Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel by Steve Martini Page B

was always the risk that she might take on more than she could handle.”
    “Did she?” asks Noland.
    I think about it for a moment. “Nothing serious. Couple of times. Little things I don’t even remember now. Occasionally I’d keep an eye on her. But she was learning fast. And I am gonna miss her.”
    “But you say you didn’t send her out to the house to get the dog?”
    “I knew she was going out, if that’s what you mean. I told her to be careful.”
    “Why would you say that?” asks Noland.
    I think about it for a second and then I lie. “Because she’d put in a long day at the office. She was probably tired. I didn’t want to see her get into an accident.”
    A politician might call this spin, but I know better. Traffic was the least of my concerns. I was worried she might get tangled up with the city PD and their search of Brauer’s house, overextend herself, and get into trouble. But the bigger reason for cautioning her was probably embedded in my subconscious. It was never stated when I said goodbye to Sofia and she walked out of the office and disappeared down that path. But it looms large in my mind at this moment: the burglary, the one Emma told us about during her interview in the office. If there were people breaking into her house looking for the package, the small box, the key, and the piece of paper she described as an ID, then I should have known better. We all sat here and listened to her, Harry and I, and Sofia. We all heard it. But Harry was gone when Sofia left. I was the one who was here. I should have stopped her. Why the hell did I let her go? The answer comes bouncing back almost immediately. Because of the dog. If it had been anything else at that house we would have left it until this morning. It was a job for Herman, and then maybe only if he was packing heat. I wonder if Sofia thought about it. I will never know.

NINE
    I n a way it would be much easier if the cops determine without any question that Sofia was killed in some other place and for some other reason, that she never made it to Brauer’s house. I know it sounds selfish but I would sleep easier at night if I was sure that the hand of fate had intervened to lift me off the hook of guilt.
    “Can I ask how she died?” I ask Owen.
    “The medical examiner’s still out there with the body,” says Noland. “We don’t know yet.”
    “Did you see her?” I look directly at Owen.
    He glances up at me and nods.
    “Then you must have some idea. What did your eyes tell you? Bullet wounds? Stab wounds? Blunt trauma?”
    “Ligature marks around the throat, signs of cyanosis around the face, some swelling,” he says.
    Sofia was strangled.
    “Like I say, we won’t know for sure until the ME produces a report,” says Noland. “Where were you Friday night?” he asks.
    Finally we get down to cases, clearing suspects, looking for alibis. “Is that when she was killed?” I ask.
    “Answer my question,” says Noland.
    “We’re not sure,” says Owen. “The two girls she lived with said she never came home Friday night. They didn’t see her Saturday or Sunday. No sign of her or her car around the apartment all weekend. According to them, the last time they saw her was Friday morning when she left for work.”
    “Sounds like you’ve narrowed it down then.”
    “Unless somebody snatched her and held her captive, in which case they could have killed her anytime over the weekend,” says Noland. “Which brings us back to the question, where were you Friday night?” he says.
    “My girlfriend and I went to dinner and then took in a show. We had reservations for dinner at six. The name of the restaurant is on my calendar if you want to check. I’m sure I have a copy of the credit card receipt. We saw a movie. My girlfriend got the tickets on Fandango, paid for them with her credit card. I’m sure you can check that as well.”
    “What did you see?” says Owen.
    “Latest James Bond installment.” I give them the name