What does one wear to pump a cop for information?

Slut clothes came to mind, but I don’t own any slut clothes. Ninety percent of my wardrobe is business coordinates, and I couldn’t imagine DeAngelo getting turned on by a sleeveless polka dot blouse with black pants. I bet he was the leather lace-up bustier type.

Then again, he had hit on me at Ryan’s funeral, when I was wearing a black suit, black winter trench coat, and a voluminous ivory scarf. Snow boots, leather gloves, and an ivory hat had completed the ensemble, until the only thing visible had been a strip of my forehead, my eyes, and a bright pink nose.

Maybe he had an Eskimo fetish.

At any rate, I was not looking forward to our meeting, and Ryan wasn’t here. It was ten in the morning already, and no sign of him. I had left Alyssa in charge of the staging at Tim and Christy’s after staying up until two in the morning to create a design for her. I was exhausted, but I had put on a clingy sleeveless sweater, hoping that would prevent DeAngelo from dismissing me on sight, without actually arousing his interest. Emphasis on the word without. I did not want to be doing any arousing in relation to DeAngelo.

He had an ick factor of about three thousand on a scale of one to a hundred, though I had to say, he was ahead of Detective Cox for the simple fact that he wasn’t married.

I wanted to be smart and savvy, the girl who solves the crime while wearing shoes that wouldn’t destroy the arch of my foot or somehow clash with my pseudo-red hair. In childhood my mother had lamented that ninety percent of the color wheel was off-limits for my ginger-ness, and that mantra had stuck with me. So with the clingy peach sweater, I put on fitted beige pants and neutral Jimmy Choo sandals that had been an indulgence for my birthday. Jewelry caused a major mental debate, and I finally settled on a cuff bracelet and tiny diamond studs. You could never go wrong with diamonds—perfect for a dinner date or crime solving, wherever your day took you.

Sitting in my car in the police parking lot, I took a deep breath and called Mrs. Conroy, Ryan’s mother.

“Hi, it’s Bailey. How are you?”

“Oh hi, hon. You’re so sweet to call. I’m fine, how are you?” Mrs. Conroy had the kind of attitude that I wished I could have. She approached everything with faith and a smile. The quintessential housewife, she was like June Cleaver with soda bread recipes. Unlike my own mother, who had a cutthroat career as a prosecutor, Mrs. Conroy divided her time between church and her grandchildren.

“I just wanted to let you know that I think Ryan’s house looks fine. You’ve kept it really clean and it’s a starter home with first-time buyers, so I think it will sell soon.” I didn’t have the heart to toss Ryan’s possessions or to let his parents pay for furniture rental for staging.

“I’d rather you just do your thing. I watch HGTV. I know how this works.”

Home flipping shows were both the reason I had a business and the reason I couldn’t keep most clients out of my designs. Everyone was an armchair decorator now. The love of hardwood floors and stainless steel appliances had to have an endpoint presumably, but that day was not today.

“I can go ahead if you want, Mrs. Conroy, but please, I don’t want a commission. I’m doing it for you, and for Ryan.”

Usually this was where my throat closed up when we had this discussion, but today I felt lighter, more at ease, because I still had Ryan. I could talk to him. Help him. Do something besides stagger through my grief.

“You’re a sweet girl. Ryan was blessed to have a friend like you, and I’m sure from where he is in heaven he knows it.”

Okay, I’d given up one guilt for another. Instead of feeling responsible for Ryan’s suicide, I now felt horrible that I knew what no one else knew. While it might ease Mrs. Conroy’s mind to know that Ryan hadn’t committed suicide, I’m sure it wouldn’t thrill her to learn he had taken up residence in purgatory, with no ticket to heaven anywhere in sight.

I made one of those murmuring sounds of agreement, grateful we weren’t discussing this in person where my blush and guilty darting eyes would scream Liar, Liar, Liar. I really was a horrible liar.

But wait a minute—I knew from my own Catholic upbringing suicide meant no ticket to the pearly gates. So why was Mrs. Conroy so confident Ryan had gained entrance? Interesting. But I had to assume that she was willing to toss theological tenets to believe he was in a better place.

“By the way, what happened to Ryan’s car?” See how I just slipped that in there? I was so smooth.

“His car? Jake sold it for us. The money we got paid the mortgage for five months. Why, dear?”

“Oh, I was just wondering. I noticed it wasn’t in the garage.” Marner had sold it. That wasn’t surprising, except he hadn’t bothered to mention that when I had specifically asked him what happened to the car. Note to self: Marner keeps things close to the cuff.

My mind had been wrapping around something I had read, an article that talked about how the criminal will often return to the scene of a crime. Some people thought that was a myth, but others cited case after case where the bad guy showed up where he had killed his victim, at the funeral, or the victim’s home.

“I’ll have the staging done by the weekend so your agent can do an open house.” That wasn’t usually how I worked with real estate agents. Normally, we had the house ready Monday or Tuesday for professional photos, then the listing went up on Thursday, open house on Sunday, then an agent open house the following Tuesday. This was a rush job, but the agent was already bringing clients through the home so I wanted to get it looking its best to take advantage of every person going through the house. An idea had occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, Ryan’s killer would find it amusing, titillating, to walk through Ryan’s house.

That was assuming the killer knew Ryan, and had planned his death to some extent. But I couldn’t see how it could be an accident. Who would be in an isolated part of the park with Ryan? Who would think to write a text if the crime was spontaneous? Actually, maybe that made it more likely. The more I thought it over, it made sense that a total stranger would show up for a gruesome thrill. If Ryan’s killer knew him, he wouldn’t risk showing his face at Ryan’s old house.

So many ways to look at it. I chewed my fingernail.

Showing up at the open house to watch for a killer might be a dumb idea, but it was the only one I had.

“Sure, sounds good, Bailey. I’ll call Rose and ask her what time so I can get the house aired out and cleaned right before. There’s nothing worse than a stale house.”

I could think of a lot worse things. That probably made me a pessimist.

“Great. I’ll make sure there are scented candles.” Got to have the house smelling like apple cinnamon for the killer, you know. Wouldn’t want his nose to curl in displeasure.

My stomach did a loop-de-loop in disgust and fear. I so was not cut out for this.

DeAngelo met me in the front lobby.

“Well, well,” he said, with a nice big smile.

Now you know when a man starts a conversation with “Well, well” that he just doesn’t take you seriously.

“Look who came to see me twice in two days. Little Bailey.”

Obviously we both knew I had been there the day before to see Marner, but I let it ride.

Those dark eyes gave me the once-over. “You’ve lost weight.”

I needed to print that on my business card. I’m Bailey Burke and I’ve lost weight. I know I look like crap, you don’t need to point it out, and as soon as my throat resumes its normal swallowing function, I will regain ten pounds, so back off.

But that probably wouldn’t fit in the alloted space.

“I like it. You look hot. Like a supermodel.”

Well. DeAngelo thought I looked good. Somehow that wasn’t the slightest bit reassuring. “Thanks.”

“What brings you by? Aren’t you busy putting it here, or whatever.”

I really had misstepped with the name of my business. “I need your advice.”

“Why, did you kill somebody?”

There was no time for me to reply before he rocked back on his heels and gave me a wink. Not a “fun uncle” kind of wink, but a “give you five bucks if you lift your shirt” kind of wink.

“Not this time.” I smiled tightly. It really was unfair that out of an entire station filled with decent men of high moral integrity, I got stuck dealing with DeAngelo of the offensive flirting.

“I know—you couldn’t stop thinking about me and how much you want me.” This statement was capped off with big black eyebrows going up and down.

I can’t joke about things like that. This is why I was never popular in school. My distaste is stamped on my face clearly for all to see. And as an adult, I think I use my fakeness all up doing my job and there’s none left for my social life.

Fortunately, DeAngelo wasn’t a subtle guy. He didn’t seem to notice that I was fighting the urge to roll my eyes and tell him off.

“Actually, I’m writing a book.” I managed that with a straight face, even though the whole idea made me want to giggle. I’m the least likely person to have an interesting hobby. Bailey Burke, aspiring author, just didn’t sound right. Closet writer didn’t sound good either. I didn’t do anything in the closet that wasn’t in the pursuit of function and preventing fabric creases.

“And I was hoping you could help me make it realistic.” This whole tactic had been Ryan’s idea. It never would have occurred to me to do anything but blunder in there and ask questions about Ryan straight out.

Which was why Ryan had been a cop and I was a home stager.

But Ryan hadn’t reflected on my complete inability to act or lie. I was rocking back and forth on my heels and gripping my purse like it would levitate if I didn’t contain it. I suspected there was a weird, twitchy grin on my face.

DeAngelo just looked at me. “A book, huh? What kind of book? Is there sex in it?”

“Oh yeah. Lots of it.” Then it occurred to me that could be misconstrued. “But I don’t need help with that. There’s a murder, which is why I’m here.”

“What else is there in life? Sex and murder.” DeAngelo shrugged. “Sure, I got five minutes. Come sit down and lay it on me. We’ll fix you up.”

I wiped my sweaty palm on my pants and followed him. I was terrified he’d figure out I was lying, only I wasn’t sure why. So what if he found out I wasn’t writing a book? What the heck could he accuse me of—wasting his time?

Yet nonetheless, I was scared shitless. Rules are good. Lying is bad. Naughty girls get punished. Therein lay the sum total of my parents’ child-rearing philosophy.

Taking a seat behind his desk, DeAngelo tugged at his three-button shirt to get more comfortable. Thankfully, Marner was nowhere in sight.

“So who we killing, Bailey?”

“A hooker,” I said, because it was the first person that came to mind after a cop, and I certainly couldn’t say that.

“Gotcha, good. Hookers are easy.” He winked. “In more way than one.”

“Heh, heh,” I said weakly, forcing a smile. “The murder is execution style. In a car.”

“Oh, messy, messy,” DeAngelo said. “I never suspected this side of you. You look so prim, and here you are bumping off hookers. After they have lots of sex, huh?”

My trembling hand made me crave a hit off my electronic cigarette. But I could only smoke if I left the building, and I needed to stop using it as a crutch anyway. I took a deep breath. “Well, you know, we all have our dark sides.”

“I like your dark side. So the druggie boyfriend did it, right? He’s pimping her out, they fight, he taunts her, makes her drive him to a private spot, then he sticks the gun to her head and blows her away.” This was accompanied by his fingers imitating pulling a trigger, and the very classic sound of ka-pow.

“Exactly! How did you know?” I pulled that exclamation off pretty good. Mentally picturing myself with big breasts and Cindy’s pouty lips helped.

“Because it’s goddamn obvious, that’s why. If you’re going for mystery, you should make it one of her clients. Like the mayor or something. The mayor, who doesn’t want anyone to know he’s paying for sex from a trio of hot, twenty-something professional cheerleaders.”

What? Where did he come up with that?

He rubbed his mouth. “I’m liking this story better already.”

“But how would the mayor get away from the car without someone seeing him? And wouldn’t he be covered in blood?”

“The closer the gun, the less spatter and blowback. If he were in the backseat, he’d have some blood on his shoulders, his hair.”

Eww.

“You should have the mayor take her out of the car and shoot her from about ten feet. It does the job and he’d stay clean.”

“But I wanted the police to think it was suicide.” There was no way I could actually pull an effective pout, but I did blink a bit, like I was distraught.

“Then that wouldn’t work, because the powder burns would show the distance of the bullet from the impact.”

“And how would he get away?”

“Second car, no doubt about it. He gets in his car and drives away.”

“When people kill themselves with a gun, do they usually stick it in their mouth, or point it at their head?”

“Both. But most suicides with firearms are men. And the gun is always right against their head or rammed up in their mouth. Makes a big nasty mess. Like with Conroy.”

While grateful he had brought up Ryan first, I didn’t understand how he could be so freaking nonchalant. Had he hated Ryan? Or was he just so immune to violence that he’d forgotten people had feelings?

“How did you know for sure that Ryan killed himself?” I held my breath when DeAngelo gave me a funny look. For a distraction, I fiddled with the neckline of my clingy sweater. It worked. He glanced down at my chest.

“He was alone. No other prints on the gun. No tracks in the snow to indicate another car, or a walker leaving the scene. He made a will, went to a secluded place, sent his mom a text. The wound was self-inflicted, consistent with him being right-handed, directly into the skull.”

I almost jumped but I managed to stay still. Ryan was left-handed. How could one of his co-workers not know that?

“What did the text say?” I asked, my throat squeezing and my stomach clenching. It did sound like suicide. Maybe I was crazy, imagining Ryan was here, talking to me.

“What?” he asked, stroking his five o’clock shadow, still staring at my sweater.

“Maybe if he weren’t staring at your tits he would hear what you’re saying,” Ryan muttered in my ear.

Only by extreme willpower did I not wet myself. But I did let out a yelp and lifted my ass right up off the chair.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” DeAngelo asked, looking bewildered.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Ryan said, when I chanced a glance over my shoulder. “Sorry I’m late.”

Yeah, sure.

“Bailey? What are you looking at?”

“Uh…something…bit me.”

“Bit you?”

“Yes.” I swatted my hand around my shoulder, whacking the space Ryan was occupying. It wasn’t as satisfying as hearing skin crack on skin, but it was something. Ryan dodged me with a grin. “There’s a big, nasty fly buzzing in my ear and it just bit me.”

“I’m jealous of the fly,” DeAngelo said with another of those winks he was so fond of.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Ryan said, with a heavy eye roll.

My thoughts exactly.

“So anyway, what did the text to Ryan’s mom say?”

“It said, ‘I can’t do this anymore’. Real chatty, huh? Guess Conroy didn’t have a whole lot to say before he went out.”

Ryan tensed behind me. “That’s bullshit. Complete bullshit.”

“When someone dies, how do you know that they made a will or something like that? I mean, like for example, how did you know Ryan had a will?”

“My girlfriend told me she did one for him right before he took his last little drive. She heard about his death on the news, called me and told me she’d just met him two days before when he’d come in requesting a will.”

“Who’s your girlfriend?” I asked, curiously.

“Deanna Adams. She has a law office right across from the station. But hookers don’t have wills, Bailey. Trust me.”

“He’s doing Deanna? DeAngelo has a hot girlfriend? No way! There is no way she passed on me for him. That’s like passing over Chris Hemsworth for Adam Sandler.”

Ryan was flattering himself on the Chris Hemsworth comparison, and I was attracted to him. Plus if he didn’t quit yammering in my ear, I was going to have to get up and move. I couldn’t hear two people at the same time and know what the heck was being said.

“Are you still together? With Deanna?” At one point I’d thought I couldn’t be any more grossed out by DeAngelo, but it turned out I was wrong. Now I knew he had asked me out when he was dating another woman.

“Yeah.” He leaned back. Smiled. “But don’t worry, we have an open relationship. She wouldn’t mind me going out with you.”

Eww. Double eww.

“No, thank you. I can only take one guy at a time.”

Wait. That didn’t sound right.

DeAngelo grinned. Ryan gave a choking laugh.

“Territorial, huh? That’s sexy.” DeAngelo leaned forward.

The horrible feeling came over me that he was going to touch my arm. No part of me wanted flesh on flesh contact with him. So I slammed myself back into my chair.

“Geez, freaking relax. I’m kidding,” DeAngelo said. He laughed. “Come on, I’m not like that. Deanna is a cool chick. You know my flirting is harmless, right? I don’t actually mean anything by it, and I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

What, like I would be disappointed? “Got it. Glad to hear it. Congrats on your relationship.”

“He is making that up. There is no way Deanna, the hot attorney, is having sex with him.” Ryan was clearly focused on a different part of DeAngelo’s revelations.

Me, I was focused on the part that was leering at me.

“So how would my killer fake the suicide of the hooker?”

“He, or even she, if we’re going with the mayor, would have to get dirty. Because if you kept the door open and did it from outside at a distance, to keep the spatter down, well, then, there’s no spatter on the door or window and it looks weird, tells homicide the door got closed after the wound was inflicted. So you gotta keep the doors closed, duck down, gun to head, pull the trigger. But someone would fight you unless they were scared out of their mind. Or drugged. So you got to keep it all inside, stage the scene by wrapping the victims hand around the gun, then dropping it. Then walk away.”

Ryan sucked in his breath.

“Covered in blood?” I asked. “How could you stroll away with blood all over you?”

“Winter or summer?”

“Winter.”

“So your shoulders got some blowback. Take off your sweatshirt, mop your face and hair for any stray bits, stuff it under your coat you left on the floor of the backseat, and you head home to take a shower.”

“But tire marks. Where did the tire marks go?”

“You’re starting to piss me off, Bailey. You’re making it too complicated.”

“But you told me it would be better if it were complicated,” I said in exasperation. The quizzical, trusting, bimbo persona was too hard to maintain. DeAngelo was getting on my nerves. The station was quiet, aside from the occasional chatter or loud laugh, and I felt smothered between two homicide detectives.

Ryan was breathing down my neck, figuratively, since he didn’t actually have air to create breath. And DeAngelo was doing a scootcha-scootcha thing with his chair so that his knees were touching mine.

“You’re smarter than you look.”

Was there really any good response to that? I managed a “thanks” while Ryan cracked off a hearty laugh.

“All right, damn, so you’re saying there’s snow? But we can’t have tire tracks? Well, the mayor didn’t fly away. If there are no tire tracks, no footprints, no bike tracks, pristine snow, than your little escort really did kill herself. It wouldn’t surprise me, you know. It’s hell to be a hooker in Cleveland in the winter. Giving blow jobs with ear muffs on screws up your equilibrium.”

“Um…” No words came out as I visualized this. Then promptly wished I hadn’t. “Well. I guess I’ll have to rethink things.”

“Give me a call if you want to rework your story. Or if you need help researching those sex scenes.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Can you research sex scenes?” I asked with another dose of wide-eye innocence.

DeAngelo laughed. “Anytime you want to try, I’m more than willing.”

Realizing I should have just dropped it, I gave him a glare. “You just said you have a girlfriend!”

“It’s a joke. Have a sense of humor. Laugh sometimes. Eat a burger.”

That did make me roll my eyes. I gave him a quick thanks and beat it out of there.

Ryan followed me to the parking lot. “I need the autopsy report. My cellphone records. And you need to talk to the couple who found my body.”

“Good morning, Ryan. Nice to see you too.” My hands were still shaking and my deodorant had failed. That had been a highly traumatic conversation for me, and Ryan was all business. I didn’t need a sticker or a cookie or anything, but a “nice job” would be appreciated.

Though I wouldn’t say no to the cookie. That should make everyone damn happy.

He didn’t catch my sarcasm. “Get in the car. People are going to think you’re nuts if you’re standing around the parking lot talking to yourself.”

With a sigh, I got in the car and rolled down the windows. Ryan did his pop in trick and settled into the passenger seat.

“You know, this would be easier if you had come back as a dog or something. Like Benji. Then I could talk to you without people thinking anything of it.”

Ryan gave me a grin, his hair falling in his eyes. “You’d pet me, wouldn’t you?”

After a gasp, I tried to feign nonchalance. Ryan didn’t know just how badly I had wanted to pet all his parts at one point in time. “Probably. People pet dogs. They’re cute. I like cute things. I’d look mean if I never petted my dog in front of people.”

“Would you rub behind my ears…or my belly? Would I be talking or just barking? It all sounds kind of kinky to me.”

Picturing a little dog nuzzling into my lap, I cleared my throat. “Maybe you’re right. It’s fine like this.”

Things were weird enough already.

Foot on the brake, I shifted to reverse. “So where does one find cellphone records?”

“At my house.” He put his hand over mine. “And you’re doing good, Bailey. We’re piecing it together.”

“Nancy Grace, that’s me.” I took my foot off the brake.

“Look out!”

My car connected with something solid and we came to a very loud, bumper-grinding halt.

“Oh God, what did I hit?” I asked, throwing the car into park and turning around frantically.

Ryan gave a choked laugh and shook his head in disbelief. “Just the chief of detectives.”