She nodded. “Her real name was Genevieve, but the newspapers didn’t say that because the reporters were too lazy to ask.”

Stupid cops. Lazy reporters. A girl after my own heart.

“They didn’t mention your name either.”

“Kayla Thompson.” She extended her hand.

I shook it. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“I’m homeschooled. Grandma didn’t like the way the other kids acted after my mom died.” After what she’d said about the chief’s grandson, I didn’t blame her grandmother. I’d like to have a chat with the little ghoul’s parents myself. “Grandma’s at work today, so I’m staying with Aunt Rose. She thinks I’m at the library.”

“Well, then, Kayla, since it seems we’re both investigating this crime, we’d better get to work.”

KAYLA WAS NOT impressed by my lack of fingerprint powder and evidence bags. I tried to explain that wasn’t how private investigators worked, but she clearly considered that a pathetic excuse. She had powder and plastic zip bags from her Junior Detective kit.

I did manage to redeem myself a bit by teaching her the proper way to use the powder. Then I left her to her work while I did mine. She was so quiet I’d almost forgotten she was there until she announced she had to go—her aunt was picking her up at the library and she needed to check out some books to show for her visit.

We went out the back door, then around the building together.

“Is he with you?” she asked, pointing. It was the guy from earlier, now standing in front of his BMW, hood open, scowling down as if he could shame the motor into turning over.

“Nope. Think I should offer to help?”

“You can fix cars?” Her look said she was mildly impressed.

“Cars, bikes ... That’s my motorcycle over there.” I hoped to win some cool points for the bike, too, but she only glanced at it, then back to the guy with the BMW.

“I bet he can’t fix it,” she said. “I bet he can’t even pump his own gas.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You should see if you can help.”

“Nah, I’ll walk you to—”

“I’ve got a few minutes.”

She started across the road and I hurried to catch up.

“Hey, there,” I called. “Having trouble getting her running?”

He turned. He blinked, as if seeing a mirage, then turned back to glare at the misbehaving engine again.

“Transmission, I think,” he said, with the air of a man who couldn’t find the transmission on a dare, but wants to sound like he could reassemble one with his eyes shut.

“You’re in luck. Transmissions are my specialty.”

He eyed me, clearly torn between not really wanting to tell an attractive young woman to get lost, but not wanting her mucking about with his luxury car either.