Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon by Donna Andrews Page B

week to the next since he'd moved to Caerphilly.
    If he ate them at all; I saw several guys picking off anything green and feeding it to Katy the wolfhound, who didn't seem to share their disgust for the vegetable kingdom. No wonder she was such a healthy, growing girl. And since the Mutant Wizards staff always seemed to imitate whatever Rob did, I expected both their melodramatic disgust at the vegetables and their method of disposing of them were modeled on Rob's antics.
    Elsewhere in the parking lot, other staff members were eating their vegetables obediently enough, no doubt because they had concentrated their rebellious energies on reenacting The Great Escape. Every few minutes the police would intercept one making a break for the street or the office door. Or a few would approach an officer – presumably, from the officers' expressions, to make some annoying, unreasonable, and oft-repeated request.
    I spotted Spike's crate under a tree just outside the door and bent down to check on him. The ungrateful little monster lifted his lip in a snarl before curling up with his back to me.
    „Fine, be that way,“ I said. „I guess you don't need a walk, then.“
    „He's had a walk.“
    I looked up to see Jack hovering over me.
    „You actually took Spike for a walk and escaped unscathed?“ I said. „I'm impressed.“
    „Not exactly unscathed,“ he said. „But I'm not bleeding any-“
    „Sorry,“ I said, wincing. „He's had his shots, in case you were worried.“
    A sudden hush fell over the parking lot, and I stood up to see what was happening. Dad was standing outside the building entrance, holding one of the doors open for the two men wheeling out the gurney.
    I scanned the crowd, trying to observe people's reactions. Not that I expected the killer to jump up and confess or anything; I just found it interesting to see how differently people reacted. Some people stood, heads slightly bowed, as if watching a formal funeral procession. Some stood, frankly staring. Quite a few pretended to be absorbed in conversations or reading papers, but you could tell they were watching4>y the angle of their heads.
    The chief spoke briefly with Dad and the ME, both of whom pointed several times at their throats. Explaining exactly how Ted was strangled, perhaps.
    It was as if someone had pressed the universe's pause button – everything stayed on hold for the few minutes it took the EMTs to load the gurney into the ambulance, Dad and the ME to climb aboard, and the ambulance to pick its way out of the parking lot. And then, as the ambulance gathered speed and disappeared, the noise level returned to normal.
    I glanced over to see what the chief was up to. He was still surveying the scene. So was I, for that matter. I don't know what he was looking for, but I was trying to spot the news media when they showed up, so I could make sure they talked to the right person, like Liz. Or the CFO. Or even me. Anyone, in fact, but Rob.
    „How's it going?“ I heard the chief ask the nearest officer.
    „What is this, anyway, some kind of cult?“ the officer said. „More than half of these people have the same address.“
    „Let's see that,“ the chief said. „Five thousand South River… Why does that sound familiar?“
    „It's the Whispering Pines Cabins,“ I said. „Given the housing shortage, it was about the only place a lot of the guys could find to live.“
    „Glory be,“ the chief muttered under his breath.
    I could understand his reaction. Before Caerphilly's housing crisis, the Pines had been a hot sheets motel. Its transformation into an overpriced residential hotel had been accomplished without any detectable renovation or redecoration. The more discriminating residents usually chose to provide their own bedding, though a card on the back of each room's door still displayed the price of requesting clean sheets at times other than the maid's daily visits.
    The door also carried notices sternly instructing motel guests