“You hit him in a parking lot?” I asked, my pitch high with surprise. Garrett shifted beside me, wondering where I was going with this. I was wondering, too.

This time when her eyes widened, the guilt on her face was undeniable. “I—I never hit anyone.”

“She was wasted,” the guy said, memories lining his face, “falling down drunk, and she told me to sit on the back of her car, that I would be fine.”

“You told him to sit on the back of your car,” I said, dissecting her with an accusing scowl. “You’d been drinking.”

Ms. Liedell looked around, as if making sure she wasn’t on Candid Camera.

“I must have had a concussion. I couldn’t focus. I was talking to her one minute, then dying in her trunk the next. She hit me again, only with a brick that time.”

“What the hell did you say to her?” I asked him, no longer worried about appearances.

His bitter gaze traveled back to me. “I told her I was a cop and that she was under arrest.”

“Holy f**k,” I said in full freak-out mode. “Are you serious? You were a cop? Like undercover?”

He nodded, but Liedell gasped, covered her mouth with both hands. “No, I didn’t know he was a cop. I thought he was a crazy homeless guy. H-he was filthy. I thought he was lying to get money out of me. You know how they are.” She was panicking. Under more normal circumstances, it would have been funny. “You’re not cops,” she said to us. “You can’t do anything.”

Just then, Uncle Bob pulled his SUV to a screeching halt in front of her house, followed by two patrol cars, lights flashing. His timing, though impeccable, had me stumped.

“No,” I said, unable to wipe the astonishment from my voice, “but he is.” I hitched a thumb over my shoulder toward Ubie, aka Man on Fire. He was walking toward us with a purpose. A mission. Or hemorrhoids. Or both.

“Carrie Liedell?” he asked as he barreled toward us.

She nodded absently, her whole life most likely flashing before her eyes.

“You are under arrest for the murder of Officer Zeke Brandt. Do you have anything in your pockets?” he asked just before he turned her about face and frisked her. A uniform quoted the Miranda as Liedell started bawling.

“I didn’t know he was a cop,” she said between sobs. “I thought he was lying.”

When the uniform took her away, Ubie turned to me, his expression dire. “Officer Brandt has been missing for three years. Nobody knew what happened to him. He was investigating a drug ring that used homeless people to sell for them.”

“But, how did you know?” I asked, still stupefied.

“Swopes told me what you were investigating, the case you’d put him on while he was supposed to be watching you.”

I scowled at Garrett. “Is nothing sacred?”

He shrugged.

“I take it you dealt with that little problem?” Ubie asked him.

“I have one less employee, but I’ll get by,” Garrett said, referring to the employee who was supposed to have been keeping an eye on me when I was attacked.

“Wait a minute,” I said, raising a palm for a time-out. “How did you know Carrie Liedell killed your officer?”

Uncle Bob moved closer, not wanting anyone to hear. “When Swopes told me about your departed homeless guy in the back of Cookie’s white Taurus, I remembered that during the investigation of his disappearance, one of the surveillance tapes we’d acquired from a local video store had footage we thought could have been a hit-and-run. But it was so grainy, and almost all of it occurred slightly off camera, we couldn’t pinpoint what happened. We revisited the tape, figured out it was probably our guy as he’d checked in that night from that very video store, and had the footage enhanced to show this woman’s license plate.

Ubie reached over and took Garrett’s hand in a firm shake. “Good work,” he said before taking Cookie’s. “Nice work. Sorry about your car. We won’t keep it long.”

She gazed at him, still in stunned-speechless mode.

Then he turned to me. “Are we friends again?”

“Not even if you were the last hero cop on Earth struggling with hemorrhoids.”

He chuckled. “I don’t have hemorrhoids.” Then the butthead leaned down and kissed my cheek nonetheless. “This guy meant a lot to me, hon,” he said, whispering into my ear. “Thank you.”

As Uncle Bob hoofed it to his SUV, Cookie stood with mouth agape. “Did that just happen? ’Cause that was really unexpected. I mean, I thought kindergarten teachers were nice.”

“If we stay in this business long enough, Cook, I think we’ll find every profession has its bad apples.” I grinned and elbowed her. “Get it? Teachers? Apples?”

She patted my shoulder without so much as a glance my way then walked to Misery.

“I totally owe you one,” I called after her. I turned to Dead Trunk Guy, or, well, Officer Brandt. “So, you’re not nuts?”

A grin as wicked as sin on Sunday slid across his face, and he was suddenly handsome. I mean, he still had matted hair and crap, but dang those eyes.

“And the showers?” I asked, almost in fear.

His grin widened, and I was torn between lividity and admiration. I’d never been duped like that by a dead guy.

“You can cross through me,” I said, still playing nice.

“I can?” He was being sarcastic. He already knew. He stepped toward me. “Can I kiss you first?”