chapter twelve

I blinked. I’d gone from the new driveway of our perfect house to George’s awful car in half a blink. “What happened?”

George took that as a cue to piss and moan for the next few minutes, pulling the car over (“See, see? I’m lucky I didn’t need stitches or a lobe transplant. You know I’ve got a rare blood type! Cross-matching for a transplant could have taken months!”) twice (“You’re not looking. Look. Look! Looooooooook!”) to show me the hideous damage Shiro had inflicted on his unsuspecting earlobe with two fingernails. Ha!

“What?” he demanded.

“What?”

“You laughed!”

“That was out loud?” Hmm. I should probably start keeping an eye on that. “Sorry.”

“There was a time you never would have laughed at my pain.”

Not out loud, anyway. But George was right. (He’d never know how much pain it caused me to even think that; if I had to say it to his face, my throat would constrict enough to suffocate me.) Once I would have been so bound by courtesy, so imprisoned in my “Can’t we all get along” mind-set that I couldn’t have laughed. But now—

“Bwah-hah-hah!”

George glared, then put his blinker on and pulled back into traffic. “Fucking unreal,” he muttered while I chortled in the next seat.

Did this mean I was getting better, or worse? I’d have to ask my shrink.

“Other than your poor mangled earlobe, what’d I miss?”

“Sue Suicide struck again.”

“Darnitall!”

“Ooh, do you kiss your shrink with that mouth? Yeah, this time he nicked the guy’s femoral.”

“Bled out? The poor, poor man!”

“No. According to Shiro, he died of a salt imbalance.”

“Oh. That hypo thing. Hyper thing? You bleed enough to freak out your system and that’s what ends up killing you? I dunno. Sounds made up.”

“I know, right? But it looks like that’s what ended up killing him. Gallo was there and he backed—”

“Max Gallo? The doc who runs the blood bank? What, did he lose the coin toss for Musical MEs?”

(Some counties were small enough or understaffed enough that local doctors took shifts to cover duties required by a medical examiner’s office, rotating on a month-by-month or year-by-year basis.)

“No, check this—the vic was his patient.”

“What?” I made no effort to hide how appalled I was. This wasn’t the first time Max Gallo had been found lurking near a crime scene. It wasn’t even the first time this month. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Nuh-uh. He went over to check on the guy, found him, called us. Then Greer showed up—”

“I am so glad I missed all this,” I said, appalled.

“Chickenshit. Anyway, Greer huffed and he puffed but he didn’t blow us down. In fact, he was the least of our problems over there.”

“Why do I have the feeling that’s not good news?”

“You’ll get the crime-scene photos, but check this—the killer laid the guy out on a shower curtain in the middle of an immaculate living room. Not much of a mess. Shiro said it was too neat and she didn’t like what Greer had to say—”

“I mentioned I was glad to miss that, right? Yeesh. He’s not too keen on us.”

“Didn’t notice. Also, when I called him fat he got less keen.”

“You didn’t.” Even as I gasped that, I couldn’t believe I couldn’t believe it. “You did.”

“Yeah. But Shiro smoothed it over. Except I’m calling her Sag now.”

“That sounds like a terrible plan.” Maybe it only felt like I missed an hour or so. Perhaps it had been a month, or exactly one year. Much happened in not much time, darn it. Sag? Sag? How long was that going to go on? Was he trying to get beaten to death? And if he thought Shiro was saggy, did that mean he thought I was? And why did I care?

“Don’t bother me with details. Now we’re heading back to talk to Michaela.” He was silent for several minutes and I let him think. His earlobe sure looked like it stung. Heh. “Shiro’s right,” George said at last. “The apartments are too neat. And I don’t think the killer’s fixing these places up before he leaves. Or when he gets there. How’s he getting his victims to cooperate in their murders after they bust out the Swiffer and do the housework?”

“If we knew how, we’d know why.”

“Yeah, yeah.” George didn’t say much the rest of the way back to the office. I let him think. Truth be told, I sort of enjoyed the contemplative silence.