Murder with a Twist by Allyson K Abbott

though, just as soon as I get my feet on the ground financially.”
    â€œHow has Dan done at Stratford and Weber?”
    â€œReally well,” Shelly said. “In fact, he passed over several people when he got a promotion six months ago. It opened up a position in his group and I took it. That’s when he and I got close. But we keep things strictly professional at work because we’re not supposed to date people from our own investment group.”
    â€œDid Dan’s promotion create some bad feelings?”
    Shelly shrugged and blew her nose. “There was some grumbling from some of the others, but it was hard to argue with Dan’s success. He works . . . worked hard and earned that promotion.”
    Duncan spent a little more time with her, verifying the calls she said she made this morning by checking her cell phone, and getting the names and numbers of the people she and Dan worked and socialized with. Shelly responded in a sad, bereaved monotone interspersed with sniffles. I felt sorry for her, and what’s more, I believed her. Her words, her tone of voice, her expressions . . . they all felt—and tasted—right to me.
    When we left her apartment, I told Duncan this and explained that I meant it in the most literal sense. At the risk of branding myself as some sort of freakish human lie detector, most of the time I can tell when someone is lying. I don’t know if it’s a quality in their voice that I pick up on, or if it’s some subtle body language or facial tic, but most of the time I can tell. Unfortunately, most of the time isn’t all of the time, and I’ve been fooled before. I think the cause on those occasions was the extraordinary ability of the other person to lie without guilt, remorse, or compunction. I’m not a shrink—though bartenders seem to come close at times—but I do know that there are certain types of personality disorders that make some people professionals when it comes to deception.
    The crime scene techs were onsite in Thornton’s apartment, and all the dishes had been bagged and tagged. The body had been removed, and the technicians—a group of three women and one man, all of them dressed in gray jumpsuits, gloves, and paper bonnets and booties—were standing in the foyer along with Karl Jensen awaiting Duncan’s return and instructions.
    â€œI’m sorry to keep you all waiting,” Duncan said to the techs. “But I want to take a look around the rest of the apartment with my consultant before you guys go anywhere else in here.”
    â€œIf there’s something in particular you’re looking for, all you have to do is tell us,” one of the women techs said, looking annoyed.
    â€œI don’t think that will work in this situation,” Duncan said cryptically, winking at me. “Have you guys had lunch yet?”
    There was a mumbled chorus of nos from the evidence techs, and a “Hell, no!” from Karl Jensen. Duncan took out his cell phone, punched in a number, and ordered two pizzas to be delivered to the apartment. He paid for them by giving his credit card number and when he was done, he said to the group, “You can eat out in the hallway. Hopefully by the time you’re done, we will be, too.”
    He then turned and grabbed some booties and gloves from the technicians’ supply, and handed me a pair of each. “I want to walk you through the entire place once before we leave,” he said as I put the booties on. “Try not to bump into or touch anything. We can go as slow or as fast as you like. Just walk around and absorb. Do that thing that you do. Okay?”
    I shrugged and nodded. The techs all exchanged looks that told me what they thought of the idea, but no one said anything. I suspected they didn’t want to bite the hand that was literally feeding them.
    The techs headed out to the hallway, and over the next forty minutes, Duncan and I