a cluttered detective's office across the government-issue gray steel desk from a polite cop. Everyone had been polite, and he and Jo were still together rather than split apart to see if their stories matched. He wondered how long that would last.
He blinked and forced his eyes to focus. "Hey, what's this about, anyway?"
The man in blue wrinkled his nose with disgust. The collar tabs called him a sergeant, square body with a bit of a donut belly and buzz-cut brown hair and medium-dark skin, maybe Naskeag or Black genes in there somewhere.
David blinked again and focused on the nametag, working his way through half a pint of vodka. Getchell, that was the name. Sergeant Getchell. No ethnic clues there.
"Family tried to call you, urgent. No answer for weeks, so they asked us to check. We went in with a key from your landlord."
Jo squirmed in her chair, glancing across at David. "Weeks? Weeks? We've only been gone a week or two!"
The cop frowned. He looked like he was giving a blood alcohol test by eye and nose. "Ms. Pierce, our records show that your last day at work was February fifteenth. Same for your sister. Last time anyone saw any of you was the next morning. Today's date is April thirteenth. I think your people had a right to be concerned."
"Shit."
Jo looked pale, worse than her normal fair skin. Scared. Now the freckles stood out like a rash. But that date explained the shrunken snow-banks along the road that had graced their walk to the cop shop. Mud Season, Maine's least lovely face.
The silence stretched out until David felt compelled to fill it. "Why the crime scene tape? We were out celebrating. What's wrong with that?"
"Food rotting, mail piling up, looked suspicious. So we called in a lab team. The forensics guys came up with blood between the kitchen tiles. A lot of blood, looked like, then somebody had scrubbed it up. Maybe murder. We secured the scene in case the DA wanted more tests."
Oh. Brian's blood, from when Fiona had set a street gang on him, trying to capture him. He'd staggered back to Maureen for help. But they didn't want to talk about that . . .
"Brian cut himself, bad. Kitchen knife. You go into their apartment, as well? Find the old bandages, same blood type?"
The cop nodded, reluctantly. "Yeah. Forensics says there's not much doubt, blood type is rare as hell. But we still want to talk to this 'Brian Albion' of yours. Some street rats got beat up in an alley. One died. They identified him, by name. Kids like those, we wouldn't take their word for what day it was. Myself, even if the story's true I think he's done us a favor. But we still need to talk to him, to close the file."
Right, thought David. And you think I'm drunk enough to believe that. Then you'll sell me some prime Florida swampland.
The sergeant consulted his notes. "You say you spent last night in Toronto. Can you give me a name for the motel?"
David glanced at Jo and shook his head. She waved it off. "Wrong. Last night was Syracuse. Toronto was last week. Brian had to return a car to this friend of his. Apartment, not motel."
He burped and tasted recycled vodka. Damn good thing
