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  "I—it shouldn't have happened," I tried to explain. "I feel responsible, and there's the possibility that his death wasn't an accident. I mean, that bruise on the head. The police really don't give a shit. He was only a bum, you know."

  "But he was your bum."

  "Yeah, he was my bum." I said nothing about the money and the bracelet. Our voices rang in the empty space.

  Audrey said, "I'm impressed by your—that you know so much about the streets. All those street people."

  "Well, I don't think it's something to boast about."

  "You look so worn out. Why don't you come over to my place for a few minutes and let me take care of you? I'll give you something to eat."

  I was hungry but said, "You're very kind, but I ought to keep working. I should get back to it in a minute. Thanks just the same. Oh! You're probably wondering about your shirt."

  "No."

  "I haven't gotten to the laundry."

  "Please keep it."

  "Oh, no, I couldn't, I'll just—"

  "You looked really good in it, you know," and she flicked up an eyebrow. "Trim and strong." I suppose she could have rented a billboard that said AUDREY KNOX IS FLIRTING WITH LILLIAN BYRD. That would have made it slightly clearer.

  I asked, "Who are you, Audrey Knox?"

  She laughed a laugh that was somehow tinkly and hearty at the same time, like wine bottles tapping together. "Let's see, who am I? I'm the third great-niece of a Hungarian countess, and I'm hiding in America from a gang of microchip manufacturers who think I sabotaged their factory in Patagonia."

  "Have you ever read the Calico Jones books, by any chance?"

  "The who?"

  "Never mind."

  "And tomorrow I might be a sex-toy inventor who needs a subject to practice on!" She showed me the tip of her pink tongue.

  "My goodness." How pleasant this all was.

  "I'm not very worldly, in fact. I've led a very sheltered life."

  "I see." I wasn't sure why she said that.

  "Um, so, you still want to stay here and work?"

  "Tempted though I am, I'd better. Porrocks is counting on me to get this stuff done. Have you met her by the way—your new neighbor, the woman who bought this house?"

  "No, not yet." My visitor lifted her arms and fluffed her hair away from her neck Everything she did was alluring.

  I swallowed. "Well, I'll introduce you. She wants to get to know her neighbors—go to block parties, do candelaria on Christmas Eve, crap like that."

  Audrey Knox said, "Well, can I get you to come over later?"

  I shook my head.

  "Tomorrow, then?"

  "Porrocks's truck is coming tomorrow, and I guess I'll help her unpack. Maybe I can stop over afterward. Or we could just get coffee sometime."

  "She's moving right in, then? Good!"

  "Yeah, she told me there were a couple of break-ins while the place was vacant. Have you noticed anything? Anybody prowling around the neighborhood?"

  "Hmm. No, not really. Well, I thought I saw a guy one time." She stroked her jaw with the back of a finger.

  "Yeah?"

  "I dunno, just a guy walking around."

  "She thinks kids are breaking in. Well, the place'll be safe enough with her in it, given her line of work." I got to my knees, which were sore but not enough to make me wince.

  "What is that?"

  "Porrocks is a freshly retired cop. She knows all about dealing with trouble."

  "She must be going to install an alarm system, then," Audrey Knox decided.

  "No, no, those things are junk. She doesn't need them. I'm talking about her judo certificate and her small but well-tuned collection of firearms."

  "Oh, I see. That'd do it, wouldn't it?"

  "You said it. She'll be back later to spend the night in her sleeping bag."

  "And you'll continue to work on her place? For how long?"

  "Yeah, it's a pretty good gig: fifteen bucks an hour, cash. I'm not really sure for how long, but there's weeks' worth of work to be done in that place."

  "She must like having you around—quite a lot!"

  "Well, I think she's just—"

  "Did she give you keys and stuff—I mean, are you really good friends?"

  "Oh, no. I mean, we're on good terms, but I don't have keys. She's left the boathouse unlocked because I've been coming and going, you know."

  Audrey Knox wasn't the sort of blowhard who's always yakking about herself. She listened to me and was interested in me and her new neighbor Porrocks. Yes, I liked Audrey Knox. And she sure as hell seemed to like me.

  Chapter 9

  Porrocks the next day demonstrated admirable control over the chaos of moving. I'd started work in the boathouse early, then stopped when the truck came and pitched in to help her organize boxes according to her labels. At lunchtime she opened a cooler full of sandwiches and Cokes for the movers, herself, and me.

  I monitored her for suspicious behavior. When she handed me a chicken sandwich I thought, The sandwich of a killer? When she laughed at a joke one of the movers made, I thought, The laugh of a gangster? The crazy chuckle of a double-dealing cop?

  It was hard to be fair.

  Her cell phone rang in her pocket, and she answered it by just saying, "Porrocks." She used to answer the phone, "Detective Porrocks speaking."

  She turned away from the movers and me and spoke for just a minute or two. "Uh-huh. Yeah? Was there any—right, I see …. What does Bob think? Yeah …. Well, thanks very much."

  We all chowed down, then the movers got back to work. Porrocks didn't want my help then, so I went back to the boathouse. Before turning to go down the driveway I looked up at Audrey Knox's windows. I couldn't tell whether she was home. I'd laundered her shirt.

  A few hours later I heard the moving van start up and leave, and I went back to the house. Porrocks was already unboxing stuff, flattening cartons and stacking them neatly, cramming the packing paper down into one carton.

  "I'd like you to open some boxes for me," she said, "but first I want to talk to you."

  She stepped around a stack of boxes toward me and I went instantly tense.

  "They did the autopsy on the John Doe—your Rick," she said.

  "Already?"

  "Yes, the M.E. called today when we were eating." She looked at me. A wisp of her fine gray hair had escaped her dotted kerchief, and she brushed it out of her eyes. "I can still pull a string or two."

  I relaxed. "Why did you, Erma?"

  "I knew you were anxious to know."

  That took me aback. "Wow, Erm, thank you. Thank you. What did they say?"

  "Very high blood alcohol: over two. No surprise there." Porrocks spoke matter-of-factly, her thumbs hooked in the belt loops of her jeans, her posture straight. "The blow to the head happened before death, but not much before. Linear fracture of the temporal bone. Do you know that that bone is the thinnest bone of the adult skull, right here?" She reached out and touched my temple. I almost flinched but held still. "There's a blood vessel right there, and the cracked bone tore it, just enough to make him hemorrhage into his brain, which probably killed him quickly. They did find water in his lungs, but not a lot, which indicates he was dying when he hit the water. The blow wasn't delivered with crushing force, which counterindicates an attack."

  "But doesn't rule it out." I sat down on a box.

  Porrocks bent to put her hands on her knees, stretched her back, and straightened up with a small grunt. "Correct."

  "So essentially we're talking inconclusive."

  "Correct, technically."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You can only prove that a crime happened; you can't prove that a crime did not happen. You can't prove a negative, right?"

  "That's right."

  "No empirical evidence of foul play was found. The absence of evidence is significant, do you see?"

  "Yes, I see. Thank you, Erma. How can I find out if his identity has been established?"

  P
orrocks pulled off her kerchief, smoothed her hair, and put it back on. "I'd call the Wyandotte PD."

  "OK."

  "Now, how about unpacking those? My electronics. Lou's coming soon, right?"

  "She said she would."

  "And do you have an interior decorator in your pocket as well?"

  "Huh," I said. "I do know a good one, but he's out of town on a job. He's more of an architect-slash-designer, but he sure decorates great too."

  "Would that be your friend, um, Don?"

  "It's Duane. Yeah. Get this: He's in New York City redoing Minerva LeBlanc's place."

  "Really!"

  "Yep, I hooked them up."

  Minerva LeBlanc, the true-crime writer, was a friend of mine too, more or less. We'd started up a romance based on a couple of mutual investigations, but then she came out with a book about how my parents died by mistake in this arson case that also involved first-degree murder and insurance fraud, and I kind of couldn't deal with it. She changed the names, but still it was upsetting to me to have my family history sitting there on people's laps in airplanes and book groups. Our relationship cooled to nothing.

  Now, lifting Porrocks's stereo components out of their cartons, I wondered what Minerva would make of what had happened on this property in the last couple of days.

  ----

  A little past five, Lou rang the bell. I reintroduced her to Porrocks in the foyer, then she stepped in, wearing her Detroit Department of Health animal control officer's uniform and equipment belt. She stood in the room solidly, feet apart, and said, "Good to see you again, Detective Porrocks," in her rock-crusher voice.

  "I'm not a detective anymore!" Porrocks said uncharacteristically liltingly, which showed how uncomfortable she was about that—and how long it was going to be before she'd be able to move on.

  "Once a cop, always a cop," Lou said firmly, and I could tell Porrocks appreciated that. "I just got off my shift," Lou added, gesturing at her own outfit. "So." She unbuckled her equipment belt, which she could have left in the truck, but I'm sure she wanted to give the first impression of her full ensemble. I understood that. Lou looked exceedingly competent in her uniform. She'd grown heavier over the years—a bit of jowliness, a bit more fat spilling over her belt—but her brown eyes were clear and earnest. You'd expect such a butch to wear a buzz cut or at least a mullet, but Lou kept her salt-and-pepper-gray hair in a long ponytail, which she invariably secured with a black elastic band. She was rather older than me but younger than Porrocks.

  "Now," she said, "what can I do for you?"

  Porrocks explained about her components and stuff. "And the PC can go right here on this desk."

  "Processor on the floor, like here?" asked Lou.

  "Good idea," Porrocks said and then began asking Lou a series of questions about digital TV and dedicated lines and all that. She hunkered down and watched Lou work while they talked. I saw Lou's meaty face smiling as she unkinked cables and methodically lined up remote controls. Lou did not smile broadly, her smile was more of a general facial uplift, which some people would take to be an ordinary neutral expression, but for Lou it definitely was a smile. Lou loved to do things for people—well, for women. I wondered if she was seeing anybody. I got the feeling she wasn't.

  "Erma," I said, "I'll see you a little later tomorrow. I've got a couple of things I need to do."

  "OK."

  I bid the two of them adieu and took off.

  I'd stashed my little bundle in the most remote crevice of the Caprice's trunk, rediscovering in the process the unopened pint of Mad Dog I'd confiscated from Drooly Rick. I fired up the Caprice and drove it around the corner, parked on the street, and walked up to Audrey Knox's building with the bottle of wine under my arm and her shirt folded in my hand.

  "How come you moved your car?" Audrey said as she opened the door to her apartment. "What's this?"

  "It's the stuff winos drink, Mogen David 20/20. It's fortified. I moved my car because if Porrocks looked out and saw my car still in her driveway after I'd said good night and left, she'd be confused."

  "So you haven't mentioned me to her?" Audrey Knox gave me a little sly look. Sexy. Boy, the woman was sexy.

  "I like things to be simple," I said. "Here, thanks for the shirt."

  This evening she wore yet another wool skirt outfit, this one an elfin-green mini with a magenta jersey top, close-fitting and smooth over her torso. "You're looking lovely this evening," I told her.

  "Aren't I, though?" she laughed.

  I laughed too.

  "Here," she said, "I'll get a couple of glasses. Have a seat."

  I evaluated the seating choices and decided on the couch. It was a no-brainer, to be honest, since she didn't have much furniture—just a bright amber-colored rug, a couple of folding camp chairs, and then the couch, a worn, thinly padded thing but comfortable enough.

  "Ah, that's it," said my hostess, returning with two jelly glasses and a can of mixed nuts. I unscrewed the MD with a flourish and poured, and she popped the ring on the nut can.

  I didn't realize how tense I'd been until I let down. We drank the horrible wine and nibbled the nuts, and I relaxed. My mind was still working on everything, but I did begin to relax.

  "I could call out for a pizza," Audrey said.

  "Great idea."

  It turned out we liked our pizza the same way: cheese, pepperoni, mushroom. Porrocks had paid me some money, so I felt OK. I could chip in.

  While we waited for the delivery, Audrey tuned in WDET on a boom box she had, and we listened to a bluegrass program and talked.

  "Do you play softball?" I asked, noticing a couple of bats propped in a corner.

  "I did, in the summer."

  "On a team?"

  "Naw, just pickup with friends."

  "What position do you like to play?"

  "Pitcher." She offered me her forearm.

  "Oh, yeah?" I reached for her arm and felt the muscle. "You must be good." I wanted to go on holding the lively, firm arm, but set it down on her lap with care.

  "I only throw strikes."

  What can you do but just smile at that?

  Audrey wanted to discuss Rick and Porrocks again, but I wanted to get my mind off all that. "Audrey Knox, where do you come from and what do you do for a living?"

  "Didn't I tell you that I'm a refugee from an orphanage where they made us dance to Billy Joel songs for our supper?"

  "You told me something like that, but seriously, do you, like, work?"

  "I'm a hostess in a brothel."

  "Really?"

  "No, babycakes, but you wish I were. Here's the pizza guy."

  We ate the pizza from the box perched on a plastic Parsons table and sipped our wine.

  "You know, Mad Dog goes pretty well with this," Audrey observed.

  "How do you know it's called Mad Dog?" I asked, amused.

  "I thought you called it that."

  "Maybe I did."

  Eating, I felt better but still troubled. Audrey picked up on it. "Is something bothering you, Lillian? Talk to me about it. It's OK. I'm serious now."

  "Well, the thing is this: I think something funny happened over there."

  "Funny as in?"

  "As in, like, maybe Drooly Rick just sort of accidentally died, but I really feel that—maybe I shouldn't actually utter it, but—"

  "Just say it, you'll feel better."

  I looked at Audrey Knox, her soft eyes shining almost Todd-like in their unquestioning openness. Taking a deep breath, I said, "I think Porrocks knows something."

  "Like maybe she—"

  "Like maybe Rick got into something he shouldn't have, and she decided to shut him up."

  "A secret?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh, Lillian. How could she? How could anybody?"

  "Well, I'm not saying she did. Listen carefully, I'm not saying she did. It just feels peculiar to me. There's something off about the whole thing." I didn't mention the treasure yet. I didn't feel quite se
cure enough to.

  Audrey said, "I wonder what kind of secret! What do you think it is?"

  "I don't know," I said uneasily.

  She suggested, "Maybe there was some connection between Porrocks and Rick that went back a long way, you know? Something nasty between them."

  "Hmm. I like how you think, Audrey. Like what?"

  "Like, oh, I don't know. I wish you weren't so troubled. Here, why don't you put your head in my lap, and I'll try to smooth out all that worry."

  Before I could say, "Uh," she grabbed my shoulder and pulled me over. Her hands fluttered about my head, then settled at my temples. Her fingertips began circling slowly and evenly around the ridges of my skull.

  "There," she murmured, "there."

  My breath came easier, and I forgot everything except the sensation of Audrey Knox's small smooth hands on my head. Her fingers searched my scalp for tight places and worked on them patiently, persistently. I felt so luxuriously liked.

  After a while she rested her hands on my forehead, and I thanked her. "I'd like to return the favor," I said, "in perhaps a slightly different way." I sat up. "Where do you feel tight?"

  Audrey Knox smiled. "Well, I blew out a disc in my back once, and it's never been quite the same."

  "Oh, that's too bad. I bet it just hurts sometimes."

  "It just hurts sometimes."

  "And I bet it's hard to make it feel better all by yourself."

  "It is, it is."

  "Let me see."

  Audrey rolled onto her tummy on the couch and I folded her top up, exposing her fine-grained back skin. Her shape was so pleasing.

  "Here?" I said.

  "Yes, there."

  And she sighed and purred as I worked my hands into her resilient flesh, flesh I'm almost tempted to call succulent but for the fact that I had not yet tasted it. Her body was exactly the right mix of lean and fat—firm, not bony at all, with little indulgent places of softness. Oh, what a jubilation it was to touch her.

  I concentrated on that one area of her back, the upslope from low to mid, about ten inches along her spine, knowing that the anticipation of more was just as important as the more, if you know what I mean.