"I'm busy right now," he said.

  I looked over his shoulder into an empty office, with its empty desk and silent phone. Then I looked at him with raised eyebrows.

  "Maybe I can spare a few minutes," he said, stepping aside so we could enter.

  We sat on the lumpy cousins of the lobby furniture while he situated himself behind his desk with a lot of minute, precise adjustments. Watching him, I wondered again if he ever saw sunlight. His skin was so pale that it practically glowed. And not in a good way.

  "How can I help you?" he asked when he was finally satisfied with the placement of his clenched hands on the crosshatching of tiny time-worn lines and divots on the desk blotter. For the first time, I noticed the wheeled microwave stand in the corner, repurposed as a computer stand holding an ancient looking ink-jet printer coated in a thin layer of dust.

  "I'd like to ask you about Vincent Gordon," Irene said.

  His fingers tightened into a white-knuckled prayer position. "And why's that?"

  "Because he's an interesting guy," she said. "For instance, I find it interesting that he owns this mortuary."

  "My brother's an entrepreneur," he said. "He has a diverse portfolio of businesses in several sectors, this being one of them."

  "He owns other businesses too," I added.

  Dominic cleared his throat loudly. "Yes. As, as I said, his portfolio is very diverse."

  I was about to press when my phone chimed in with a text. I surreptitiously checked the screen. Watson. What are you doing at Gordon's Mortuary?

  For a brief second I thought maybe Watson had a hidden camera in the room. Then I remembered—the GPS in his car. This was his idea of "keeping an eye on me."

  Planning my life celebration, I shot back. Then I shut off the ringer.

  "—public records of your brother's holdings," Irene was saying. "Which are fun to sift through, believe you me. Your brother has a lot of companies that own companies that own companies."

  No reaction from Dominic.

  "For example, the company pyramid was several deep before I found out he owns Lucky's Deli."

  Again Dominic maintained his Vampire poker face. Not even a flinch.

  "Care to discuss what goes on at Lucky's?" Irene prodded.

  "I wouldn't know," he said through unmoving lips. "It's my brother's business."

  "Really?" Irene pushed. "I would imagine you've met a fair amount of Lucky's customers. Or, should I say former customers? I bet you get a lot of ODs come through these doors."

  Dominic's demeanor suddenly changed with that one. It was subtle, but his poker face went from nervous to on the offensive—eyes more intense, breathing slower, the hint of a sneer tugging at his lips, which told me he was envisioning us coming through his doors in a much more horizontal and professional capacity.

  I slid my suddenly wet palms up and down my thighs, willing Irene to abort the conversation before she said something really insulting. Vincent Gordon was hardly up for citizen of the year, and the way Dominic was looking at Irene, I didn't think his brother was a whole lot better. If they'd made Rebecca disappear, what would they do to a couple of nosy pseudo detectives?

  Dominic leveled unnervingly flat black eyes on her. "People from all walks of life come to us. Old. Young. Singers. Jane Does. Even detectives," he added.

  "Is that a threat?" Irene asked, leaning forward.

  My palms stopped sliding. My heart might have stopped for a second too. I had a bad feeling we were one question away from a contract on our heads. And I liked my head just where it was—attached to my very living body. I nudged Irene in the leg. No response.

  Dominic's tiny smile was as chilling as the possibility that he went outdoors only after sundown. "Speculation is the orphan child of intellectual deficit."

  Oh, great. Now the vampire was going all philosophical on us.

  Irene's eyes narrowed. "Spock said that, right?" She smiled.

  He stared at her. "I think it's time for you to leave. My family has got nothing to do with your…investigation." The word lingered between us, laced with disdain.

  Irene uncrossed her legs and stood. "Yes, that's probably true. Unless you consider the fact that Rebecca Lowery's body was taken from your facility, on your watch. But that's got nothing to do with you either, right?"

  He stood from his seat, stomped around the desk, and yanked open the door, his face finally showing some color. "I'll thank you to direct any future communication to my lawyer."

  "Happy to," Irene shot back, marching to the outer door.

  I followed a step behind, only pausing for a quick glance back over my shoulder at Dominic. He was seething, a total shift from the slimy, creepy guy we'd seen so far. His jaw was clenched, the veins in his neck bulging, hands balled into fists at his sides, and his knees were locked tight as if he was purposely forcing himself not to chase after us.

  But as my gaze went lower, I felt a breath catch in my throat. Dominic's black outfit was spotless…except for his highly polished wingtips. Dried mud was spattered across the glossy surface of each. Soft, crumbling clay mud. There was no mud at the mortuary, just a small asphalt parking lot, a tiny patch of grass landscaped to perfection, and a two-bay garage to house the hearse and flower car.

  But I knew where there was clay mud exactly like that. I'd been picking it out of my hair all the previous evening.

  Lampley Park.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Back in the parking lot, I yanked at Irene's sleeve. "Did you see his shoes?"

  "Those muddy Bruno Magli knock-offs? So what?"

  "Exactly!" I speared the air with my finger. "Muddy! There was mud all over them!"

  "Probably from playing in cemeteries," Irene said. "Notice we never see any employees around? I bet this mortuary is a one-man operation. Creepy could be the mortician, the gravedigger, and the guy who knocked off the victims to begin with."

  I tugged on her to keep her moving. "It's not a one-man operation. Vincent is part of it."

  "Vincent." She snorted. "I'm guessing he's not a hands-on kind of guy."

  I wouldn't be, either, if I had minions like his friend at the deli. We got into the car.

  "The mud on Dominic's shoes is from Lampley Park."

  Her eyebrows shot up. "Are you sure? I mean, it rained last night. There's mud all over."

  I bit my lip. "True. I'd have to have the silt to clay rations of each analyzed to be certain. But I'm telling you it looks exactly the same. The same pale color, the same viscosity. Trust me. I got up close and personal with that mud last night."

  "So you think Dominic Gordon is the one who attacked you?"

  "I admit, he looks more like the blood-sucking type," I said. "But yes, the thought occurred to me."

  "Well, he does have a temper," she said, thoughtful. "It's hidden beneath a few layers of pasty skin and moth-riddled suits, but we just saw that it's there. You just never know about the creepy undertaker types, do you."

  "Be serious," I told her. "I think he was there." I pulled out of the parking lot, enjoying the smooth acceleration of Watson's car. Before we'd reached the traffic light, the ominous black cloud overhead slid away, revealing an afternoon awash in pastel watercolors. If I'd believed in omens, the timing would have freaked me out a little.

  "Seems like a lot of people were there," Irene pointed out. "Watson, Wiggins, Tara." She paused. "You really sure Tara didn't hit you?"

  I shook my head. "No, I don't think so."

  "Why? Because she's a woman? This is the twenty-first century, Marty. Anyone can be a criminal these days."

  I couldn't argue with that, since we seemed to be meeting a lot of them. "Granted, she won't win any personality contests," I said, "but I don't know if I see her whacking me over the head. That feels like more of a brute-force move."

  "Okay," Irene said, "so, let's say it was Dominic who hit you. Why?"

  "Maybe he didn't want me questioning Tara about Lucky's."

  "So, you think Dominic Gordon hid Rebecca's body to conceal evidence of the Fluffy Bunny his brother peddles along with the coleslaw and dill pickles?"

  I bit my lip. "Except there was no trace of drugs in Rebecca's system," I reminded her. "And she died from a fall, not an overdose."

  Irene and I both fell silent, neither of us having a good theory to take that tidbit into account.

  "What about Bryan Steele doing the walk of shame from Tara's place this morning?" Irene finally said, breaking the silence.

  "What about it?" I asked.

  "You know it's entirely possible we have two sets of bad guys here. Maybe Rebecca found out Bryan was cheating on her, they had an argument that got physical, and he pushed her into the counter."

  "And the other set?"

  "Recognizing Rebecca when she comes to the mortuary, and thinking someone might look for traces of Fluffy Bunny, the Gordon brothers dispose of the body."

  I nodded. "It's possible."

  "Let's face it—no one is getting a gold star for honesty in this case," Irene reasoned.

  Case might be stretching it, but she had a point.

  "Maybe we should talk to Steele again," I reluctantly suggested. Not that I wanted to talk to Steele. Steele scared me almost as much as the idea of Vincent and Dominic Gordon and their well-oiled body disposing setup.

  "I don't have any meetings for another hour," Irene agreed.

  "But maybe we should check the trunk for a tire iron first," I said as I headed for Bryan Steele's place. "Steele's a big man with a gun."

  "Don't worry. We have the truth on our side."

  "No offense," I said, "but I'd rather have the gun."

  * * *

  I hadn't expected Bryan Steele to open the door to us, let alone invite us inside. A half hour later, he surprised me on both counts. Once inside, I half expected to find dorm room furniture or a bare mattress on the floor, but he had oddly good taste. The place was tidy, done in soft grays and blues. Four matching chrome and leather chairs were pushed against the wall, bringing to mind a small-scale poetry reading waiting to happen, with two plush leather recliners arranged in homage to a giant curved screen television accessorized with every electronic component known to man. And to Irene. She practically drooled as she took it all in.

  Steele separated one of the bare bones chairs from the herd and sat facing us, his ankle crossed over his knee, his hands resting casually on his shin. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved green T-shirt, and he was barefoot. His buzz cut was damp. Once you got past the severe haircut and the square-jawed, suspicious-eyed face beneath it, he wasn't exactly bad looking. I could sort of get what women like Rebecca and Tara might see in him, especially if they were into men with testosterone overload. Looking at him, I tried to envision him in a fury shoving Rebecca into the granite countertop. It wasn't all that hard.

  "You two have got to stop coming over here," he said. "My neighbors are going to think there's something kinky going on."

  "Really?" Irene asked, tearing her gaze away from his home theater. "And what would Tara Tarnowski think?"

  I'd hoped that he would register surprise like an ordinary human being. But he had the no-reaction cop face down pat.

  "Don't try denying it," I added, although he hadn't. "You were seen leaving her place early this morning."

  "Oh, golly gee, was I?" He had sarcasm down pat. "Well, isn't that embarrassing." He cocked his head, appraising me. "You should've said something when you saw me. It might have gotten interesting."

  Just as I'd thought, he'd been eavesdropping on my conversation with Tara. My already shallow opinion of him drained a little bit more. "I might have," I shot back, "if you hadn't been hiding in another room."

  "Look." He pushed up his sleeves, the better to intimidate us with his Popeye forearms. "It's not like either one of us is married. No animals were harmed. No laws were broken."

  "Did Rebecca know you were cheating on her?" Irene asked.

  "What is it with you two?" This time he couldn't hold a neutral face. He couldn't hold a neutral anything. It was like he suddenly deflated, all the rebellion gone. "I cheated on her?" He snorted. "That's rich."

  I frowned at him. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying you got it way wrong." He lowered his head, preoccupied with the cuff of his jeans, quiet for a moment before he cleared his throat and spoke in a more subdued voice. "Rebecca was seeing someone behind my back, alright? She cheated on me first."

  Despite his obvious discomfort, that seemed convenient to me. "How do you know that?" I asked.

  He looked up. "I'm a cop, remember?"

  I just stared at him. In the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator fell silent, as if eavesdropping. Beside me, Irene remained motionless, waiting.

  "I know it, alright?" He sighed. "I thought we had a good thing going. An exclusive thing, you know? Finding out I wasn't enough for her wasn't great for my ego. I've got my pride. I'm like any other guy."

  Any other guy with a badge, a gun, and a temper.

  "Did you confront Rebecca?" Irene asked.

  "Worse."

  Irene and I exchanged a glance. What could be worse? Murder? Was he about to confess to murdering Rebecca?

  Steele was back to picking at his cuff, his face expressionless, which made him impossible to read. He might as well be working from a script he'd prepared ahead of time in case he'd be facing questions. "I'll admit it wasn't the mature thing to do," he said, "but I kind of lost it when I found out. I wanted to hurt her the way she had hurt me…" He hesitated, regrouping. "Rebecca had complained to me plenty about Tara, so hooking up with her seemed like the best revenge."

  "Yeah, that's much better than talking it out with Rebecca," Irene said.

  His eyes lifted slowly to bore into hers. "Guys don't talk it out. We take action."

  I was still chewing on the casual wanted to hurt her remark. "So you knew Tara and Rebecca couldn't stand each other," I said. "You were deliberately trying to upset her."

  "That's the point of revenge, Sister Theresa," he snapped. "It's supposed to be hurtful."

  But had it gone beyond hurtful to homicidal?

  "If Tara was just for revenge, why are you still seeing her?" Irene asked. "Now that Rebecca's dead, I mean."

  He shrugged. "Turns out Tara's not so bad, actually. I kinda like her."

  Having seen Tara's generous cup size, I could guess what it was he liked.

  "Who did Rebecca cheat on you with?" I asked. While I still wasn't sure I 100 percent believed him, it felt like another party was suddenly thrown in the mix. If Rebecca had been seeing someone on the sly, maybe that someone didn't want anyone to find out and killed her.

  He scowled at me as if he'd caught me doing a hundred in a school zone. "Don't know, and it doesn't much matter. When I found a pair of boxers at her place, she couldn't very well deny it."

  Okay, that bordered uncomfortably on TMI.

  "You said you slept with Tara out of revenge…I'm guessing that means you didn't hide it from Rebecca."

  He narrowed his eyes at me. "That would kinda defeat the purpose, wouldn't it."

  "Is that what you were arguing about with Rebecca at the theater the week before she died?" I asked.

  Bryan turned his gaze on me. At first I thought he'd deny it, but finally he nodded. "She was pretty pissed." Instead of looking pleased, he looked almost sad.

  "Well, what did you expect?" Irene asked

  "Sue me," he said, turning on her. "I've got feelings too. Haven't you ever had someone cheat on you?"

  Irene shook her head. "No. But if he did, I'd break up with him. I wouldn't play juvenile games with him."

  His smirk was taunting. "What's it feel like to be so perfect?"

  "One last question," I cut in before Irene could answer that. I could feel her hackles going up. "Where were you when Rebecca died?"

  "As if it's any of your business, but I was with Tara."

  Convenient. Our two best suspects just happened to be each other's alibis.

  * * *

  I dropped Irene off in the Mission for a VC meeting to back a restaurant that served only gluten-free, fat-free, casein-free, cruelty-free, sustainably farmed, organic raw food. Then I made my way to Stanford for a shift of serving caffeine-laden, fatty, buttery, chocolaty, creamy coffees and pastries at the coffee bar. The afternoon crowd was relentless, being close to midterms, which gave me little time to think about the case. I wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, as my mind ran circles around the sparse facts we knew so far. The truth was, Rebecca hadn't seemed particularly loved by the people in her life. And any one of them could have had a potential reason to want her dead.

  "Hey, Marty," Pam said, coming up behind me as I knelt behind the counter, restocking the bakery case during a much-needed lull mid-shift. "Guess what? I'm in love."

  I took the tray of muffins she handed over. "Mr. Leather?"

  Her nose wrinkled. "No. I'm totally over him. Turns out he's too old for me. He's almost thirty."

  "Wow. Ancient," I mumbled, calculating the precious months I had left before I became "too old."

  "Anyway, he came in yesterday, and I think he was flirting with me."

  "Really? Can you pass me the doughnuts?" I asked. "What's his name?"

  She paused. "You know, I forgot to ask." She slid the tray into the case herself, her fingers flying like hummingbird wings as she arranged the pastries.

  "He a student here?"

  She shrugged.

  I narrowed my eyes at her. "Do you know anything about him?"

  She bit her lip. "I guess I did most of the talking. He was a great listener. He wanted to know all about the bookstore, the coffee bar, you, Alberta…"

  "Wait—me?" I stood, my internal radar pricking up.

  She nodded. "Like I said, he was a great listener."

  "What did you tell him?"

  She gave me a blank look. "I dunno. Just stuff."

  "You told a stranger 'stuff' about me?" I loved Pam, but too trusting was like her motto in life.

  "Don't worry. He was, like, totally a nice guy."

  "What did this nice guy look like?"

  Pam's face broke into a grin, and she pulled out her phone. "I took a selfie of us."