Glenn’s eyes had lost their sparkle and were tired again. “No. Thank you.”

“Why did you have me come out here, then?” I chided him. “I didn’t do a flipping thing.”

His dark neck reddened, and I followed him to the FIB vehicle. Behind us was the chatter of the ambulance guys getting to their feet to move the body to the city morgue. “I wanted to see Denon’s reaction to you,” he muttered.

“You got me out here because you wanted to see Denon’s reaction?” I exclaimed, and several heads turned. The FIB officers were smiling like it was a joke—and I was the butt of it.

Inclining his head in amusement, Glenn took my arm. “Cut me some slack, Rachel,” he said. “You saw him in the morgue. He didn’t want you there and was afraid you’d see something us poor humans would miss. That points to obstruction of justice. Someone is looking for that statue you have, and you’re damned lucky they aren’t looking at you. Is it still in the mail system?”

I nodded, thinking it would be a mistake to do otherwise. Glenn’s grip tightened as he walked us forward. “I could force you to give it to me,” he said.

Ticked, I jerked away from him and stopped. “I brought that jar of salsa you wanted,” I said, almost loud enough for the surrounding FIB officers to hear, and the man went gray. It wasn’t my threat of withholding it but that I’d make public he liked tomatoes. Yeah, it was that bad.

“That’s low,” Glenn said, his eyes coming back to mine.

“Then find someone else to pimp your ketchup,” I said, guilt making me flush.

Jenks dropped from the trees, startling the FIB officer. “Rache,” the pixy said, giving no indication of what he thought of my blackmail, “I’ll get you home, then go to the morgue. I want to see if the body has needle marks. I can be back before you go to talk to Mr. Ray.”

I might have to be at the church alone with Ivy, was my first thought. “Sounds good,” I said, then feeling bad, I whispered to Glenn, “I was serious about the salsa. You want it now?”

He tightened his jaw, clearly angry, and Jenks laughed. “Give it up, you lousy cookie,” the pixy cajoled. “You have no right to the focus, and you know it.”

“It’s jalapeño,” I coaxed. “Burn your freaking eyeballs out of their sockets.”

Glenn’s irate look faltered, and when Jenks nodded in encouragement, Glenn licked his lips. “Jalapeño?” he murmured, his focus blurring.

“A gallon,” I said, feeling the thrill of the deal. “Do you have any zip-strips?”

Glenn’s awareness abruptly cleared. “I’m working on them, but it’s going to take some time. Do you want a pair of cuffs in the meanwhile?”