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“You danced good, Mama,” Joanna said, buckling her seatbelt.
“Thank you, honey. So did you. But we danced well, not good.”
Joanna groaned. Then she chirped, “Hi, Bob.”
Sandra jumped. She hadn’t known he was there. “Well hello, stranger.”
“What’ve we got?”
“We? Where have you been?”
Bob raised an eyebrow. “Do you really need an angelic force at dance class?”
“I guess not.”
“There was a dust-up at the Lawrence football practice.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And I’ve been keeping an eye on Chip and Slaughter, see if I can learn anything.”
“And?”
“And nothing. They don’t know anything. They found no interesting prints at Ivan’s house and no murder weapon. But he was killed with a two-forty-three.”
“A what?”
“That was the caliber size. The bullet.”
“Oh.” Sandra didn’t know anything about bullets.
“They seemed surprised by that, but I don’t know why.”
She glanced at him. “Angels don’t know guns?”
“The hunting angels do. The military angels do. This middle school sports angel does not. But I know how much psi is supposed to be in a soccer ball, and they don’t.”
She held up a hand. “I wasn’t picking on you. I was only curious.”
“And I know the free throw percentage for every kid in my territory!” He was still defensive.
Why on earth would he know that? Why would anyone ever need to know that? She thought it best to change the subject. “We need to talk to someone who knows what a two-forty-three is.”
“Maybe Gertrude knows.”
“No!” she said quickly with less decorum than she would’ve liked. “I don’t think Gertrude knows anything about bullets.”
He snickered. “You don’t want her to know something you don’t know.”
“Have you seen the woman? What makes you think she knows anything about bullets?”
“Fine. Who do you want to ask?”
“Did you look it up online?”
He laughed. “Of course not. Angels don’t do that.”
“What do angels do?”
He didn’t answer her.
“We could ask the hunting angel?”
“It’s bow season. He’s very busy.”
Frustration was creeping in. “Fine.” She pulled the van into the next available parking lot, which, she realized too late, was a bar.
“Yes, these people might know.”
She rolled her eyes in the darkness. “We’re not going in.” She fished out her phone and started to type. “What did you say it was again?”
“Two-forty-three,” he said slowly.
She waited for results and then read them aloud. “The .243 Winchester is a sporting rifle cartridge originally designed for target practice or varmint shooting. Today it is used to hunt coyotes, deer, and wild hogs.” She looked up at him. “Sounds pretty common. I don’t know why that would be surprising to them.”
Bob shrugged. “Maybe we should go in there and ask.” He pointed his chin at the door under the neon beer sign.
“No! Stop it!”
His face fell. He looked like Peter looked when Sandra told him to turn off his video games.
“If you want to go in, go ahead in.”
He appeared to be thinking about it.
She hoped he would decide against it. She didn’t want him doing any more investigating without her.
A man came out of the bar, lit a cigarette, and headed toward a pickup.
“Go ask him,” Bob said.
“I’m not walking up to some strange man in a bar’s dark parking lot!”
“Fine.” He was upset with her.
“Can’t we wait until tomorrow and go talk to someone at a gun store?”
Bob shook his head. “It would be so much faster to go ask that guy.”
The man hadn’t gotten into his truck. He was leaning against the driver’s side door, smoking his cigarette.
“Come on. Time is a factor here. We need an answer. I’ll be right here the whole time. Nothing bad will happen.”
She sighed. “Fine. But I’m not going to get out of the van.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” She looked in the rearview. “Joanna, duck down.”
Joanna hesitated. “You really want me to?”
“Yes!” She sounded less patient than she’d meant to. Bob’s directive was so absurd that she was freaking out a little.
Joanna ducked down.
Still feeling that this was a bad idea, Sandra drove across the parking lot. She rolled down her window. “Excuse me?”
He looked up at her.
Good. He looked normal enough. Probably not a serial killer.
