Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel by Steve Martini

right?”
    My eyes wander from the business card on my desk to the sea of blue serge standing in front of me. When I look up, the older cop, the one named Owen, is staring at me.
    “Are you OK?”
    “Yeah. I’m fine.” I lie to him. I am breathing hard. Beads of cold sweat are erupting like popcorn from the flesh on my forehead.
    “Can we get you anything?” he asks.
    “No.”
    “Do you take any medications?”
    I shake my head, though at the moment I could kill for a sleeping pill, anything to knock me out so that when I wake this nightmare will be over.
    “A glass of water?” he asks.
    “No.” It’s strange but the only thing I can think of right now is how I am going to tell Joselyn. I look at the cop, try to collect myself, and finally come up with a cogent question: “How did it happen?”
    “We’re not sure.” It’s the younger cop, the one named Noland, who speaks. “A jogger found her body early this morning out off Highway 94 in the El Cajon–La Mesa area. Do you have any idea what she might have been doing out there?”
    I shake my head.
    The older detective says, “When’s the last time you saw her?”
    I try to think for a moment, clear my head. “It was Friday, late in the day. I’m not certain of the time. Probably around five thirty. I’m not sure.”
    The older one starts to take notes. “Where was this?” he asks.
    “Here in the office,” I tell him. “She was headed out on an errand.”
    “Where was she going?”
    “To pick up a dog. Was there a small dog with her?”
    “Not in her car or anywhere near the body,” says Noland. “Where was she supposed to pick up this dog?”
    “Client’s house. I’d have to get the address,” I tell him.
    “We’ll wait,” he says.
    “I’m sorry. I need to think. I’m a bit rattled.”
    “We understand.” The older man seems sympathetic. The younger one, not so much.
    “You’re sure it’s her?” I ask.
    “No one has formally identified her yet,” says Noland. “And the face was a little distorted. But there’s no question it matched the picture on the driver’s license.”
    My heart sinks.
    “This house she was going to. Where was it located?” asks Owen.
    “I’m not sure how much I can tell you. The client was gone and there was no one else living in the house, so someone had to pick up the dog.”
    “We need to have that address,” he says. “If that’s where she was headed, we’re gonna need to check it out. Was it in the El Cajon or La Mesa area?”
    “I don’t think so. I’m not sure. Tell you the truth, I’ve never been to the house.” Brauer’s file is still on my desk, but I don’t want to reach for it and open it in front of them. The fact is, I have no idea where she lives. But the second they leave I intend to find out.
    “Can you give us the name of the client that owns the house?” asks Noland.
    “If I was going to do that, I’d just tell you where she lived.”
    “Why don’t you help us?” says Owen. “We’re trying to find out who killed the girl. You do want to help us, don’t you?”
    “I’d love to, but I can tell you that my client’s not involved, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
    “How can you be sure?” says Noland.
    “Because she has a ironclad alibi.”
    “How can you know that unless you know the time of death?” he says.
    “Trust me, I know. Where exactly did they find the body?” I ask.
    “Make you a deal,” says Noland. “You tell us where the house is, we’ll tell you where they found the body. Then we can compare notes.”
    I consider this for a moment. Emma Brauer couldn’t possibly be involved. She was in jail before Sofia left the office, and she remains there this morning. Harry is still working on bail. If somehow her house was involved in Sofia’s murder we need to know about it before anyone goes back in and fouls the evidence. The place has already been searched by the city PD in Brauer’s case, and it’s not likely that the two