“Really?” She eyed me like I was part blithering and part idiot. “Because if you had died and wanted to stay on Earth to hang with your bro for all eternity, would you introduce yourself to the one person in the universe who could send you to the other side?”

She had a point.

Taft finished his conversation and strolled back over. “Is she here?” he asked, looking around. They always looked around. Not sure why.

“In the flesh,” I said. “Metaphorically.”

“Is she still mad at me?” He kicked the sand at his feet.

Had I not been shell-shocked over the pending apocalypse, I would have laughed when Strawberry did the same, her tiny pink slippers skimming over the ground, disturbing nothing. “I wasn’t mad,” she said. “I just wish he would stop taking ugly girls to dinner.” Before I could say anything, she reached up and curled her fingers into mine. “He should take you to dinner.”

To say that the mere thought horrified me would have been a grievous understatement. I threw up a little in my mouth then swallowed hard, trying not to make a face. “She’s not really mad,” I told Taft when I recovered. I leaned in and whispered, “Just please, for the love of God, find a girl good enough to take home to your mother. And do it soon.”

“Okay,” he said, confusion locking his brows together.

“And stop dating skanks.”

Chapter Seven

I STOPPED FIGHTING MY INNER DEMONS.

WE’RE ON THE SAME SIDE NOW.

—T-SHIRT

After presenting my ID at the front, I strolled into the central police station, where they’d brought Warren Jacobs for questioning, and spotted Ubie across a sea of desks. Fortunately, only a couple of uniforms took note of my presence. Most cops didn’t take kindly to my invading their turf. Partly because I was Ubie’s secret weapon, solving cases before they could, and partly because they thought I was a freak. Neither particularly bothered me.

Cops were an odd combination of rules and arrogance, but I’d learned long ago that both attributes were needed for survival in their dangerous profession. People were downright crazy.

Ubie stood talking to another detective when I walked up to him. At the last minute, I remembered I was annoyed with him for putting a tail on me. Thank goodness I did, because I almost smiled.

“Ubie,” I said, icicles dripping from my voice.

Clearly unfazed by my cool disposition, he snickered, so I frowned and said, “Your mustache needs a trim.”

His smile evaporated and he groped his ’stache self-consciously. It was harsh of me, but he needed to know I was serious about my No-Surveillance Policy. I hardly appreciated his insensitivity to my need for privacy. What if I’d rented a  p**n  flick?

The other detective nodded to take his leave, humor twitching the corners of his mouth as he walked away.

“Can I see him?” I asked.

“He’s in observation room one waiting for his lawyer.”

Taking that as a yes, I headed that way, then offered over my shoulder, “He’s innocent, by the way.”

Just as I stepped inside, he called out to me. “Are you just saying that ’cause you’re mad?”

I let the door close behind me without answering.

“Ms. Davidson,” Warren said, rising to take my hand. He actually looked a little worse than he had at the café. He wore the same charcoal suit, his tie loose, the top button of his shirt unfastened.

“How are you holding up?” I asked, sitting across from him.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he said, his hands shaky with grief. Guilty people were often nervous during interviews as well, but for a different reason. More often than not, they were trying to come up with a good story. One that would cover all the bases and hold up in court. Warren was nervous because he was being accused of committing not one, but two crimes, and he’d committed neither.

“I don’t doubt that, Warren,” I said, trying to keep my voice firm nonetheless. He didn’t tell me everything, and I wanted to know why. “But you had an argument with Tommy Zapata a week before he was found dead.”

Warren’s head fell into his hands. I knew that Uncle Bob was watching. He’d kept Warren in an observation room, knowing I was coming to see him, but if he was hoping for some kind of confession, he was about to be very disappointed.

“Look, if I’d known he was going to be found dead, I would never have argued with him. Not in public, anyway.”

Well, at least he was smart. “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

“I did,” he said, his voice breathy with frustration. “I told you how I thought Mimi might have been having an affair. She changed so much, became so distant, so … unlike herself that I followed her one day. She had lunch with him, a car dealer, and I thought … I just knew she was having an affair.”

“Is there anything in particular that stood out? Anything that made you feel that way?”

“She was so different toward him, almost hostile. Before their food even arrived, she stood up to leave. He tried to get her to stay. He even took her hand, but she pulled back like she was repulsed by him. When she tried to walk past, he stood and blocked her path. That’s when I knew it was all true.” The memory seemed to drain the life out of him. His shoulders deflated as he thought back.

“Why?” I asked, fighting the urge to take his hand. “How did you know?”