Page 60 of Cold Curses
“I think that goes back to the upstart,” I said as we turned a corner. The store was a tiny glowing sliver between larger buildings. “He doesn’t want the competition.”
“You think he got in, and now he wants to close the door behind him?”
“That’s my guess.”
We stepped into the shop, a digital bell ringing our arrival. The interior was glaringly bright, and the air smelled like old hot dogs.
The clerk, a young woman with dark hair and big glasses—wide and round—glanced up from her screen, then looked down again. “Dad, there’s a lady with a sword out here.”
“Find coffee,” I told Connor, and walked to the register.
The clerk’s father emerged from a door behind the counter, followed by the noise of a droning wall screen. He looked at me, then at my sword, then at me again. “Face and weapon don’t match.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that remark, so I didn’t. I pulled out my badge, offered it. “I’m with the Ombudsman’s office.”
“Hmm,” the dad said vaguely, peering at my badge.
Connor joined me, put two cans of coffee on the counter.
“I can’t give freebies, even if you’re cops.”
“Wasn’t even going to ask,” Connor said with a smile, and offered his credit fob, paid for the goods.
While they worked the transaction and the daughter watchedConnor surreptitiously (couldn’t blame her), I began my questions.
“There’s a hole in the street a block over. What happened there?”
“No idea,” the dad said, handing the fob back to Connor.
“How long has it been there?”
“Week or so.”
The girl’s face tightened, but she didn’t comment.
“You see who dug it or put the cones out?”
“Construction guys, probably,” he said.
The screen in the back room beeped, and he looked at his daughter, nodded, disappeared again.
She waited until the door was firmly closed. “He’s watching his show. And he doesn’t like trouble.”
“Neither do we,” Connor said, offering his most charming smile. It had worked on many hearts, including mine, over the years.
The human bit her lip, looked back at the closed door, then leaned toward us.
“They dug the hole three or four days ago,” she said quietly. “He’s called the city every day, complaining it hasn’t been fixed and it’s not marked well enough.”
“You said ‘they,’ ” I said. “Did you see who dug it? Were there multiple people?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just assumed it was a bunch. Big hole, right? And there’s always a bunch of people on those crews.”
I took the evidence bag from my pocket, held it up. The reflective fabric—already screaming orange—gleamed in the light.
“We found this in the hole,” I said. “Probably somebody was wearing it while they worked. Maybe they came in?”
She pushed up her glasses with a knuckle. “I don’t know. Maybe?”
