I searched the old memory banks, neatly avoiding the ones marked No Admittance. I’d never seen Russell on a leash; he’d always arrived at the bar in the sidecar of Bert’s Harley. But he was wearing a collar.

“Look behind the bar,” I said. “There’s a junk drawer, under the hot dog machine.”

The cop nodded, got to his feet and left Russell and me to watch the milling uniforms and plainclothesmen. It made me dizzy, and I finally had to look away.

The detective returned with a leash. Hooked it through the link on Russell’s collar. “Let’s go, fella,” he told Russell.

The guy must have been in charge, because nobody questioned us when we left the scene of the crime, though he did pause briefly, just outside, to speak with a young woman pulling on rubber gloves. Upstairs, my door gaped open; I hadn’t taken the time to close it. Russell trundled inside, sniffing the air, and I wondered, momentarily distracted from the horror we’d just left, if he’d caught Chester’s scent.

“I’d like to take a shower,” I said. I hadn’t planned on saying that, but it sounded reasonable, given that every stitch I was wearing was saturated.

“Not yet,” replied my official escort. “Your clothes will have to be taken into evidence. A crime scene tech will be up here as soon as they can spare one downstairs.”

I nodded glumly. “Am I a suspect?”

The detective smiled. “A person of interest,” he clarified, as though there might be a difference. I’d read The Damn Fool’s Guide to Criminal Investigation, and I knew the drill. The next step after “Person of Interest” was “You have the right to remain silent.”

He took out a pad, uncapped a pen. “Let’s start with your name, Miss—?”

“Sheepshanks,” I said. “Mary Jo.”

Mary Jo? Where the hell had that come from?

“Everybody calls me Mojo,” I added.

“Andy Crowley.” He handed me a card. I guess we were past the flash-the-badge stage.

My landline jingled.

I looked at Crowley, eyebrows raised.

He nodded his permission. He also followed me into the kitchen.

“Thank God you’re there,” a woman blurted.

“Sheila?”

Bert’s girlfriend gave a blubbery sob. “I’m in Phoenix,” she said. “Somebody just called on my cell and said the parking lot at Bert’s is swarming with cop cars, and they saw an ambulance, too. Mojo, is Bert all right?”

I bit my lower lip, glanced down at Russell, who, like Crowley, had tailed me from the living room. The dog’s coat was smudged with blood where I’d touched him.

“No,” I said gently. “Bert’s not okay, Sheila. Somebody stabbed him. He’s been taken to the hospital.” I looked questioningly at Crowley, wanting to tell her which hospital, where.

“Either Scottsdale Healthcare or Paradise Valley General,” Crowley supplied.