O Is for Outlaw

chin. "Great town you have here. The minute we crossed the county line, I could feel my blood pressure drop about fifteen points."
    "Thanks. We're lucky. It's like this all year long. We get a marine layer sometimes in the summer months, but it burns off by noon so it's hard to complain." Maybe this pertained to an old case of mine.
    Detective Aldo eased into the conversation. "We had a chat with Lieutenant Robb. I hope we haven't caught you at a bad time."
    "Not at all. This is fine. You're friends of his?"
    "Well, no, ma'am, we aren't. We've talked to him by phone, but we only met today. Seems like a nice guy.
    "He's great. I've known Jonah for years," I said. "What's this about?"
    "A case we've been working on. We'd like to talk to you inside, if you don't object."
    Detective Claas chimed in, "This shouldn't take long. Fifteen-twenty minutes. We'll be as quick as we can. "
    "Sure. Come on in." I turned and unlocked the front door, talking over my shoulder. "When'd you get up here ? "
    "About an hour ago. We tried calling your office, but they told us you'd left. We must have just missed you. "
    1"I had some errands to run," I said, wondering why I felt I owed them an explanation. I stepped across the threshold and they followed me in. In the past few years, a number of investigations had taken me to Los Angeles. One of the cases I'd handled for California Fidelity had exposed me to a bunch of badasses. This was probably related. The criminal element form a special subset, the same names surfacing over and over again. It's always interesting to find out what the cruds are up to.
    I took a mental photograph of my apartment, idly aware of how it must appear to strangers. Small, immaculate, as compact as a ship's interior complete with cubbyholes and built-ins. Kitchenette to the right; desk and seating arrangement to the left. Royal-blue shag carpet, a small spiral staircase leading to a loft above. I set my shoulder bag on one of the stools at the kitchen counter and moved the six steps into the living room.
    The two detectives waited in the doorway deferentially.
    "Have a seat," I said.
    Aldo said, "Thanks. Nice place. You live alone?"
    "As a matter of fact, I do."
    "Lucky you. My girlfriend's a slob. There's no way I can keep my place looking this clean."
    Claas sat down on the small sofa tucked into the bay window, setting his briefcase on the floor beside him. While Claas and Aldo seemed equally chatty, Claas was more reserved, nearly prim in his verbal manner, while Aldo seemed relaxed. Detective Aldo took one of the two matching director's chairs, which left me with the other. I sat down, feeling subtly maneuvered, though I wasn't sure why. Aldo slouched in the chair with his legs spread, his hands hanging between his knees. The canvas on the director's chair sagged and creaked beneath his shifting weight. His thighs were enormous, and his posture seemed both indolent and intimidating. Claas flicked him a look and he altered his posture, sitting up straight.
    Claas turned his attention back to me. "We understand you were married to a former vice detective named Magruder."
    I was completely taken aback. "Mickey? That's right. Is this about him?" I felt a tingle of fear. Connections tumbled together in a pattern I couldn't quite discern. Whatever was going on, it had to be associated with his current financial straits. Maybe he'd robbed a bank, scammed someone, or pulled a disappearing act. Maybe there was a warrant outstanding, and these guys had been assigned the job of tracking him down. I covered my discomfort with a laugh. "What's he up to?"
    Claas's expression remained remote. "Unfortunately, Mr. Magruder was the victim of a shooting. He survived, he's alive, but he's not doing well. Yesterday we finally got a line on him. At the time of the assault, he didn't have identification in his possession, so he was listed as a John Doe until we ran his prints."
    "He was shot?" I could feel myself move the needle back to the beginning of the cut. Had I heard him correctly?
    "Yes, ma'am."
    "He's all right, though, isn't he?"
    Claas's tone ranged somewhere between neutrality and regret. "Tell you the truth, it's not looking so good. Doctors say he's stable, but he's on life support. He's never regained consciousness, and the longer this goes on, the less likely he is to make a full recovery."
    Or any at all was what I heard. I could feel myself blink. Mickey dying or dead? The detective was still talking, but I felt