I decide he did me a favor. I need to interview the sous chef that should have been with him last night anyway. “In that case,” I say, “I’m going to talk to the landlord that called this in and then the medical examiner and then I’m done here.”

“That would be me.”

A thin man with red hair and glasses appears in the doorway wearing a white bunny suit looking thing. “I’m John Nguyen.”

“Nguyen? You’re literally Opie. That name is all wrong for you.”

He laughs. “Yes. Long story. You see—”

“Then don’t tell it,” I say. “If you were adopted—”

“Exactly! You guessed.”

“I’m good like that. Now prove to me your parent chose right by choosing you and show me how smart you are. We have a murder to solve, not a genealogy tree to follow. And I have no idea why you look like you’re going to a parade right now, but whatever. Get with Danica Day in the Hauppauge ME’s office. She’s got a matching murder.” I indicate Naomi. “She swallowed something that cut her inside out, or that’s the theory. She drank wine. I think she took medication from the bottles on the bed, probably the ibuprofen gel capsule. Upon inspection, they seem clean but for all we know there were only a few bad pills and she just popped those. What I need to know is could she have taken the pills beside the bed, and walked this far before they killed her?”

“Maybe she took the pills,” he offers, “and held the wine in her mouth because she just couldn’t make herself swallow. Some people like my sister, Sara, just don’t like to take pills.”
It’s a logical, solid answer. I like the way the bunny suit man thinks. I grab my card from my bag. “Call me this afternoon.” He takes the card.

I step around him and head out of the bedroom. “You’re leaving?” Houston calls out.

“Kitchen!” I call over my shoulder and I keep walking.

I pass the living room and enter the tiny dining room with a wooden table attached to a rectangular-shaped kitchen. I could go straight to the fridge but I decide to keep the suspense moving. I start opening drawers and find what I think is a junk drawer. It includes past due bills, lots of them, a fashion magazine, coupons, most of which are expired, scribbled grocery lists, and to-do lists. I’m about to give up when bingo again, I find a list of phone numbers. None of them have names on them, but this could be useful. I shoot a photo and text it to Tic Tac: See who owns the numbers and if any of them are registered with Banking the Billionaire.

“What’d you find?” the chief asks, stepping inside the small space.