Diagnosis: Danger by Marie Ferrarella Page A

late, he’s rude and he’s lazy. Now why are you asking?”
    Mike studied him closely, wondering if Tolliver was just a garden variety pompous ass, or if there was more to him. “Because he was found dead last night.”
    “Oh.” Tolliver took in a breath and then released it. He took in another before asking, “What happened?”
    Not a bad performance, Mike mused. His job had made him cynical way before his time he decided. “We’re still piecing that together. What time did he leave here last night?”
    Tolliver paused to think. “The usual time. As a matter of fact, I think he left a few minutes early. I was busy with the Wallace family at the time. Large family,” he commented. Rocking back in his chair, Tolliver stroked his pencil-thin mustache. “I’m sorry to hear about Donovan,” he finally said. “He wasn’t a good worker, but still, to die so young…” A spark of interest entered his gray eyes. “Do you know if the family has made any arrangements yet?”
    You are a piece of work, mister. Mike’s voice was devoid of any emotion as he replied, “Not that I know of.”
    Tolliver nodded, as if he’d expected nothing less. “I’d be happy to make all the arrangements for them—at cost, of course.”
    Of course. “I’ll pass it along. Thanks for your time,” Mike mumbled as he walked out of his office. He couldn’t get out of the oppressive building fast enough.
    “Damn,” Mike muttered, getting back onto his motorcycle. It hummed to life as he kicked away the stand. Expensive suits notwithstanding, the grayhaired, aristocratic-looking man was the closest thing to a vulture he’d encountered in quite a while.
    His next stop was to see Clancy’s mother.
    Lucille Donovan looked as if she could have been very pretty once. But time and bitterness had left their imprint, like muddied boots across a neglected garden. She’d long since let herself go, except for a slash of lipstick too red for her coloring. The woman’s mouth had a downward turn, making her appear to disapprove of everything she heard, everything she said.
    At first, she didn’t want to open the door, even after he’d shown her his badge.
    “Any kid with half a brain can get one of those. Think I’m stupid?”
    “No, Mrs. Donovan, I don’t,” he told her patiently. “I’m here about your son. Clancy,” he said when she made no response.
    “I know my son’s name,” Lucille snapped. She tugged up a bra strap that insisted on slipping from her shoulder. “What about him?”
    The words never tasted any better. There was always the hint of bile in his mouth when he spoke them. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Mrs. Donovan, but your son was found dead last night.”
    The brown eyes widened instantly. “You shoot him? You kill my little boy?” Lucille demanded in a hysterical voice pumped with emotion that seemed to come out of nowhere.
    “No, ma’am, I found him. We don’t know what the cause of death was yet.” It was a lie that he felt would buy him a little time. He watched as the woman’s bravado receded. He guessed that, for a moment, she’d seen dollar signs in her head, hoping to sue the city for the wrongful death of her son. Now that there was no profit to be made, the hardened look was back.
    “Well, I don’t know what you’re coming to me for. I can’t afford to bury him.” She threw up her hands, as if to push away any lingering hint of responsibility. “I’m a poor woman. You’ll have to do whatever it is you do when you find those dead homeless people.” Still standing in the doorway, her square, plump body, encased in a vivid red housedress, blocked any access into the house. Lucille looked over her shoulder as someone stirred in the background. She started to shut the door again. “Okay, you told me. Now go.”
    For now, he had no more questions, so he took his leave, walking down the cement steps back to the sidewalk. “You poor son of a bitch. I’m beginning to