“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Jolie replied. “Did you see the look on his face when we went by the second time?”

I smiled. “Yeah,” I said. “We’ve got him on the run.”

“You’re nuts, Mojo Sheepshanks, or whatever the hell your name is.”

She kept right on going in the direction we were heading. “What is your name, anyway?”

“You know damn well who I am.”

“After talking to Greer, I’m not so sure I know who anybody is.”

“I was born Mary Josephine Mayhugh,” I said. “I told you that years ago, Jolie, when I found the accounts of my parents’ murders on that computer at the library.”

“There are still a lot of secrets in this family,” Jolie said.

We were on the outskirts of Scottsdale proper by then.

I settled into my seat, thinking. “Maybe Alex is the one blackmailing Greer,” I speculated. “If he wants a divorce, he might be trying to scare her into hitting the road. You know, so he could keep the house and all the money and move the next wife in without a hitch.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have issues? All we know for sure is that Alex lied about being out of town and he’s got a bent toward road rage.”

“If I’m going to be a detective,” I said, “I need to consider all the angles.”

“Yeah, well, not every man is like Nick DeLuca. And you’re not a detective, Moje. You’re a billing clerk.”

A silence descended. Scottsdale flashed by on either side as we headed north, toward Cave Creek.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a billing clerk,” Jolie said, after a long time.

I sat with my arms folded. “Well, it’s not the same as being, say, a forensic scientist.”

“I am not going to let you pick a fight with me, Mojo. And this time, you can’t just hop in your car and go home, because you are home.”

“I didn’t start this,” I pointed out, taking the high road. “You did.”

“You’re pissed because I called you a billing clerk. Moje, you are a billing clerk. If you don’t like it, be something else.”

“I’m trying to be a detective, but you won’t let me.”

“Oh, frick, Mojo, you’re a damn detective then!”

I grinned. “Thanks.”

“Bitch,” Jolie said.

“I love you, too,” I replied lightly.

When we got home, Russell did the poop thing in the parking lot, lifted his leg against the corner of the building and trotted hopefully over to the side door, where he and Bert always entered the bar.

My heart ached. According to Tucker, Bert was in Witness Protection, which probably meant the separation between him and Russell was permanent.

“Come on, buddy,” I called to him. “Time to go upstairs.”

Russell whimpered and scratched at the door.

“Damn,” I whispered, and walked toward him.