Measure of Darkness by Chris Jordan

real?”
    â€œFigure of speech. No idea what color the thing actually was. But I swear you could barely hear it. Some kind of stealth version.”
    â€œStill, I thought that was an urban legend.”
    â€œApparently not.”
    â€œAnd they never showed a warrant?”
    â€œNever said a word. Slam, bam, not even a ‘thank you, ma’am.’”
    â€œYour boss must be freaked.”
    â€œNaomi doesn’t freak.”
    Tolliver shrugs, as if he doesn’t quite believe it. “So I heard. Good for her. Must be kind of weird, working for a female, huh?”
    â€œNot weird at all.”
    â€œNo?”
    Jack shakes his head, enough already.
    Tolliver sighs. “Hey, one of these days maybe you’ll wangle me an invitation. I’d love to see the inside of that place.”
    Jack changes the subject. “Long way around, Shane was not the shooter. That’s a definite. He’s that rarest of things, an innocent man.”
    Tolliver snorts. “Nobody is innocent in this world, least of all Randall Shane. We have a garment with blood on it. A shirt, extra large, 17-inch neck, 37-inch sleeves. The shirt would fit your average gorilla. It has discernible splatter on the right sleeve, indicative of proximity to a gunshot. It will take a while, lab work being what it is, but I’ll bet you a bottle of this port that the blood belongs to the vic and the garment links to Mr. Shane.”
    â€œNo bet. You’re probably correct about the matchups but there’s an explanation: the shirt was deliberately used in the crime, donned by the real shooter and then planted. And if Shane never got back into his motel room, how did it get there?”
    â€œWorking on that. It’s not only the garment, which you already knew about from the detectives on scene,and don’t think I didn’t know that. There’s something else. Something way better.”
    â€œOh?” says the former FBI agent, the little hairs stirring on the back of his well-barbered neck.
    â€œWe have the murder weapon, Jack. Registered to your pal, and his prints are all over it.”
    â€œWhat? Where?”
    â€œLocated behind a Dumpster on the same block. Like he tried to chuck it away and threw it a little too far.”
    â€œShit,” says Jack.
    â€œVery deep shit,” the detective agrees, puffing happily on his forty-dollar cigar.

Chapter Seven
She Needs the Knowing
    M aybe it was all that talk about Randall Shane’s sleep disorder, or the slice of strawberry rhubarb pie and the glass of ice-cold milk I quaffed an hour before bed (it can be dangerously tempting, having a superb chef living under the same roof), or the thought of a child so missing that people doubt he even exists, but for whatever reason, I can’t sleep a wink. Staring at the ceiling won’t work. Counting sheep, or anything, puts me in mind of bookkeeping, a wakeful activity. My mind is bright and will not shadow—lie awake long enough and I’ll start obsessing on my fake husband, and that leads to the money he swindled, the house we lost, hurtful things my sister said and so on, into an endless loop.
    Times like this, the only thing that helps is to get up, don a robe and soft slippers and pad through the residence taking deep, restful breaths. The central lighting system has switched to the sleep mode, meaning the equivalent of night-lights at ankle height, providing soft illumination. Passing the room Jack Delancey uses when he’s spending the night in town, I detect the dirty-sock scent of the cigar smoke he carried home on his clothing, and smile to myself. Boys will be boys. DoubtlessJack was out with his cop buddies, sampling various bad-for-his-health potions. Did he learn anything interesting or useful? If so, he’ll make it known in the morning meet, which is something to look forward to.
    Farther down the hall there are lights on under Teddy’s door, and the faint