W Is for Wasted

I’m always a sucker for. He wore a caramel-colored turtleneck under the sort of sport coat you want to reach out and touch. The fabric looked like suede and the color was a smoky chocolate brown. I know it’s very naughty to compare one man to the next, but with Dietz lurking in the background, I couldn’t help myself. If Jonah Robb had wandered in just then, I’d have found myself in range of the three men I’d slept with in the last six years. I’m not at all promiscuous. Far from it. I’m largely celibate, which is not to say I’m immune from temptation. Technically speaking, with three guys, that’s only one every other year, but it still seemed alarming for someone with my old-fashioned values and a well-developed self-protective streak.
    At least I could see tangible evidence of my taste in men. While the three of them looked nothing alike, they were smart guys, good souls, competent, well seasoned, and knowledgeable. All of us were involved in law enforcement to one extent or another—Cheney and Jonah more so than Dietz and me. Temperamentally, we were all compatible—competitive, but good-natured enough that we could have formed a bowling team or played a few hands of bridge, assuming any of us knew how.
    Rosie reappeared and placed a paper coaster on the table, then set a freezer-chilled clear glass mug in the center. She placed a beer bottle beside the mug. “Does your friend want I should pour?”
    “Tell her thanks. I’ll take care of it.”
    “He appreciates the offer,” I said to her. “He says it’s kind of you to ask.”
    “Is no worry. Anytime is happy to be of assistance.”
    Cheney said, “I got that.”
    I watched while he tilted the bottle against the edge and filled the mug with a tawny brew.
    Rosie was still waiting.
    “He says he’ll take you up on it sometime and thanks so much,” I said.
    She told me he was welcome and I passed the news along. When she’d departed for the second time, he paused long enough to sample the beer, which seemed to meet with his approval.
    I said, “Bullshit aside, what brings you here?”
    “I got a call from Ruth Wolinsky. She tells me you and your friend Dietz are interested in Pete’s clientele.”
    “That’s because Pete stiffed Dietz for three grand. We were hoping he had money coming in that hadn’t surfaced yet. So far, no such luck. What’s the story on the shooting?”
    “Ballistics says there were two guns at the scene, neither of which was found.”
    “Ruthie told me Pete had two guns.”
    “He had a Glock 17 and a Smith and Wesson Escort registered in his name. The S-and-W was locked in the trunk of his car. No sign of the Glock. Ruth says he was never without the two. In his bed table drawer we found a shitload of nine-millimeter ammo that matched the slug that killed him. It looks like Pete was shot with his own gun.”
    “I take it you weren’t referring to the S-and-W when you mentioned a second gun.”
    “Nope. There was one stray casing, a forty-five caliber, which suggests he and his assailant were both armed and probably struggled for control. The slug was buried in the dirt to one side of the path. All in all, four shots were fired—three from the Glock and one from the forty-five.”
    “With his watch and his wallet missing, you think the robber stole his gun as well?”
    “Took it or tossed it. We had guys in wet suits wading the lagoon. Water’s shallow for a distance of fifteen feet or so before the bottom falls away. Mud and algae are such that visibility is zilch. We also did a grid search of the surrounding terrain. Location of the two guns may be a function of how well the guy could throw, unless he took them with him.”
    “What about Pete’s car keys?”
    “In his pocket. We dusted the Fairlane inside and out, but the only prints we identified were his. The shooter might have been reluctant to add grand theft auto to his other offenses.”
    “Any chance Pete knew him?”
    “Your guess is as good as mine. There were no eyewitnesses and no one heard the shots. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Pete was a bit of a shady character.”
    “No need to tell me. I notice I’m feeling more charitable, but that’s because I feel sorry for his wife.”
    “I’m with you,” he said. “So what’s this I hear about you and some homeless guy? Is the last name Dace?”
    “Randall Terrence Dace. Turns out we’re cousins—fourth, once removed, by marriage—one of those.” I decided not to