JANIE SLID the slip of notebook paper to her employer. Veena lifted it from the counter, unfolded it, read the name and address Janie had scribbled on it.
“Who’s this?”
“Quite possibly the guy who killed Archie Hughes.”
“Some random guy from Kensington is now our lead suspect?”
Janie walked Veena through her conversation with Travis, the recovery specialist from the previous night. It had taken another two martinis, but Travis finally agreed to give Janie the name and address of the moron who claimed he had Archie Hughes’s Super Bowl ring and wallet.
Travis was convinced this was a dead lead; a man smart enough to evade every surveillance camera in the Museum of Art area wouldn’t go shooting his mouth off about having the missing ring.
“But the guy might not know there is footage,” Veena said.
“Exactly,” Janie replied. “Which made me think, what if this was just a carjacking gone wrong?”
Veena started riffing. “This guy thinks he’s just boosting a fancy car but then sees who he’s robbing, freaks out, and shoots him.”
“He doesn’t want to go away empty-handed, so he takes what he can carry.”
“Archie’s wallet. And his Super Bowl ring.”
“It’s possible, right?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Veena pushed her stool back and prepared to leave. Janie grabbed her arm. “Wait.”
“Don’t worry, just put the tab on the company card,” Veena said. “Good work.”
“No, it’s not that. I don’t think you want to be going up to this guy’s apartment alone. That neighborhood is rough—I covered crime up there for two years. And with your painted nails, fancy shades, and expensive shoes, you’re kind of a target.”
Veena smiled. “Yesterday I shot and killed a professional hit man. I also threatened to put a bullet in an elderly man’s face. I don’t think I’ll have a problem.”
Janie started to laugh, but the sound died in her throat as she clocked Veena’s expression and realized she wasn’t joking. Before she could form a follow-up question—she had several—Veena was adjusting her shades and heading out the door.