EPILOGUE
"I should have Hardcastle put you back in solitary for your sloppy similes!" Spit drizzled from Harris lips. Arthur, object of his ire, smirked, arms folded over chest. Kavi, equilateral to the other two at their circular table, rubbed the headache at her temples.
"Pick a point and focus. Breathe."
Harris turned to Kavi. "No one wants to hear about camera flashes like the 'glinting smile of an ages-weary Kraken.' It's bullshit. If we're going to sell our story to publishers, it has to be better than this."
Kavi lay down the packet, their names footing each page, and cleared her throat. "Listen, let's put a tack in this for the time being. I think we're quibbling over metaphorical deckchairs…"
"Ahem."
A clearing throat and the sharp ting-ting of knuckles to doorjamb stopped the Irregulars cold. In the months since their affair with Judge Highley, they'd ascended to local quasi-celebrities. They sat on par with Crazy Chet, whose mattress commercials ran at all hours, or the local grocery store clerk who once had a speaking part on Law and Order. Sudden interruptions became the norm. They'd petitioned Barbara Ann for the privilege of locking the door of Meeting Room A, but as they were in a public meeting space, she denied.
"Not again," Arthur moaned.
"For the last time!" Harris shouted to the door. "No interviews!"
The interloper, credit to her temerity, held fast. Instead of running out to the red haze of dusk, the shape advanced.
"We realize this is public property," Arthur moaned, "but have some sense, mate. We're personal friends of Detective Dalkowski and Police Chief Hardcastle."
"I'm not a reporter and, even though I'm afraid I've frightened you, I'm not here for any ill purpose." A woman's voice, soft and sibilant rolled over them like fog. She materialized, a 5'10" rail, with a mess of close-cropped brown hair framing her face. She was beautiful and plain in jeans and a black t-shirt and walked as if she expected at any moment for the earth to open up and swallow her whole. She stopped a pace shy of the Irregulars, staring to each of them with dark green eyes.
"I read about you in the newspapers. I've come to hire you."
"Oh no," Kavi waved her off without hesitation. "No, no, no. I've said it a thousand times now, but it seems I have to say it again: we're not detectives."
"My husband was murdered," the woman said.
Arthur took a deep breath. "That's…," he prodded the pages before him, searching for the right words. "We're sorry…but that's really more a police matter."
"The police won't help." The woman continued speaking as if Arthur hadn't. "The authorities say he died of a heart attack, but I know he didn't. He was in great health. He took care of his body. He exercised. He had two physicals a year—because of his job—the doctors said he was in ship-shape. Someone is lying to me. My husband was murdered." The woman stepped forward, standing between Kavi and Arthur. The room's low light enhanced the lines on her face, the purple circles under her eyes.
"I can pay you," she said. "Just find the truth. Even if he died of a heart attack. I just need a...second opinion. You have to help me—you're my only hope."
Harris inhaled, intending to spew a full 80 percent of the dialogue from Star Wars: A New Hope, but Kavi clapped a hand over Harris' mouth.
"I'm sorry to disappoint," Kavi said, "but we're not detectives. It's only by luck we were saved from the Judge. If you're—"
"I'll pay you $25,000."
Her offer multiplied the gravity in Meeting Room A by a factor of .05. Jaws dropped. Pens fell to the floor. Perhaps most important, Kavi's hand went slack, leaving Harris' mouth uncovered.
"We'll do it!"
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