Breakdown by Sara Paretsky

waiting to make sure I wasn’t going to add fuel to the fire, before continuing his tirade.
    “I was taking my boy to Burr Oak Woods to play softball, and thanks to you, one of my few days with my kid is completely fucked.”
    Never explain, never apologize, at least not when facing an angry cop. I spread my hands in a placatory gesture but didn’t say anything, which didn’t really matter, because Anstey was speaking for two. Maybe for three, since Officer Milkova was standing mute by the windows.
    It wasn’t clear where the police had gotten their version of what the girls were doing in the cemetery last night, but the story had been garbled out of recognition as it flowed down the chain of command: after getting most of his grievance off his chest, Anstey demanded to know why I’d led a group of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds into an abandoned cemetery to perform Satanic rituals.
    “That’s a serious charge, Sergeant. I’ll call my lawyer and you can talk to him, because I am asserting my right to remain silent.”
    “You’re not under arrest. Yet.”
    “I always have the right to remain silent.”
    We were in my living room. I turned on the radio and went down on my hands and knees to do some core strengthening moves.
    Anstey hit the off button hard enough to shake my stereo. “This isn’t helping, Warshawski.”
    I didn’t say anything. The Supreme Court’s recent ruling on the right to silence had alarming implications for anyone who said anything during an interrogation. I rolled over on my back and began a sequence of abdominal presses. I could see that my toenail polish was chipped. Time to give myself a pedicure.
    Anstey squatted down so that his face was directly over mine. “Why did you take the girls to that cemetery?”
    I shut my eyes and lifted my butt off the floor. I could feel his breath on my face, and it took a major act of will to hold the pose for a count of thirty. I slid away from his breath, sat up, and reached for my cell phone.
    I was just typing in my lawyer’s phone number when my downstairs neighbor arrived, along with the two dogs we share. Mitch and Peppy were ecstatic to see me, and barked energetically at Sergeant Anstey. Mitch tried to jump up on Officer Milkova.
    I got to my feet and forced Mitch to sit. “These aren’t friends, and even if they were, you’re not to jump on people.”
    Mitch grinned at me but sat, slowly, to show it was because he wanted to, not because I said so.
    Mr. Contreras looked at the cops. “I didn’t know you had company, doll, but what’s this about you being at some cemetery last night with a bunch of vampires? I just got off the phone with Ruthie, and she says it’s all over the TV and the Internet and everything! She says you’ve become a devil worshipper, which of course is a bunch of crap, pardon my French, but what’s with you finding a corpse in a cemetery and I hear it from Ruthie first?”
    Ruthie was Mr. Contreras’s daughter. She had inherited his gene for nonstop talking, but not his gruff charm, which might explain why her husband had decamped when their two sons were in elementary school.
    “You are the third person who’s attacked me in the last half hour for learning about my business from their bosses instead of me,” I complained. “Murray woke me up all hot and bothered, then these cops burst in on me, and now you. Cut me some slack! Sergeant Anstey here”—I sketched a wave in his direction—“even thinks I took the girls to the cemetery. He and Officer Milkova would prefer not to have any facts thrown their way, but to you, my beloved friend and neighbor, I will confess all. Around eleven last night, I got an SOS that some kids were out after curfew. I tracked them down to an abandoned cemetery in Ukrainian Village.
    “The kids were acting like you and I did when we were their age, meaning they have more enthusiasm than sense. They got it into their heads that they were going to dance under the full moon,