autopsy?"
"Travis County was backed up, so the body went to Bexar." McQuaid was chopping another poblano.
I made a face. Adams County is too small to have its own medical examiner, so it buys autopsy services from neighboring counties. The Bexar County medical examiner's office is understaffed and overloaded. This was Thursday. If somebody worked over the weekend, Bubba might get an autopsy report by Monday. That would fix the time of death — more or less. I hadn't found the body until nearly ten, and the truck had been sitting in the sun. It would be hard to get the TOD down to less than a ninety-minute range. Until Bubba had something better, he'd use the neighbor's statement about the nine-thirty gunshot as a reference point.
"They found the spent bullet on the floor of the truck," McQuaid said. "A .38. Oh, and the truck was covered with prints." He pushed the chopped poblano into a neat pile. "Ours. Fortunately, we have an alibi for the time of the murder."
"No other prints?" I averted my eyes from the block of Velveeta McQuaid was cubing. The rule is no carping when the other one cooks, even when they're doing something unspeakable.
"Rosemary's, of course." He dumped the cubes and a can of evaporated milk into a bowl and added the peppers. "But nothing else." He stuck the bowl into the microwave and pushed some buttons.
"I wish I'd known her better," I said thoughtfully. I found a wizened lime in the bag of carrots and went to the cupboard to look for the salt. I found it, but the box was empty. "I might have a clearer idea who killed her."
"You still don't get it, do you, China?" McQuaid banged the heavy black cast-iron skillet onto the front burner of the Home Comfort, which has at least a decade on me but still bakes an admirable souffle". "I am telling you, you were the mark. Jacoby aimed to get to me by killing you, but he screwed up and got Rosemary instead." He poured olive oil into the skillet and dropped in some chopped onions.
46 » Stuan Wittig Albert
"That's speculation." I picked up the salt shaker, but it was empty, too. "I hope you don't mind margaritas without salt. Brian must have used the last of it to make dinosaurs." Back in the old days, I never ran out of salt.
"Just so there's tequila," McQuaid said, pushing the onions around testily. He tossed in four garlic cloves. "Maybe it u> speculation. But I'm not willing to take a risk." He glanced at the clock. "Where L> that kid, anyway? It's nearly six."
I got out the tequila. I thought I knew McQuaid pretty well, but I'd never seen him like this: edgy, irritable, nervous. He was acting like a stranger, and it made me uneasy.
"It's Thursday," I said. "He went to the matinee at the movie with some of the kids from the cadet corp."
For the past year, Brian and his father have been members of the Austin chapter of the Star Trek fan club, the U.S.S. Rhyanna. McQuaid is a security officer on this starship, and Brian is a cadet lieutenant. The activity seems to be a variant of the Boy Scouts, with a heavy dose of space and science. Being a Trekkie is certainly a lot better for Brian than belonging to a street gang.
"Oh, yeah, the matinee." McQuaid took the bowl of cheesy stuff out of the microwave and replaced it with a dozen corn tortillas. "Is somebody giving him a ride home? Maybe we should go pick him up."
I stepped close behind, wrapped my arms around him, and laid my cheek against his broad back. "It's okay," I said soothingly. "Brian will be home in a few minutes, I am making a margarita that will mellow you out, and your enchilada casserole will be maravillMO." I slipped my hand under his belt. "So just relax. Okay?"
I felt him untense a little.
"That's good," I murmured, and stood on tiptoes to nibble his earlobe. He turned, put his arms around me, and gave me a long, deep kiss that made me glad I'm living with this guy, in spite of the bad moments.
He rested his chin on the top of my head, still holding me. "I guess this Jacoby
"Travis County was backed up, so the body went to Bexar." McQuaid was chopping another poblano.
I made a face. Adams County is too small to have its own medical examiner, so it buys autopsy services from neighboring counties. The Bexar County medical examiner's office is understaffed and overloaded. This was Thursday. If somebody worked over the weekend, Bubba might get an autopsy report by Monday. That would fix the time of death — more or less. I hadn't found the body until nearly ten, and the truck had been sitting in the sun. It would be hard to get the TOD down to less than a ninety-minute range. Until Bubba had something better, he'd use the neighbor's statement about the nine-thirty gunshot as a reference point.
"They found the spent bullet on the floor of the truck," McQuaid said. "A .38. Oh, and the truck was covered with prints." He pushed the chopped poblano into a neat pile. "Ours. Fortunately, we have an alibi for the time of the murder."
"No other prints?" I averted my eyes from the block of Velveeta McQuaid was cubing. The rule is no carping when the other one cooks, even when they're doing something unspeakable.
"Rosemary's, of course." He dumped the cubes and a can of evaporated milk into a bowl and added the peppers. "But nothing else." He stuck the bowl into the microwave and pushed some buttons.
"I wish I'd known her better," I said thoughtfully. I found a wizened lime in the bag of carrots and went to the cupboard to look for the salt. I found it, but the box was empty. "I might have a clearer idea who killed her."
"You still don't get it, do you, China?" McQuaid banged the heavy black cast-iron skillet onto the front burner of the Home Comfort, which has at least a decade on me but still bakes an admirable souffle". "I am telling you, you were the mark. Jacoby aimed to get to me by killing you, but he screwed up and got Rosemary instead." He poured olive oil into the skillet and dropped in some chopped onions.
46 » Stuan Wittig Albert
"That's speculation." I picked up the salt shaker, but it was empty, too. "I hope you don't mind margaritas without salt. Brian must have used the last of it to make dinosaurs." Back in the old days, I never ran out of salt.
"Just so there's tequila," McQuaid said, pushing the onions around testily. He tossed in four garlic cloves. "Maybe it u> speculation. But I'm not willing to take a risk." He glanced at the clock. "Where L> that kid, anyway? It's nearly six."
I got out the tequila. I thought I knew McQuaid pretty well, but I'd never seen him like this: edgy, irritable, nervous. He was acting like a stranger, and it made me uneasy.
"It's Thursday," I said. "He went to the matinee at the movie with some of the kids from the cadet corp."
For the past year, Brian and his father have been members of the Austin chapter of the Star Trek fan club, the U.S.S. Rhyanna. McQuaid is a security officer on this starship, and Brian is a cadet lieutenant. The activity seems to be a variant of the Boy Scouts, with a heavy dose of space and science. Being a Trekkie is certainly a lot better for Brian than belonging to a street gang.
"Oh, yeah, the matinee." McQuaid took the bowl of cheesy stuff out of the microwave and replaced it with a dozen corn tortillas. "Is somebody giving him a ride home? Maybe we should go pick him up."
I stepped close behind, wrapped my arms around him, and laid my cheek against his broad back. "It's okay," I said soothingly. "Brian will be home in a few minutes, I am making a margarita that will mellow you out, and your enchilada casserole will be maravillMO." I slipped my hand under his belt. "So just relax. Okay?"
I felt him untense a little.
"That's good," I murmured, and stood on tiptoes to nibble his earlobe. He turned, put his arms around me, and gave me a long, deep kiss that made me glad I'm living with this guy, in spite of the bad moments.
He rested his chin on the top of my head, still holding me. "I guess this Jacoby
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