“Could go either way.” I told him about the Ojo Negro murders and the DarkVisions Web site.

He said, “Fourteen-year-old gore freak. And a child shall lead.”

“Maybe this child led us to something serious. Stolen black luxury wheels lifted from a rental lot, a suspect in cowboy gear. Which is all anyone noticed about him. Dusting your hair with white powder, wearing a garish plaid cap, and shuffling would accomplish the same thing. So would driving a flashy car, for that matter.”

“Costumes,” he said. “Art of the misdirect. Ojo Negro, huh? Never heard of the place. Nine years ago… talk about your extended run, you know what I’m thinking.”

“If it’s connected, there could be more in between. No other black-car murders came up but Ella’s not logged in, so the Web’s far from perfect.”

“True. I’m not sure what this does for my mood… okay, first things first, gotta pack my mule, get over to 7-Eleven, stock up on grub and caffeine. You up for some bucolic travel? With time and mileage reimbursed, as granted by The Supreme Being?”

“God wants to pay me?”

“The chief,” he said. “Same difference.”

“How’d your meeting go?”

“Steely eyes, firm grip, he pumped me for progress, pretended not to be pissed when I told him there was none. But that Irish face of his gets all rosy around the edges. Then, out of the blue, he asks me if you’re consulting to any of it. I say all of it, when you’ve got time. He says what does that mean. I say given what the department pays, you’ve got other fish to fry. He goes real rosy. Embarks on a tirade about how the department’s stuck somewhere between Mesozoic and Jurassic, it’s time to modernize, we need serious psychological input not whore-shrinks out to stigmatize officers. I try to get a word in edgewise about the financial end but when he gets like that, there’s no interrupting. So basically, the meeting ended up being about you.”

“Gee,” I said. “Better soak my head in ice before it swells out of control.”

“For that, all you need is to see the salary scale he proposed. Thirty percent additional allowance for gas and mileage but the hourly’s still penury. I’m supposed to set up a billing account, you’re supposed to keep meticulous records. Neither of which will be done because we’ve got real work. But can you see clear to hit the road anyway?”

“Hmm,” I said.

“Thanks. And don’t forget to eat. Thirty percent more gets you to 1965 prices.”

“Twinkies and Flavo-straws it is.”

“There you go,” he said. “Brain food.”

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER
13