9

Tuesday June 28

“Egad,” Terry said. “Do I need to leave the country?” He petted Jackson’s head reassuringly. “Don’t worry, old boy. If I go, I’ll smuggle you and Napa out with me.”

Lia surveyed the dog park parking lot. No strange cars. If Brent was coming, he’d already be here.

“I think Bailey saved you. I bet the photo is blurry.”

“How do you know?” Bailey asked.

“I think Peter was fishing last night, to see what I knew. He deliberately only told me so much to see if I would fill in the blanks. If they could identify Terry from the photo, they would have gone to Terry. Peter would have shown me the photo. The photo is worthless, so he tells me they have it to see if I freak. They may do the same to either of you.”

“If the photo is so bad, why do they think it’s Terry?” Bailey asked.

“Peter said he didn’t think the woman in question had a fanboy with gray hair and camo, then he asked what Terry was up to.”

“He has a point,” Terry said.

“If you plan to surrender, leave me out of it,” Bailey said.

“Peter suggested they might ask ‘the woman in question’ to describe her interviewer. He seems to think she’s tall and has red hair.”

“At least he got that wrong,” Bailey said.

“I forgot my Groucho Marx glasses. If they do ask her, I’m screwed.”

Terry’s face crumpled in concern. “I am duly chastised. How do we weather the storm?”

“Hold tight. I think Peter meant me to let you know that they know because they want us to squirm. I’m hoping this goes away. Whatever you do, do not mention Citrine. We know nothing about Citrine. Citrine does not exist. We don’t even know it’s a rock.”

“I will essay to be more careful in the future,” Terry said.

“Terry, there is no future. I’m out. I just had the most uncomfortable night of my life. I’m not putting my relationship with Peter at risk. No more Sherlock for me.”

“What do you think?” Brent asked. He and Peter stood in the station parking lot at the start of shift. With the laughingly-named bullpen so crowded, this was the only place they could get a private word.

Peter took a slug of his morning Pepsi. “I think I hate sparring with Lia. She never gave anything away, but she spent too much time thinking. She was slow off the mark for critical questions and sometimes her responses didn’t answer my questions. I hate when people do that. It’s a sure sign they’re hiding something.”

“Maybe she was just worried about her friends. You didn’t push her?”

“No, I didn’t push her. I don’t want my personal life to die an ugly death before this case ends. What do you plan to do?”

“I haven’t decided. If it was Lia’s friend, then it has nothing to do with Eberschlag, and pursuing it is a waste of time when I could be chasing down reports that he was eating a banana split at Putz’s. If it was somebody else, we have no leads. But if you want to put a scare into the Scooby Gang, we can work something out.”

“I like this hanging over their heads like the Sword of Damocles. I think the threat is more terrifying than the reality,” Peter said. “And if nature takes its course, it will wind up coming out without bringing out the rubber hoses.”

“Damocles? Pretty fancy for a boy from Kentucky.” Brent’s head jerked sideways at the sound of a car approaching. He was not an expert by any means, but he recognized the growl of that particular Ford Mustang. It belonged to Cynth, a goddess among women. “Oh, my heart,” he sighed and watched out of the corner of his eye as she left her car.

Cynth downplayed her gorgeous figure by wearing her regulation polos two sizes too big. Fresh scrubbed skin and a no-nonsense braid were meant to keep her fellow officers at bay. It never worked.

Peter shook his head. “She hates you, you know.”

“No she doesn’t. She wants me so much she can’t stand it, and only hates me by association with the passion she tries to deny.”

“Uh-huh. … Hey Cynth,” Peter called.

“Hey yourself.” Cynth looked down her nose at Brent, a neat trick because she was four inches shorter.

“Hey beautiful,” Brent said.

“Peter, was someone speaking?”

He grinned. “Just the wind. Lia said to invite you to the Northside Parade. You want to see the neighborhood weirdos make idiots of themselves in a misguided expression of community spirit?”

“Sounds like fun. Who else will be there?”

“Just me, two dogs, and the wind. Think you can stand a little wind?”

“As long as you stay between me and the wind, I think I can handle it.”

“Great. We’ve been given special dispensation to hang out on the library lawn. You might as well park here and take the bus up Hamilton Avenue. Just get there before 11:30 and bring water. There’s a cookout afterwards.”

“We’ll see how it goes. I’ve got to get inside.” Cynth continued on to the station, her wheat-colored braid swinging in counterpoint to her hips.

Peter watched Brent watching her. “She knows you’re looking.”

“She’s crazy about me,” Brent said.

Peter nodded his head. “I can see that.”