Hinkel nodded shrewdly and shook her hand. “Deal.”
“Do you always bribe patrons with baked goods?” I asked.
Hinkel flashed me pearly whites and doffed his straw fedora. “Miss Lina, if you don’t mind my saying, you put the autumn leaves to shame with your beauty.”
I plucked a paperback off the shelf and fanned myself with it. “Good sir, you certainly know how to turn a lady’s head,” I said, adopting a southern belle accent.
Sloane crossed her arms, feigning irritation. “Excuse me, Mr. McCord. I thought I was your Sunday morning flirtation.”
He gestured at his pin-striped suit and bow tie. “There is more than enough of Hinkel to go around. Now if you two lovely ladies don’t mind, I’m gonna go downstairs and flirt with a queen or two.”
We watched the centenarian spryly head for the stairs, cane in one hand, book in the other.
“Knockemout sure grows them charming,” I observed.
“We sure do,” Sloane agreed, gesturing for me to follow her.
We entered a spacious conference room where Sloane headed straight for the dry erase board and began removing several crude drawings of penises.
“Teenagers?” I guessed.
She shook her head, making her perky ponytail dance. “Northern Virginia urologists. They had their quarterly meeting here yesterday. Figured I’d clean up the evidence before story hour ends.”
“I didn’t see that one coming.”
Sloane flashed me a smirk. “Just wait until the NoVaP host their meetup in January.”
I ran the possibilities in my head. “Northern Virginia proctologists?”
“Butts everywhere.” Sloane dropped the eraser and started organizing the markers by color. “What brings you into my fine establishment today?”
I made myself useful and started stuffing the scattering of penis-centric handouts into the recycling can. “Looking for a book recommendation or two.”
And some information, I added silently.
“Came to the right place. What’s your poison? Thriller? Time travel? Autobiography? Poetry? Police procedural? Fantasy? Self-help? Small-town romance hot enough to make you blush?”
I thought of Nash in the shower last night. The thump of a fist against wet tile. The strangled oath. I felt a little light-headed. “Something with murders,” I decided. “Also, is there any kind of county database I could use to search properties?”
“Looking to make your visit permanent?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I have a friend who lives in DC. They’re looking to move out of the city and open a business.”
It was a lame lie. But Sloane was a busy librarian and people around here were quirky. She wasn’t going to waste time poking holes in my story.
“What kind of business?”
Dammit.
“Custom car garage? I mean, I think it’s some kind of custom car garage.”
Sloane nudged her glasses up her nose. “I’m sure your friend knows how to use the usual property listing websites.”
“He—she, er, they do. But what if the property isn’t for sale? They’ve got deep pockets and have been known to make offers that were hard to refuse.”
Technically that part wasn’t a lie. Exactly.
She pinned me with a curious look. I was usually much better at spinning an appropriate tale. That whole Nash in the shower thing must have really thrown me. Note to self: Avoid men who make you stupid.
“In that case, you could try a county assessment database. Most have GIS maps of properties, their records, and their tax assessments. I can give you the links.”
Twenty minutes later, I did my best to tiptoe past Drag Queen Story Hour with my stack of unsexy murder novels, one book on conquering self-destructive tendencies, and colorful sticky notes with the names of three county property databases.
I made it out the door and into the hall when a familiar voice stopped me. “Investigator Lina Solavita.”
I froze, then slowly pivoted on my boot heels.
A ghost from the past smirked at me as the door to the police station closed behind him. He’d grown a mustache since I’d last seen him and added ten or so pounds, but it looked good on him.
“Marshal Nolan Graham. What are you doing—” I didn’t need to finish the question. There was only one local case that would require a U.S. marshal’s presence.
“Caught a case.” He plucked the novel off the top of my stack and peeked under the sticky notes at the cover. “You won’t like this one.”
“One weekend five or so years ago and you think you know my taste in books?”
He flashed me a grin. “What can I say? You’re memorable.”
Nolan was a cocky pain in the ass. But he was good at his job, not a misogynistic idiot, and if memory served, he was also a great dancer.
“Wish I could say the same. Nice mustache, by the way,” I teased.
He smoothed his finger and thumb over it. “Wanna take it for a spin later?”
“Still an incurable ass, I see.”
“It’s called confidence. And it’s built on years of experience with satisfied women.”
I grinned. “You’re the worst.”
“Yeah. I know. What the hell are you doing here? Somebody steal the Mona Lisa?”
“I’m in town visiting friends. Catching up on my reading.” I held up the stack of books.
His eyes narrowed. “Bullshit. You don’t take vacations. What’s Pritzger Insurance after in this place?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on. Entertain me. I’m basically sitting on some Podunk chief of police waiting for a dipshit to try to finish the job.”
“You think Duncan Hugo is going to try again? Do you have intel on that?”
“Well, aren’t we well informed?”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s a small town. We’re all well informed.”
“Then you don’t need me to connect the dots.”
“Come on. Hugo was taking a run at some list to impress Daddy, but he blew it. Last I heard, he was in the wind. He’s got no reason to come back and finish the job.”
“Unless Chief Amnesia suddenly remembers the shooting. All we’ve got is the word of a batshit, pain-in-the-ass, evil twin ex-girlfriend locked up in prison. And the testimony of a twelve-year-old. None of the physical evidence would hold up. Stolen car. Unregistered gun. No prints.”
Duncan Hugo had teamed up with Naomi’s twin sister, Tina, to lie, cheat, and steal their way through northern Virginia before he’d made the ghastly mistake of shooting Nash.
“What about the dashcam footage?” I pressed.
Nolan shrugged. “It’s dark. Guy had on a hoodie and gloves. You can barely make out a profile. But a half-decent attorney could argue it was literally anyone else.”
“Still. Why send you in to babysit? Hugo’s small-time, isn’t he?”
Nolan raised an eyebrow.
“Ohhh. The feds are after Daddy.”
Anthony Hugo was a crime lord whose territory included Washington, DC, and Baltimore. While his son dabbled in stolen electronics and cars, Daddy Dearest had an ugly reputation for racketeering, drugs, and sex trafficking.