Fall Guy

civilians paranoid and cops contemptuous. It was way more information than I wanted Detective Brody to have. „Freelance,“ I added.
    He was still waiting.
    „And before that, I was a dog trainer.“ I left it at that. He was a detective. He could figure out the connection himself.
    „And Tim was there in a professional capacity as well, to answer questions, offer...?“
    „No, Detective. He was there as a participant.“
    „You're saying Tim went to a civilian group?“
    „You mean he was...?“ Stopping mid-sentence, the air in the squad room suddenly feeling very cold.
    „Twenty-one years on the job, detective for the last sixteen.“
    He sat back, putting more space between us.
    I touched my left leg. Dashiell sat. I reached for his collar, the small brass tag in my fingers now, my last name and phone number on it, some people thinking it was his name, calling him Alexander. No trick at all, Detective O'Fallon digging up my full name and address, not after being alone with Dashiell that last day.
    „How did he die, Detective? Was it in the line of duty?“ There'd been nothing in the paper. Unless, of course, there had and I'd missed it.
    „An accident, Ms. Alexander. A very tragic accident.“
    „A car accident?“
    „No, ma'am, an accident in the home.“
    I nodded. „And what sort of accident are we talking about?“ Like a lawyer, knowing the answer before I asked the question.
    Brody looked away for just a moment. When he looked back at me, for just a flicker, I saw the man, not the cop, in his eyes. He held up his left hand, the thumb pointing to the wall behind him, the pointer directed toward the ceiling, the other fingers curled into his palm.
    „An accident while cleaning his service revolver?“
    This time he nodded.
    Reputation protected, department protected, insurance and benefits protected. Or was I being too cynical?
    Brody was looking at Dashiell. „Just having him there, is that how it works? Or does he have to actually do something?“
    But before I got the chance to answer him, Dashiell stood and put his head in Brody's lap. Brody let his hand rest on top of Dashiell's neck for a moment, then he finally lit that cigarette. We sat there for what seemed like a very long time, the smoke curling slowly upward, thinning out and spreading wide as it rose, neither of us saying a word.

CHAPTER 2
    Walking back down the stairs from the detectives' squad room, I had something I didn't have an hour and ten minutes earlier. I had a job I didn't want and the document to go along with it. I had turned down Brody's offer to „see me home,“ a quaint way to put it, I thought, but I had been unable to turn down O'Fallon's postmortem request that I see to his estate, perhaps because he was no longer around to make an alternate choice. I knew that most wills had a second choice, in case the first person named could not, or would not, do the job. O'Fallon's will didn't. There was only me.
    Carrying a manila envelope containing the Last Will and Testament of Timothy O'Fallon, his wallet, address book and a set of keys to his apartment, I walked Dashiell through the lonely streets of Greenwich Village. While I thought my own thoughts, silently, he read the evening news found on trees, mailboxes, hydrants, radial tires and garbage bags left at the curb to be collected in the morning, and filed his own report in each place. The hum of air conditioners was our music, an occasional dog walker our only company.
    When we got back to West Tenth Street, I looked up at the grimy windows of the precinct. Though the lights were still on, the place looked deserted. I unlocked the wrought-iron gate that kept the back cottage where I lived safe from the rest of the world—or so I liked to think—walking down the tunnel into the dark garden, then sitting on the steps that led to the door of the small brick cottage where I'd been living for five years.
    Brody said he could meet me at O'Fallon's apartment the following afternoon at four for a quick look. Then he'd have to reseal it until it was officially released. I'd helped settle my mother's affairs after she'd died, but that was different. In that case, my sister and I had wanted all the things that had sentimental value, my sister more than me. She was more of a saver, a collector. And she had a bigger house, and children who might one day want to have some of their grandparents' possessions. I mostly wanted odd things, some of little worth. I'd taken the