Page 168 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Got a favor to ask.”
“?’Course you do.”
“You still consult to the coroner and the LAPD, right?” Rubbing circles on both my temples.
“I’m at the morgue as we speak. Got a body turned up on the roof of a twenty-story high-rise. Birds and rats opened a buffet, couple of felines bellied up. How the hell do cats climb that high?”
“Perseverance.”
“What’s your favor?”
“I’m hoping you can get the inside dope on a detective who left the LAPD several years back.”
“His name?”
“Her name is Donna Henry.”
“What’s the deal?”
“A detective I partner with gets a bad vibe.”
“You’d like to put a cork in his whining.”
“Assuage his concerns.”
“Your timing is superb, my friend. I’m heading over there shortly. I’ll ask around, see what pops.”
“Much appreciated,” I said. “Are you coming east any time soon?”
“Not if your pasty Irish ass is there.”
“Love you, too.”
Next, I dialed Slidell.
“It’s me.”
“Mm.” He couldn’t have sounded less enthused without serious pharmaceuticals.
“Something you said has been bothering me.”
“I’m working here, ya know.”
“It’s related to Henry.”
“You gotta be shitting me.”
“When I described the search with Mortella and Vera at SWI, you said every handler you know is eager to work his mutt, Sunday or not. So why would Henry agree to use an untrained dog?”
“Because she’s a fucknozzle twit—”
“Why do you dislike her?”
“In my humble, Henry’s carrying a badge someone else oughta have.”
Hearing radio static, voices, a barking dog, I asked, “Where are you?”
“Sugar Creek Park. Captain got a credible tip some wanker’s been waving his weeny at kids.”
