No normal had ever done that. Stared right through his disguise. He shifted on the seat.
Don’t be uncomfortable, Rachel said, I understand. Really I do. You’re a lovely person, Hilario. Keep Larry honest, will you?
She stood up. Looked back at the kitchen.
Larry will have your dinner out soon, she said. She put her hand on his arm. Until we meet again.
He snapped his shields tight, but there wasn’t any transference that he could tell. His thick shirt must have blocked it.
Then Rachel was walking away. Pushing out through the front door and into the night beyond. Leaving Hilario sitting in stunned bewilderment to wonder what had just happened.
A few days later, he was in again.
Larry told him Rachel was divorcing him.
FOURTEEN
Rachel–the ex Mrs. Sparrow–stood in the open doorway on unsteady legs. A sharp scent of alcohol washed over Hilario. She held a wine glass in one wavering hand. Dark red liquid sloshed around the bottom of it.
It looked too much like blood.
Mrs. Larry was still beautiful. Even drunk as the proverbial skunk. Her dark hair was a little mussed. There were bruised circles under her eyes. She wore close fitting blue jeans and a loose, black sweater that came down to the top of her thighs, hiding her figure.
Beyond her, Hilario could see an entryway lined with expensive looking tile and more warm colored wood. A wall blocked any further view into the house. A woven tapestry hanging on the wall proclaimed Welcome, Friends!
He suspected that might be a little out of date.
Beside him, the blocky Detective Marco let out an exclamation.
“Criminy, Rachael! What are you doing?”
Rachel narrowed her bleary eyes at him. Raised the wine glass to her lips and drained it. She pitched the glass over their heads. It crashed with a light tinkle of glass somewhere behind them.
“Marco,” she said. Her words weren’t slurred. They were precise. Clipped. “What does it look like I’m doing? You’re the detective. Detect.”
Marco glanced back at the street. He held out his hands.
“Let’s get you inside,” he said.
“No!” she said.
She stuck out her right arm. Blocked the doorway with her slight body. Detective Marco could have easily picked her up and put her over his shoulder. But the look on her face said whoever touched her would be picking up a saber skinned tornado demon.
Something Hilario would not recommend anyone do.
Detective Marco put his hands down. Took half a shuffled step back. He wisely chose not to use physical aggression.
“Rachel,” he said, “I need to talk to you.”
Her eyes narrowed even further.
“And what do you need to talk to me about?” she said, “Why didn’t you come talk to me a couple hours ago? Why did I get a visit from one of those uniformed idiots?”
Marco took his dark gray fedora from his head. Held it over his chest.
“Rachel, I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m not officially working on this yet.”
She punched him in the fedora. He grunted and staggered back.
“Why did I find out from one of them!” she shouted. Tears ran down her cheeks. But her eyes were fierce.
“I’m sorry,” Marco said. His hands worked over his fedora. Popping out the fist sized dent in the crown.
Rachel swiveled to Hilario. She cocked her head to one side just a bit.
“Hilario?”
He honked his nose. Made a happy clown face with a side of jazz hands.
His makeup was probably looking a bit blurry around the edges. Probably running in places. He really needed this night to end already.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. She hooked a thumb at Detective Marco. “This bozo didn’t hire you did he?”
What kind of person would hire a clown to console a grieving ex-widow? Well, there were people…he’d been hired for such jobs on more than one occasion.
“He’s a suspect,” Marco said, “Do you know him?”
Rachel gave Marco an incredulous stare. She leaned against the doorjamb. Ran a hand through her thick, dark hair. The smell of alcohol was dissipating. From the open doorway Hilario detected the distinctive aroma of toasted bread and tomato sauce. Melted cheddar and mozzarella cheese.
And something else. A bit of earthy spiciness.
Green chilies?
Pizza?
“Seriously Marco?” Rachel said, “Hilario wouldn’t hurt anyone. Would you Hilario? He’s the sweetest, gentlest, most lovely soul I’ve met. Aren’t you?”
Hilario honked his nose and threw a little glittering confetti from a hidden pocket in his sleeve.
If she only knew…
And Detective Marco suspected otherwise, too, it seemed.
“He was there a couple times tonight,” Marco said. He glanced at the street again. “Listen, let’s go inside and talk.” He started forward. “There’s some things we–”
Rachel blocked the doorway with her arm again. Gave Marco another steely eyed glare. He backed off. She turned her gaze to Hilario.
“You were there? At the…Sparrow?”
Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes.
It was getting very difficult to believe she had anything to do with Larry’s death. But…pizza in her home? Pizza that smelled most suspiciously like Larry’s signature Albuquerque Pie?
Hilario nodded. Clasped his white gloved hands together.
“My deepest condolences,” he said, “Larry…will be very much missed.”
Eventually. Assuming he could pry Larry’s ghost out of his van.
Rachel reached out. Gathered a handful of his puffy orange suit in his delicate hand. Her eyes bored into him.
Waves of sorrow and anger poured off her. He clenched his shields tighter, but it still came through. He really should have stuffed his wig full of aluminum foil tonight.
Her voice husky with emotion, she asked, “Why were you there, Hilario?”
He tried to gently pull back. But her grip was too tight. He had no doubt
