Grave Endings by Rochelle Krich

me. “Why would you piss him off like that, Molly?”
    â€œBecause he was being stubborn, and he’s a jerk.” I hesitated, a little nervous to test the water. “And maybe he
is
too eager to close Aggie’s case.”
    â€œPorter wouldn’t do that.” There was a warning in Connors’s voice and in his hazel eyes.
    â€œThen why wouldn’t he consider the possibility that Creeley didn’t kill Aggie?”
    â€œBecause logic and the evidence say Creeley did it.”
    â€œBy
evidence
you mean the locket. Creeley could have gotten it from someone else, Andy. Or he could have found Aggie’s body in the Dumpster and taken the locket.”
    â€œThe locket’s only part of it.”
    That was a surprise. “What else do you have?”
    Connors shook his head. I could see from his expression that he regretted what he’d said.
    â€œCome on, Andy. I won’t let on that you told me.”
    â€œLike Porter wouldn’t figure it out?” He drained his coffee mug and set it on a stack of papers.
    I wondered what other evidence there could be, and why Connors wouldn’t share it with me, why Porter had been so evasive. “I spoke to the manager of the apartment building where Randy lived.”
    Connors
tsk
ed. “
Only
the manager? You’re usually so thorough.”
    â€œI left my card with the other tenants.” Including the person who had been listening in on my conversation with Gloria. I’d rung his (her?) bell, knocked a few times. My eavesdropper had either left the building or turned shy. “The manager said Creeley reformed when he almost died eight or nine months ago after a drug episode gone bad. He swore to her that he stopped using.”
    â€œCreeley wouldn’t be the first to start using again, Molly. Rehab clinics are full of repeaters.”
    â€œBut he started going to church, Andy. He repaid money he’d borrowed. You were in his apartment, right? So you saw the books on his nightstand.
Alcoholics
Anonymous,
other books dealing with addiction and self-help.”
    â€œI have
Atkins
on my nightstand and still eat too many carbs.”
    â€œShow-off.” Connors is in his mid-thirties but has the metabolism of an eighteen-year-old and a stomach as flat as a marble countertop. I sucked in my own. “The manager told me Randy’s girlfriend, Doreen, came by the day after he died to pick up some clothes she’d left at his place. There was crime-scene tape on the door, and she said she’d come back.” I paused.
    â€œIs there a point here?”
    â€œDoreen hasn’t come back, and I didn’t see any women’s clothes in Randy’s closet. The manager let me in,” I added in response to Connors’s questioning look.
    â€œMaybe Doreen came back and let herself in.” Connors picked up a pencil and rolled it between his palms.
    â€œApparently she didn’t have a key. And if she
had
a key, why did she need the manager’s help to get into Creeley’s apartment?” No reaction from Connors. “There’s not one feminine toiletry item in his medicine cabinet. Either Doreen never stayed overnight, or she cleaned out all her things. And when the manager, Mrs. Lamont, tried phoning her to tell her the police were done and she could come by, the person who answered said she didn’t
know
Doreen.” I ended with a flourish that was wasted on Connors, judging from his deadpan expression.
    â€œSo Mrs. Lamont copied down the wrong number,” he said. “People do that all the time.”
    â€œMaybe. But what if Doreen intentionally gave her the wrong number?” And why wasn’t Connors wondering the same thing?
    â€œAnd she would do that because . . . ?”
    â€œBecause she was involved with Randy’s death,” I said, barely restraining my impatience. “Suppose she had a key but didn’t want to be the one to find the