Strawberry Shortcake¸ a.k.a. Rebecca, was Taft’s little sister. I’d been playing messenger for some time, and while I loved the position, the benefits sucked.

“I want a raise,” I said, sitting uninvited in the chair beside his desk.

“I don’t pay you.”

“Exactly.”

His mouth thinned across his face as he went back to what he was doing. He wasn’t bad looking. Not at all. He’d filled out, in fact. Had started lifting weights. Or eating more doughnuts. It was hard to say. Either way, he looked good. Older. More coppy. Especially with his sharp blue eyes and dark military cut.

“She’s fine,” I said in answer to the burning question he wanted to ask.

He gave me his attention again. “Really? She’s not, you know, lonely?”

“Please. That kid never met a stranger, even in the afterlife, and there are definitely beings she should avoid there.”

“Is she in danger?” he asked, alarmed.

“No, Taft. She’s perfectly safe and playing up a storm with Rocket and the gang.” I’d noticed a photo sticking out from underneath a form. “What are you working on?”

He followed my gaze and scooped up the pile of papers before I could get a better look. “Nothing.”

“Fine. So, I’m working the Adams case, and I noticed in the report that you were the first officer on scene.”

“You’re on the Adams case? Did the boyfriend hire you?”

“Taft, you know I can’t tell you that. You look good, by the way.”

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay, let me have it.”

“What?” Some people were so suspicious.

“The only time you tell me I look good is when you want something.”

“That is so not true.” It was, actually, but I could argue with a parking meter. “I just want to get an idea of what you think of the case.”

“Do your own legwork, Davidson.”

He went back to punching keys, chomping dots and fruit and following it up with a discreet fist pump. I was almost impressed. “I didn’t even glance at your legs. I’ve been hired. For reals. They’re going to pay me and everything.” I hoped. “And I have permission from the higher-ups to interview you.”

He stopped playing and leveled a dubious smirk on me. “How high?”

“High-ish. Mid-level-y?”

“Why don’t you bug your uncle?”

“Not his case. It’s Joplin’s. Joplin hates me.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Right? So, the car?”

“Fine, what do I think?” He handed me a file folder, put his elbows on the arms of his chair, and clasped his fingers. “I think a beautiful, smart woman suffered a horrible death at the hands of her jealous boyfriend.”

“Really?” I opened the file. It held his report only. But I had yet to read it, as it wasn’t in the file Parker slipped me. “You’re liking the boyfriend for this?”

“Who else? Have you seen the mountain of evidence against him?”

“I haven’t seen any of it.” And I hadn’t. Not literally.

“His fingerprints were in the car.”

“They were dating.”

“The prints were in the blood, Davidson. After the incident occurred. In more than one place.”

“He found the car. He opened the door and touched the blood, which was apparently everywhere, when he searched for her.”

“What’s there to search? He opened the door. She wasn’t in the car. The car was drenched in blood. He was drenched in blood.”

“There was a sleeping bag in the backseat. He thought she might be in it. He crawled inside to check it.”

“So he crawls through buckets of blood to check a sleeping bag he could have checked by going around to the other side and opening another door?”

He had a good point, but there was an explanation. I just wasn’t telling him what it was. Ammunition should this go to trial. That door handle was tricky and would only unlock with the remote. The interior door locks didn’t work on it. If they didn’t figure that out on their own, they would look incompetent, and that always helped.

I handed the file back to him. “That’s all circumstantial.”

Taft leaned forward and played his trump card. “He’s done it before.”

After taking care to guard my surprise, I gauged his emotions. He wasn’t lying. “What do you mean?”