“That’s a fancy trick, a corpse moving underground.”
“You think someone did that on purpose, planted a tree on top of that body so it would move?”
“If the killer planted that tree, I imagine he did it to keep the body from being found. I don’t think he would have done it if he knew the tree would fall over. That’s counterproductive.”
“Dick said Commodore has been watching that tree for years, expecting it to come down. What do you suppose that means?”
“That just means he’s tuned in to the creek. If he knew what was under there, I don’t imagine he’d say anything about it to anyone, do you?”
Lia yawned. “I’m sure you’re right. What time is it, anyway?”
“Almost midnight.”
“What took so long?”
It was a question, not an accusation. Unlike Viola, Lia was not in a snit over being neglected.
“Amanda and Junior had to cut the whole mess away from the tree, roots and all.”
“How’d they manage that?”
“Like disarming a bomb with a thousand red wires. Surgery with a Sawzall and pruning shears. Amanda cussed a blue streak the whole time.”
“Poor Junior.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Junior. You could hit him with a hammer and he’d just go about whatever he was doing.”
“Poor you, then.”
“Cynth and I were conveniently banished to the creek to see if parts of Not Elvis—that’s what Amanda calls him—were laying on the bottom. Which was pointless because the water was too muddy to see anything.”
“Maybe she wanted you out of the way.”
“Fine by me. We spent most of the afternoon on the water, mostly out of earshot. After that we sieved a hundred gallons of muck to make sure nothing important was left behind. Then there was Junior, going over the area with a metal detector.”
“Sounds like you needed a bigger team.”
Peter sighed. “No room on the site for a larger team and no one else available with all hands processing that club shooting across town. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best we could do under the circumstances. You also have to factor in the quality of any evidence we were likely to get. It’s not like we’d find tire treads or fingerprints that needed to be preserved. I would have been home hours ago, but we went into the station to take care of paperwork. I want it in Parker’s hands first thing Monday morning.”
“Why don’t you want the case?”
Lia had become expert at reading between his lines.
“We won’t solve it.”
“You won’t?”
“Cold cases get solved two ways. Technological advances allow us to extract new information from evidence collected at the time. Even if we figure out who he is and where he was killed, any evidence that existed at the time is degraded, has been painted or paved over, or is just plain lost.”
“I love a man with a positive attitude. What’s the other way?”
“Smart ass. Someone knew all along and finally decides to talk. By the clothes, those bones date back to Jimmy Carter’s presidency. Anyone who knew anything is dead or has Alzheimer’s.”
“Still, it would be interesting.”
“Sure. Interesting like Jack the Ripper. Thousands of experts examined the evidence for more than a century, and all we have are a dozen theories no one will ever prove.”
“I liked the case Patricia Cornwell made for Walter Sickert.”
“Only because you think his paintings stink. I’m betting on the guy who discovered the first victim. Smart money says he was in the middle of butchering Polly Nichols when he heard the cart coming, and covered himself by running out and raising the alarm. But it doesn’t matter. There’s no way to prove anything.
“Not Elvis has the potential to stall a career and haunt the poor slob who gets him. He’ll spend his retirement drinking in the basement while he reviews the file he stole from the department and wonders what he missed.”
“Thus the expedited paperwork, to end your involvement before it begins.”
“Plenty of crime in the here and now. Solving those means justice for the living and preventing future crimes. I’d rather do work that makes lives better. Not Elvis is only good for click bait and the book someone is bound to write.”
“When you put it that way, I see your point. Did you eat?”
“Cynth and I split a pizza. That’s one advantage of the move to College Hill. La Rosa’s right across the street. It’s not Dewey’s but it will do.”
“Don’t ever let the locals hear you say that.” Lia turned in his arms, pressed a cheek to his shoulder and ran a finger down the lapel of his robe. “I imagine you’re tired.”
Peter smiled into her hair. “Woman Who Expects So Little, I’m never that tired.”
Fire
Monday, February 3, 1936
The sirens woke Mal. The light outside his window made him get up to look. He lived in a room over a grocery store on Monmouth Street, and with all the neon on all the joints on the strip, the night was never dark. But this was too bright for 3 a.m.
He raised the sash and poked his head into the freezing air. A glow lit the sky, rising behind the storefronts. He sniffed. Plenty of smoke this time of year, but this was acrid and dirty. He dressed, grabbed a quart bottle of beer from under his bed, shrugged on his coat and headed up to the roof.
Old man Morton sat on a crate, hands burrowed in his pockets. He jerked his chin at the darkness.
“Damn shame, that.”
Miles south of town, red and gold flames rose from the top of a hill, shooting several stories into the air. The color danced, mesmerizing and alive like the inside of a hot crucible. Black smoke poured into the sky, blotting out the stars overhead. He bet people could see the show from the high places across the river in Cincinnati.
Mal’s breath fogged in the frigid air. He stamped his feet to shake the cold and took a pull of beer.
“What is it?” he asked.
“That’s the Beverly Hills, son. We won’t see her like again.”
The Beverly Hills. A gambling palace fit for Hollywood and royalty, where swells from all over threw their money away. Gutter rats like him never made it past the door, though he could handle cards with the best of them.
And someone torched it.
Mal sat on the crate and shivered in the bitter cold. He offered his bottle to Morton, watching dreams burn while the smoke stink sank into his clothes and skin.
Day 2
Sunday, April 21 , 2019
Lia peered inside the laundry basket sitting on her usual picnic table and forgot about the friends crowding around her. Curled in a gray blanket, a tiny ball of splotchy brown and black fur stared at Lia with startled eyes as blue as an October sky. Her hands reached out of their own volition and picked up the puppy, bringing her face to face.
The puppy licked her nose with desperate affection. Tears prickled Lia’s eyes as she cuddled the warm body against her shoulder, fur soft as petals, pulsing with the beat of the tiny heart. She inhaled the earthy scent that was paradoxically light and sweet: comforting as baking bread, intoxicating like nothing else in the world, and the reason puppies found homes.
She cleared the lump in her throat. “Where did she come from?”
“Forget where she came from,” Peter said. “What is she?”
“She’s eighty-seven point five percent Catahoula leopard cur,” Bailey said. “The last of her litter. I’d keep her, but Kita is too old and cranky.”
“Cata-what?” Peter asked.
“Catahoula, from Louisiana. Her ancestors hunted the bayous with their Native American humans. They climb trees.”
“Just what you need,” Peter said. “A swamp monster.”
Lia stroked the velvet head. “You hush. Bailey wants me to take her so she can still play with her. What’s the twelve point five percent?”
“Great-granddad was a husky.”
“That’s fine,” Lia said.
“Mixed breeds are healthier.”
“You don’t need a puppy,” Peter said.
Lia lifted the pup again, rubbed noses. “This little girl is exactly what I need.”
“How many years since you house trained a dog? Do you remember what you’re in for?”
“The polyurethane can handle it.”
“Your shoes will never be the same.”
“Flip-flops are cheap.”
“Do I get any say in this?”
“Not if your answer is no.” Lia sat at the table, facing out with the puppy on her lap. “Has she had her shots?”
“Not a one,” Bailey said.
Chewy jumped on the bench, muzzle extended to sniff the intruder. Pup backed into Lia’s stomach, barking furiously. Viola leaned against Peter, asserting her proprietary rights.
“What will you name her?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know her well enough to name her,” Lia said.
Jim, a grizzled cross between Saint Francis of Assisi and Treebeard, extended a finger. Pup latched on, chewing. “She has blue eyes like Frank Sinatra. Call her Frankie.”
“Her eyes will change,” Bailey said. “The left already has a hazel tint in one spot.”
“She looks like a chocolate chip cookie,” Jim said. “Call her Cookie.”
“More like chocolate chunk,” Terry said. “C. C.”
“Chocolate chunk cookie is three words,” Steve said. “That makes her C. C. C.”
“C. C. C. sounds like stuttering,” Terry said. “Call her Harvey.”
Lia huffed, “I’m not naming her after a six-foot rabbit.”
“Not the rabbit. Harvey was the demon dog who told Son of Sam to kill people.”
“So not funny,” Lia said.
“Mulch,” Peter said. “That’s what she looks like.”
She pressed her lips to the pup’s ear and whispered, “Ignore them. They’re just being jerks.”
“She looks mysterious,” Bailey said. “If she were mine, I’d name her Tarot or Astro.”
“Or Woo-Woo,” Peter said.
“Astro like the Jetsons?” Jim asked.
“No, no, and no,” Lia said.
“What about artists?” Bailey asked. “Someone who painted in browns?”
“I can’t stand the cubists and she doesn’t look like a Rembrandt.” Lia bit her lip. “Chiaroscuro might work, but vet assistants would have fits trying to pronounce it.”
Bailey tilted her head. “Shorten it. Chiaro.”
Lia looked into the blue eyes. “Is your name Chiaro?”
Pup wiggled and sneezed. Lia returned the pup to her shoulder, the tiny nose cool where it nuzzled her neck.
“Guess not.”
“You have to call her something,” Bailey said.
“She’ll be ‘Pup’ until I figure it out. Can I borrow the basket? You never know where parvo is lurking. My arms will fall off if I have to hold her until we get home.”
Bailey reached into the basket, retrieving the gray blanket. There seemed no end to it as she gathered it to her, as if she were a magician pulling scarves out of a hat.
Baffled, Lia asked. “What is that?”
“It’s a Moby wrap, designed to hold a thirty pound baby. I think it can handle a puppy. That way you can carry her around and not worry about picking up diseases until the vet says it’s okay.”
“How does it work?”
“Hand the little girl to me,” Steve said. “I’ll keep her company while Bailey gets you set up.”
Steve took Pup, cuddling her in one arm while he tickled the underside of her chin. He crooned, “Vixen, you can sleep with me tonight.”
Terry leaned in and inhaled. “I smell puppy. No man has smelled puppy and been unable to love it.”
Bailey looked up from the wrap. “What are you two going on about?”
“Based on an Untrue Story.” Steve said. “Bad TV movie about bad TV movies. Meta before meta was meta. We watched it because Terry has a thing for Morgan Fairchild. She launches a new perfume designed on the properties of puppy aroma.”
“I’ll stop showering after my morning run if whiffing dog is an aphrodisiac,” Peter said.
Lia stood, exchanging a look with Bailey. “So not the same thing.”
Bailey folded the twelve-foot wrap, then pressed the midpoint against Lia’s sternum.
“Hold this here.”
Bailey gathered the ends at Lia’s back, flipped them over the opposite shoulders, crossed her chest like bandoliers, then brought them around Lia’s waist to tie in front.
Lia stood in the circle of her friends, staring down at her mummified torso. “Do you seriously expect me to do that by myself?”
“Thousands of mothers do it every day. You’ll get used to it.”
“Now what do I do?”
Jim now held Pup. Bailey wiggled her hand and said, “Hand her over.” Jim kissed the top of Pup’s head, then surrendered her.
Bailey stroked the small belly. “Pull the layers out from your chest.”
Lia complied and Bailey lowered Pup into the opening. She fussed with the crisscrossed straps, tugging them so they supported Pup’s haunches.
“There you go.”
Lia took an experimental step forward. Pup swiveled her head, taking in her surroundings. She gave Lia a confused look and pawed at the wrappings. Lia pressed a hand against the little body to hold her in place.
“Give her a day,” Bailey said. “She’ll enjoy being queen of all she surveys.”
Lia reached into a pocket, extracted a treat, held it under Pup’s nose. Girlfriend gobbled it down.
“There,” Bailey said. “Friends for life.”
“How big do you think she’ll get?”
“Catahoulas have a wide variation. Could be thirty pounds, could be ninety. I’m betting she falls somewhere in between.”
A head butted Lia’s leg. Chewy stared up at her. Her independent little guy felt displaced. She stooped to give him a pet and a treat. Mollified, he propped himself on Lia’s knee and gave Pup a sniff. Pup retreated into the Moby wrap.
“You’ll get used to each other.” Lia mentally crossed her fingers. I hope.
Viola refused to come anywhere near Pup. When Peter put a leash on her, she balked, digging her paws in and leaning so hard in the opposite direction her collar slipped over her head.
“Maybe later,” he said.
Lia returned to the bench, doling out treats to encourage other dogs to meet Pup. Peter surrendered, sitting next to Lia and scratching the moving target that was Pup’s head.
She understood the genius in Bailey’s Moby wrap. You never knew where parvo lurked, and it would be more than a month before Pup was protected. With the wrap, she could carry Pup everywhere during her formative months, socializing her without risking infection.
Terry rubbed his hands. “Now the main event is over, tell us about Elvis.”
Peter shrugged. “You found bones, we bagged them.”
“What about clues, man? We need clues!”
“Unless the killer’s name is stitched into Elvis' underwear, any clues were gone long before we got there. If there is anything, I won’t hear about it.”
“Why not? It’s your case, isn’t it?”
“Just pinch hitting on a busy weekend. Your bones will be assigned to someone in Homicide or Cold Case.”
“Outrageous!”
Steve snorted. “You’re only pissed because you thought calling Peter meant you’d get to stick your nose in.”
Peter folded his arms. “You wrecked date night so you could play detective?”
Terry said nothing.
“It’s all he talks about,” Steve said. “Elvis this, Elvis that. I had enough of Elvis when I was nineteen.”
Terry feigned indifference. “I was never a big Presley fan. Went to Graceland once.”
Steve said, “The closest I came to Graceland was the lobby of a roadside Elvis museum. The teaser exhibit featured Elvis' toilet sea
t cover and the ugliest lamp ever made.”
Lia had to ask. “What did Elvis' toilet seat cover look like?”
“Chewbacca on a bad hair day, in avocado. If he was sitting on that, no wonder he died.”
Terry’s face turned pink. “Bah! Where’s the provenance? Probably pulled it out of a dumpster. I bet they were selling vials of Elvis' sweat.”
“They sold those at the gas station down the road.”
“How could you pass up Elvis sweat?” Lia asked.
“Oh, I bought a vial. I gave it to my girlfriend. She didn’t need me after that.”
“Poor Steve,” Lia said. “Displaced by the King.”
“Best five dollars I ever spent. That vial of sweat saved me from a train wreck.”
Terry pouted. “I can’t believe you let Elvis slip through your fingers.”
“I’ve got plenty on my plate,” Peter said.
“Do tell.”
“I would, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Not telling him will kill him,” Steve said.
Day 10
Monday, April 29, 2019
A week later, Pup snuggled in the Moby wrap, snoozing like the angel she wasn’t as Lia drove home from the park. You’d think her new dog could at least pretend to be the teensiest bit repentant, after chomping the wires of Lia’s forty-dollar earbuds as they’d dangled in front of her muzzle.
That was puppies, meeting the world with their teeth—though Honey had never been so destructive. Since Pup took up residence, girlfriend had sunk her needle-sharp pearly whites into everything she could get her tiny paws on.
Lia’s traumatized furniture now cowered beneath the quilted pads she’d duct-taped on after she caught the little demon gnawing the oak arm of her lovely Mission couch. Her collection of artist-made throw pillows hid on the top shelf of a closet. Three pairs of flip-flops were toast.
Peter had taken to alternately calling Pup “Jaws” and “Weapon of Mass Destruction” and said there had to be gator or shark mixed with the Catahoula—none of which helped her find a name for her new girl.
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