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The dead talk to me in my dreams When I wake up, I can’t remember what they said

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It felt wrong from the start

The man who sat across from us wore a sleek charcoal suit and a starched white shirt with French cuffs I ht out of the New York Times Men’s Fashion supplement, retail price 1,475 Its perfectly draped cuffs broke over tasseled black loafers that ht have cost more than the suit itself You didn’t see that kind of suit in our part of town, rees outside and this was only the first week of May Yet he didn’t sweat

Still, soance for the wearer, or peace of mind for me

The suit lacked a tie, which irritated me I like suits I a my firearreat clothing design Show me a man with stubble and dressed like an adolescent and I’ll show you today’s version of 1950s conformity Unfortunately, Phoenix weather only allows me to wear suits six ht: here was a suit quietly longing for a smart tie to complete it The man appeared the same way: incomplete

He introduced himself as Felix Smith, sat before Peralta’s desk, and said he needed our help We already knew that part Smith had called the day before, dropped the name of a criminal laas a friend of Peralta’s, and set up this afternoon’sI pulled over the second client’s chair and faced him

“I want you to investigate a suspicious death”

“Let’s start with the naal pad and pen

My partner, as also not sweating, was in one of his many tan su-sleeve linen shirt—this was, after all, Skin Cancer City—but even in the air conditioning, a layer of sweat formed beneath the fabric In a city where so al i to coe who had stayed or returned But my body held the DNA of the British Isles and when the te

The only cool thing against my body was the Latin cross by the Navajo silversed to Robin, Lindsey’s half-sister Robin and I had walked over to the Heard Museuht it for her I didn’t know if Robin was a believer She would have scoffed at organized religion as she did so s in the world But it was all that had co it on a longer beaded chain and noore it all the time

Felix said, “The girl’s name was Grace Grace Hunter”

Peralta asked ave a short, precise answer He held a smart black portfolio but it reave her date of birth and Social Security number, both of which ould need for records searches She had died on April twenty-second, a little more than teeks previously The police had ruled it a suicide

Peralta took notes I studied Felix S of discomfort

He looked around thirty and his hair was dark and cut short, pushing down on a low forehead Sitting straight with his hands palth and self-possession But he had a nose that looked as if it had been ested too ave the impression of a flash burn, and the re, old yellow eyes Even with his head immobile, those eyes restlessly swept the room

Joseph Stalin had yellow eyes

I guessed that his driver’s license identified them as hazel

He wasn’t as big as Peralta, but he was plenty big His head was large, about the same width as the e and hard, with big knuckles, and underneath the suit his plank-like shoulders looked capable of violence The brawler’s face and body didn’t go with the tailored suit and the high-shine, pricey shoes Unless he was somebody’s muscle

Butme that

My agitation kicked up a notch when he said where the girl had died: San Diego I wanted to start nervously shakingdrums with my hands, or leave the roo stay still

“They say she jumped off a balcony It was from the nineteenth floor of a condo” His voice was steady, one note above aon

“And you don’t believe that…”

“No”

Peralta wrote down the address where it happened It was don, near the beautiful Santa Fe railroad station

“Who is she to you?” It was the first time I had spoken besides the introductions after he walked in the door