Murder Under Her Skin

I wouldn't go so far as to say the Mad Russian was like a father figure to me. More like a perpetually drunk uncle who let me play with sharp things at a tender age.

That was Ruby. A Technicolor girl in a black-and-white world.

I didn't want to ask the next question. I didn't think I'd like the answer. But all my business cards say "detective" and! didn't want to splurge to get new ones made.

Translation: What's a red herring and what isn't? We didn't know. All fish look the same when you're in the dark.

And it’s not always a bad thing to let the anger show,’ she said. ‘Sometimes it’s useful for people to be afraid of you. As long as it’s the right people.’ We gave that conversational capper the moment of silence it deserved, then got to work.

Ms. Pentecost told me once that it's a product of my claustrophobia. I told her I wasn't claustrophobic. I just didn't like being somewhere I couldn't get out of, and I think that's reasonable enough you don't need to invent a five-syllable word to cover it.

While Mrs. Miller loved and cherished, she didn’t always obey.

Amazing Annabelle, who was in a matching blue satin number that kept her upper parts contained but had thigh-high slits up both sides. Her legs cut through the dress like whitecaps on rough water.

He had the tense, ready-to-run look of a guy waiting for a bar fight to kick off. No chance to tell him that my boss wasn’t the brawling type. That’s what she kept me around for.

Boy, what did I tell you about parking this eyesore on the street?” he said, drawing out the vowels while being noncommittal about the consonants.

I try not to judge books by their cover, but sometimes it’s tough. The cover of this particular paperback read: Small-Town Lawman Looking to Throw His Weight Around.

Barely old enough to drive but given the keys to a two-ton deathtrap. Enthusiasm of a puppy left to run in the backyard.

I was certainly angry that, of all those messages Mrs. Campbell relayed, not a single one mentioned Ruby. DOWN SOUTH DRUG RING LINKED TO CHICAGO MOB, the Papers would scream. The death of the Tattooed Woman? A footnote somewhere below the fold. Who cared about her? I did. My boss did. We cared about Ruby and everyone like her.

It took a while for me to answer. It wasn’t that I didn’t know the answer. It just took a an effort to yank it out of my guts and get it past my lips.

Ms. P came and joined us. Someone had found her a cane - a gaudy, gold-painted number with a rubber clown nose for a knob. Each step was accompanied by a tiny honk.