Hidden Riches

Bowers.
    “Bowers?” Brent’s ears perked up. He kept his pencil hovering over his dog-eared notepad.
    “We were both up for the lead in the school play. Junior year. It was a production of West Side Story. I creamed her in the auditions, so she started this rumor that I was pregnant.”
    “I don’t really think—”
    “With my reputation at stake, I had no choice,” Dora went on. “I ambushed her after school.” She flicked a glance over to Jed, who was busy frowning at the bull’s-head cheese dish on her breakfront.
    “That’s very interesting. But I don’t think it applies here.”
    “Well, she really hated me.” Dora picked up her snifter again, shrugged. “Then again, that was in Toledo. No, I’m wrong. Junior year must have been in Milwaukee. We moved around a lot in those days.”
    Brent smiled. He’d taken a liking to Jed’s landlord. A great many people who’d been through a break-in and gunfire didn’t retain any sense of humor. “We’re looking for something a bit more recent.”
    “Tell him about the bean counter,” Jed ordered.
    “For heaven’s sake. Andrew wouldn’t—”
    “Dawd,” Jed interrupted. “Andrew Dawd. He was Dora’s accountant until a couple of days ago. He put some moves on her, so she gave him a black eye and his walking papers.” He smiled nastily in Dora’s direction. “And kicked his ass.”
    “I see.” Brent tucked his tongue in his cheek as he scribbled the name in his book. He would have liked tohave smiled, but the gleam in Dora’s eye warned him to keep a sober countenance. “Did he, ah, threaten any reprisals?”
    “Certainly not. Give me a cigarette, Skimmerhorn.”
    He lighted one for her. “Annoyed or stressed?” he asked when he offered it.
    “You be the judge.” She snatched it from him, took a quick puff. “The most violent thing Andrew would have done was to go home and whine to his mother.”
    “It wouldn’t hurt to talk with him,” Brent pointed out gently. “Where can we reach him?”
    Dora shot Jed a look of intense dislike. “Dawd, Dawd and Goldstein, an accounting firm on Sixth and Market.”
    Brent nodded and picked up one of the cookies she’d spread on a pretty fluted dish at his elbow. “Hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve, huh?”
    “I did have other plans.” Dora drummed up a smile. “I’m sorry you had to leave your family.”
    “Just part of the job. Great cookies.”
    “Thanks. Why don’t I give you some to take home? You’ve got kids, don’t you?”
    “Three.” In a knee-jerk reaction, Brent reached for his wallet to show off pictures. While Jed rolled his eyes and paced away, Dora rose to admire the children’s snapshots. There were two girls and a boy, all spit and polish for school pictures.
    “The oldest girl looks like you,” Dora commented.
    “Yeah, she does. That’s Carly. She’s ten.”
    “I have a niece who just turned ten. Fifth grade.”
    “Carly’s in the fifth, too. Over at Bester Elementary in Landsdowne.”
    “Missy goes to Bester.” While Jed looked on, his partner and his landlord beamed at each other. “I bet they know each other.”
    “That wouldn’t be Missy Bradshaw, would it? She has a younger brother named Richie, who’s a real . . .”
    “Terror, yes, that’s right.”
    “She’s been over to the house a dozen times. They only live a block over. Missy’s parents and my wife and I are in the same car pool.”
    “Would you two like to be alone?” Jed asked.
    They both spared Jed a pitying glance. “Tell me, Brent, is he always so crabby?”
    “Pretty much.” He tucked his wallet away and rose. There were cookie crumbs dusting his shirt and finger smudges on his glasses. Dora found him charming. “But he was the best cop I ever worked with, so you can feel safe having him across the hall.”
    “Thanks. I’m going to get you those cookies.” Pointedly ignoring Jed, she walked into the kitchen.
    “Some landlord,” Brent commented, and wiggled his eyebrows.
    “Get a grip. How soon will you have anything on the slugs you dug out of the plaster?”
    “Jesus, Jed, it’s Christmas. Give the lab boys a few days. We’ll check out the prints, too, but that’s pretty much a waste of time.”
    “If he’s pro enough to use a silencer, he’s pro enough to wear gloves.”
    “You got it.”
    “What do you figure—” Jed broke off when Dora walked back, carrying a paper plate covered with aluminum foil.
    “Thanks, Miss Conroy.”
    “Dora. You