“I’ve always loved photography. So did my sister. We set about teaching ourselves the basics. Fast-forward a few years, I offered to be a second shooter at events for free just to get the experience. Word got around about my photos, and I got my own gigs. I’ve been at it full time for seven years now.” I rarely talked about myself and found it rather unpleasant. “I chase brides, and you chase criminals.”

“Technically, they’ve already been caught by the time I come on scene. My job is to keep them off the street.”

“Which brings us back to decomposition rates.”

“Last night you ordered two shots of tequila. Why two?”

More talk about me, which I should have avoided, but I heard myself say, “I was born an identical twin. Clare, the sister I just mentioned, died when we were sixteen. I always pour two shots on our birthday.”

“But you didn’t drink it.”

“If Clare can’t drink, then neither will I.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “About your sister.”

“Thanks.” Mercifully his follow-up wasn’t She’s in a better place or whatever platitudes made people feel better about my loss.

Alan’s direct gaze told me he wasn’t afraid of death. He had the good sense not to ask for details, which put points in his column. Too many dug for the minutiae, especially when Clare’s case was so public. There was a sense that Clare’s death was part of the public domain, entitling everyone to all the facts.

“Okay, now that we’ve covered death,” I said, my lips trying to twist into a smile. “We might want to quit while we’re ahead.”

“I’m off my game,” he said. “Work has dulled my social skills. Normally, I don’t lead with death. I begin with the weather, zodiac signs, and favorite wines before launching into the macabre.”

“I appreciate the direct approach. I’ve never been good at small talk, but for the record, Pisces, should be midfifties tomorrow, and loved red wines.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Aries, will take a jacket tomorrow, beer man.”

I tipped the neck of my bottle toward him, and I carefully and regretfully set it on the kitchen counter next to a bowl of apples and bananas. I wanted to tell him about Clare, press him for details about solving cold cases, but suddenly knew if I didn’t get away from that beer, my dance with the devil would not end well.

“Thanks for the beer. I better get going.”

“If you come back when the boxes are cleaned out, I promise better conversation.”

My idea of good conversation was decomp rates, but that sounded weird even to me. “Sounds like a plan.”