And Timmie stood there thinking she should ask something. Well, hell, she thought. She was trained to question victims, survivors, perpetrators. She wasn't trained to grill cops. Especially cops who might be involved somehow. What the hell was she supposed to do?

"Why do you think Victor was investigating the shooting on his own?" she asked.

Micklind froze completely. Wrong question first time out. Oh, what the hell. She might as well go for it.

"Are you investigating the shooting at the horse show?"

Wrong again. Now he was glaring.

"Is anybody investigating the shooting?"

"It's an ongoing investigation," he recited dutifully.

Timmie laughed. "Don't insult my intelligence, Detective. Just tell me why nobody wants to know any more. Is it because you're pretty sure it was a one-time deal and you don't want to hurt the person involved for making a stupid decision in a moment of stress, or is it something else?"

Now he sighed. "It's nothing, Ms. Leary. This might be a lot for an overeducated bedpan handler from L.A. to understand, but we take care of our own here. And we're taking care of it."

"If you were," she retorted, cheeks hot, "don't you think Victor would have left it alone?"

* * *

Another SSS wrap party at the Rebel Yell. Another several rounds of drinks, fueled by Cindy's close encounter with another cop funeral and Ellen's with the Eternal Rest cemetery. Alex showed up again for one drink and spent the time asking Timmie what she thought of Restcrest. Barb arrived for the first toast. Calm, collected, pretty in her testifying duds, as she called the sharp red suit she said made her look like a brewery wagon. Timmie drank and laughed and recited the best of her father's lines and wished she were home with a pencil, ruler, and sheet of paper so she could graph out what little information she had.

Micklind had clammed up like a pregnant teen. And by the time Timmie had made it up the hill to watch the rest of the service, the service had been heading back down the hill.

She did ask Alex if he'd heard anything more about the shooting investigation, only to be met by bland indifference. She asked the general crowd what they'd heard from Van Adder, only to be booed. She sipped her soda and watched people having a wonderful time and decided that she shouldn't have listened to Murphy after all. If she hadn't, maybe she could enjoy her first afternoon out without having to worry about anything more than what she was going to fix Meghan for dinner. As it was, she spent it watching everyone for ulterior motives and deciding that she was the worst detective since Clouseau because she didn't see a one.

* * *

"I didn't come home with you to play another game o' Clue," Mattie griped as the two of them closed Cyrano into the detached garage at the side of Timmie's house an hour later.

"They think Barb killed Victor," Timmie argued, her keys jangling in her hand as she turned back toward the front walk. "Don't you think that's reason enough to ask questions?"

It was getting on toward three. Meghan was due home from school, and traffic had picked up on Timmie's block. The sun was losing out to a thin layer of clouds, and the wind seemed to whip around at ankle level. Timmie shivered with the as-yet-unaccustomed-chill.

"Why bother me with it?" Mattie demanded.

"Because I trust you. Because you watch everything and keep your mouth shut. Because you're not sleeping with Van Adder."

Mattie did everything but spit on her fingers. "Don't even go there, girlfriend. I got nightmares enough as it is."

Timmie laughed, her attention on separating her door key as they walked. "I'm telling you, Mattie. There have been two murders and one attempted murder that nobody's talking about, and I just don't think it's all a silly coincidence."

"Why not?" Mattie demanded, yanking off her gold lame church hat as if this were a statement itself. "People get murdered all the time where I grew up. Shoot, girl, you wouldn't'a had a job in Los Angeles if people didn't get capped on a regular basis. Why you got a problem with this?"

"Because they suspect Barb. Now, if they're right, let me know and I'll shut up. But if they're not, and there isn't any connection between Billy and Victor that could explain what I'm finding, then Barb goes to the head of the suspect pool." Timmie stopped, agitated all over again. "And right behind her in line might just be Ellen, and do you really want to see her have to face that Micklind guy?"

Mattie stood stock-still in front of her, eyes narrow, stance aggressive, chins quivering with frustration as she made up her mind. "The only time I know Billy met Victor was when Victor arrested him for breaking a restraining order. Memory serves, Victor broke a few things hisself. Now, you happy?"

"They didn't work together?"

"God, no."

"Billy didn't work at the hospital?"

"Billy didn't work no place. Not regular. He gambled to get his support payments. Made Ellen crazy."

Timmie lifted a finger in exception. "Don't say that."

Mattie scowled. "You way too serious, girl."

Timmie snorted and turned for the house. "So was whoever turned Victor into a minute steak."

She had thought she would enjoy walking back into her house. Her empty house. Her silent, undemanding house that might still be a mess on a scale with a carnival teardown, but at least wouldn't pop out surprises like old men waving pistols.

Somehow it didn't work. Timmie had just put her foot on the first step to the porch when it hit. Smack, right in the face, sucking out her breath like a force field. The depression. The realization that it all waited in that house, no matter what she wanted. Even though her father wasn't going to be waiting for her. Because he wasn't going to be waiting for her. Mattie walked right up the steps, but Timmie faltered to a halt out there in the cold sunshine trying to think how she could put it off.

Piles and stacks and mountains of trash. The smell of mold and memories. The dim recesses of responsibility. And Timmie, in her knee-jerk reaction, wanted out. Away. Free. Even though she knew she couldn't.

"Girl, you all right?"

"Oh, I'm fine, Mattie." Still she didn't move. "I mean, what could be wrong? I have my little girl, a job, an intriguing puzzle to solve that actually involves forensics, and my father neatly tucked away out of sight where I don't have to see what a waste product he's become."

Only Mattie could laugh and get away with it. "Shit, girl," she retorted, leaning her bulk against the porch support. "You gonna spend all day whinin', forget this party."

Timmie managed a grin. Then she shrugged, a completely ineffectual gesture. "I didn't want to do that to that old man."

"He too much for you," Mattie said. "Get over it. You got enough to worry about without beatin' youself up 'bout that."

Her view taken up with the pretty brick and white-wood house, Timmie sighed. "I thought I'd feel better, that's all."

"Not till the day you die," Mattie assured her blithely.

And made her laugh. Timmie heard the car pull up behind her, but didn't pay any attention as she re-slung her purse and headed up the steps. "Okay, then," she said, opening the screen door. "You notice anything different at the hospital?"

Right beside her, Mattie laughed. "Besides a new administration, all those goddamn HMOs to memorize, and a new computer keeps goin' down when we need it? Something else?"