Page 28 of The Children of Eve

She set the soda on a shelf, added milk to the coffee, and sat on a folding chair by the door, her legs outstretched.

“So, Sherlock, have you found the solution yet?”

I leaned against the wall and took out my notebook. Macy had gifted me a slim Kaweco fountain pen in brass, and the notebook had a hollow spine into which the pen fit neatly. I’d started liking the arrangement despite myself, even if I felt I should be writing my notes in sonnet form.

“You mentioned that Wyatt was reluctant to talk about his military service,” I said. “But he must have revealed some details to you.”

“Not many. He told me he’d done two tours in Afghanistan, but didn’t mention anywhere else. He spoke of boredom punctuated by moments of fear, but he may just have read that somewhere and was using it to deflect questions. I didn’t want to pursue the subject, not if he wasn’t comfortable talking about it. I hoped that might change with time.”

“Did you notice tattoos, military insignia, anything that offered a clue to his unit?”

“No, nothing like that. Wyatt has no tattoos. But then, I have enough tattoos for both of us.”

“He has no tattoos at all?”

“Nope. I checked out every inch of him for myself.”

She flicked a pierced tongue at me. Had I been twenty years younger, I’d still have run a mile from Zetta Nadeau, though not without regrets. If she wasn’t the girl my mother warned me about, it was only because my mother couldn’t have conceived of anyone like her.

Wyatt Riggins’s avoidance of tattoos wasn’t necessarily shocking, but it was unusual. I’d known my share of men and women who’d been in the military, and some Millennials who were currently serving. The latter were so enamored of body modification that the army had been forced to adapt its policy on tattoos to permit them on the hand, ear, and neck. But even decades earlier, tattoos were more common than not. It was a conviction passed down by soldiers from generation to generation: warriors marked themselves as such.

“You told me he had trouble sleeping?”

“Sometimes. Pot helped.”

“And prescription medication?”

“So you found his pills. I was going to tell you about them, but I decided you might prefer to discover them for yourself. If you hadn’t, I’d have mentioned them, probably just before I dispensed with your services for missing them in the first place.”

I took out the bottle I’d discovered in the bathroom.

“According to Dr. Google, these are sometimes prescribed by military doctors for ex-servicemen suffering from PTSD, though that doesn’t necessarily mean Wyatt was traumatized, not the way tranquilizers are handed out these days. Kids on playgrounds may be taking Tofranil with sips from their juice boxes. But Wyatt was anxious enough to seek help, which is interesting. Next: Do you own a gun?”

“No,” said Zetta. “I don’t like guns.”

“Was Wyatt aware of that?”

“I told him I wouldn’t allow a gun in the house. He said he was okay with it and that he didn’t need one.”

I removed the pistol, still in its Ziploc bag, from my jacket pocket. It was a Sig Sauer P226, chambered in .40 S&W. The gun had seen service, but was clean and well-oiled.

“This was hidden behind the baseboard in the bathroom,” I said. “Unless it was left by a previous tenant, Wyatt may not have been telling the whole truth about a weapon. It still has its serial number, which means it can be traced from manufacturer to dealer to buyer—or the original buyer, anyway. If it was stolen or sold on, that line of inquiry peters out.”

I studied Zetta carefully, but she appeared genuinely shocked at the sight of the Sig.

“Assuming it’s Wyatt’s, why did he hide it in the bathroom?” she asked, which wasn’t a bad question.

“I imagine he’d have preferred to keep it closer but couldn’t risk your finding it. Also, you have a house alarm, right?”

“It was already installed when I moved in. It’s linked to the main property, and the studio is connected to the same system. My tools and equipment cost me a lot over the years. I don’t want some asshole addict stealing them to sell for chump change.”

“So Wyatt wagered that if someone came at him while he was in the house, he’d have time to get to the gun, day or night.”

“What about when he was working?” asked Zetta. “If he was worried enough to have a gun here, wouldn’t he want to be armed the rest of the time?”

“Either Wyatt brought this one with him when he left each day and returned it to its hiding place when he got home, or he had another gun stashed somewhere. I’d go with the second option, because there was a chance you’d notice if he was carrying, however briefly.”

For the next twenty minutes, I peppered Zetta with questions, only a handful of which she could answer. Wyatt Riggins’s parents were dead. He had one sibling, a stepbrother in Utah or Idaho who was a pastor in some Holy Roller church, but they weren’t close, or so Wyatt had informed her. The stepbrother’s name was Regis, but whether he shared Wyatt’s surname Zetta couldn’t say, and she had made no effort to trace him. Wyatt owned a vehicle, a blue Toyota Camry worn around the edges but sharp inside. She knew its license plate number. She’d written it down on the chalkboard in the kitchen because—well, just because.

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