The Violet Crow by Michael Sheldon

you handled Peaches all right with your quick thinking and your bouillabaisse .”
    Bruno opened his mouth to interrupt, but the Chief plowed ahead.
    â€œYou thought you did fine, but you forgot about everybody else. Most important, you forgot about me. Dealing with the press is a war, not a battle. It’s never over.”
    Bruno looked at his shoes. “What was I supposed to do?”
    â€œTake one for the team. It’s obvious. Peaches is going to write whatever she feels like writing. There’s nothing you can do about it. Except call me. Right away. I needed to know what you told Peaches. Had I known, I would have been able to look at the paper first thing. And I wouldn’t have been broadsided by a situation that I didn’t even know existed. I was bombarded by phone calls; I was unprepared, and it made me look … like a shlemiel .”
    That was an act of kindness on the part of the Chief, leaving an opening for the psychic. “I think you mean shlimazl , Chief. In this case, I’m the shlemiel , da no-goodnik dat causes da trouble, and you’re da shlimazl , da one with egg on his face … I’m truly …”
    â€”The Chief cut him off before he could say “sorry.” “Now you know what I expect. Now get your briefcase, we’re going out.”
    Chief Black drove past the Little League fields and pulled into the parking lot for Tano’s Deli, right across from the liquor store on the east side of town.
    Inside was a brightly lit room dominated by deli cases and glass-fronted refrigerators stocked with cold drinks. On the walls hung cloth patches with embroidered insignia from police departments all across the U.S. Tano’s was crowded with people waiting for takeout orders. Behind the counter, two heavily muscled and tattooed men were busy preparing cheesesteaks and hoagies and joking with the customers.
    â€œYo! Chief. How’s it hangin’?” boomed the larger of the two.
    The Chief’s arm shot up in a friendly salute. “Chris. Ray.”
    â€œThere’s room for you in back,” said Chris. “You gonna stick around or you want it to go?”
    â€œTwo of the usual for here,” replied the Chief. “This is my friend Bruno …”
    Chris got excited when he heard the name. “Bruno Sammartino! The world champion wrestler. The living legend.”
    Ray looked up from chopping lettuce. He squinted at Bruno, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lip, but didn’t say anything.
    Bruno just grinned and let the Chief lead him through a dusty curtain to the back room. It was tiny, crammed full of supplies and barely enough space for an old kitchen table with a scarred Formica top and aluminum legs, and two matching chairs with turquoise plastic seats. On the walls hung an old movie poster showing the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius and the Pirelli tire calendar from 1999 featuring a sepia-toned photo of a nude woman with an old-fashioned hairstyle.
    â€œChris’ mom?” Bruno wisecracked.
    â€œDon’t let him hear you say that,” warned the Chief. “Talk to me.”
    â€œThe most unusual thing about this case,” Bruno began, “is the lack of emotion. The girl was attacked from the back. She didn’t see it coming, but still I’d expect a sense of shock and fear—or something—at the moment of impact. Here, there’s nothing. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.”
    â€œAny theories?”
    Bruno thought carefully before replying. “What if she’s, you know, a vegetable? Brain damaged. Something like that. Family gets tired of taking care of her. Can’t afford it. Ashamed to own up publicly. Frustrated. So they decide to … end it.”
    â€œThen they dump her at the Quaker meeting house? Why? It’s not exactly your anti-Quaker blood libel scenario.”
    â€œShows you can’t believe everything you read in the