Angel With a Bullet by M. C. Grant Page A

cheerily.
    â€œI’ve got it,” he replies in a windy, high-pitched squeak. “I figure you’re such a pain in the ass you owe me something to rest my sore cheeks on.”
    I grin as his face turns serious.
    â€œSorry about wasting your time last night,” he continues. “I heard it was suicide.”
    I shrug. “Maybe, but I think there’s still a solid story there.”
    â€œDon’t play with me, Dix. I’m too frail.”
    â€œNo, I’m serious. The human-interest angle alone is terrific. Talented but unfulfilled artist makes a final, drastic statement, ironically creating his greatest work. And there’s even the possibility—”
    â€œThe dailies didn’t bother re-plating for it,” he interrupts. “I thought the Chronicle might have tried to slip something in for second edition, but it’s a dead story to them now.”
    â€œThe dailies are idiots; I’m not.”
    Stoogan massages his temples in small, circular strokes. “I received a call this morning from the police commissioner.”
    â€œDoes he miss staring at my ass, the letch?”
    Dixie’s Tips #4 : Short skirts and windy crime scenes don’t mix .
    Stoogan sighs. “He heard you were at the artist’s apartment and harassing two of his officers. He claims you were trying to get them on record even though you’re well aware it’s departmental policy not to comment on suicides.”
    â€œHmmm, sounds like I was doing my job.” I reach over my shoulder and pat my back. “Good for me.”
    â€œHe also wanted to assure us the story wasn’t worth our attention.”
    â€œPrick! What’s he covering up?”
    Stoogan smirks. “Nice to see you’re not getting paranoid in your—”
    â€œDon’t say it,” I warn. “Besides, when do we allow bureaucrats to dictate what’s newsworthy?”
    â€œWe don’t.”
    â€œExactly. So you trust me on this?”
    â€œNo.”
    I tut. “Come on. Why not?”
    â€œBecause you’re the one who keeps trying to sell me on the ‘ghost of Al Capone’ story.”
    â€œHey, I’m still researching that. It’ll be a hell of a story once I track down who the mystery waitress was. Maybe I can reunite their ghosts.”
    â€œSee. That’s what I mean.” Stoogan sighs again. “There are days when I don’t know what to do with you, Dix,” he says despairingly. “And I’m not just saying that.”
    â€œOur love has always been a one-way street,” I say soothingly, while flashing a cheeky grin. “Just think of it. The daily buffoons will bury this story because Commissioner Gordon Vanmoore tells them it’s nothing. But we’ll hit the stands in five days with a cover story that at its worst will explore the human tragedy of a sensitive artist driven over the edge by his need to succeed in a too-competitive commercial world.”
    â€œAnd at its best?”
    â€œMurder.” I lock on to his watery eyes. “You didn’t see the body, boss. There was nothing left of his head except what was splattered on the walls and canvas. It was a plea, signed in blood, too powerful to be made by accident.”
    Stoogan studies me intently. “Is this personal?”
    I shake off the suggestion. “We hadn’t talked in over a year. Old news. Diego was living the dream he always talked about. He’d quote-unquote ‘made it,’ so why throw it all away? That’s the hook.”
    Stoogan holds up two fat, pink, baby-soft fingers. “Two days,” he says. “If you can’t show me you’ve got the makings of something meaty by then, I’m assigning you to work on a lifestyles piece with Clooney.”
    I glance over at the petite Barbie doll three desks down who is fast-tracking an Eighties fashion revival by leading the charge to bring back big hair and