me, he was an early riser. Unlike me, he was an excellent banjo player. Several years earlier, my left hand had been nearly severed while apprehending a suspect. The incident left me with near-constant chronic pain that stretched from my hand all the way up to my shoulder and neck. When a physical therapist suggested I take up music to help alleviate the pain and recover the dexterity in my injured hand, Harlan had given me a gift, a Deering Saratoga Star. It was a much finer instrument than I needed or, in fact, deserved, and when my learning curve had proved to be a bit shallower than he and my therapist had hoped, Harlan had bullied me into lessons with him. We traded our Friday breakfasts for donuts and banjos.
My car was still across the street from the crime scene, where I’d left it, hoping I’d be able to get it to a mechanic later in the day. I parked the unmarked cruiser I’d checked out at five that morning in front of Harlan’s house, and he opened the door and started barking at me before I even made it to the porch.
“Where’s your banjo?”
“Caught a case last night. I can only stay a few minutes.”
He eyeballed me through the screen door while I balanced the donuts in one hand and coffee in the other. “You going to open up for me?”
“Depends. What kind of case was it?”
“The callout was for a probable suicide.”
He pushed the screen open and stood back to the side so I could squeeze past.
“Poor soul,” he said, his voice weighted with sadness. “He hear you practicing?”
I refused to give him the satisfaction of my laughing, even if I had to fight the urge.
We sat at the table and opened the box of donuts. Buttermilk for him, cruller for me.
“Probable, you said?”
“Yeah. GSW to the left temple, Chiefs Special in his left hand.”
“Ten percent of people are left handed. They never shoot themselves?”
“His handwriting didn’t look left handed.”
“In the suicide note?”
“No note. But he had a bunch of stuff with his handwriting on it piled all over his desk.”
He finished his donut and took a long pull from his coffee cup. “Doesn’t sound very ‘probable’ to me.”
“I know. I’m on the way to make the notification to his daughter. I’ll find out for sure.”
I took my coffee and another cruller for the road. He walked out onto the porch with me. Any other time he would have given me shit or tried to get in a dig of some kind. Instead, he just patted me on the shoulder and gave me a nod. He was an old cop and he knew where I was going.
Jen and I were waiting in an unmarked cruiser outside Lucinda Denkins’s house at a quarter past seven. Jen had squeezed in a few hours of sleep while I was finishing up at the scene. Back at the station, I had spent twenty minutes on a cot and showered before putting on the fresh suit I keep in a locker for all-nighters.
The house looked like a small three-bedroom. Spanish style, with a nicely maintained drought-tolerant yard in front. An Altima parked in the driveway. We planned on giving her until eight, unless she came outside and looked like she was heading out for the day. It’s awful to ambush someone in their driveway first thing in the morning with devastating news, but it’s slightly less awful than having to break it to them at work.
My phone buzzed and I looked at the screen. “Hey, Lieutenant,” I said.
“You’re making the notification?” Ruiz asked.
“Yeah. Did you get my message?”
“You think maybe it’s not suicide?”
“Got a red flag I have to check out with the daughter.”
“Keep me posted,” he said.
I looked at my watch.
Jen said, “Time to knock?”
“Yeah.” I checked my hair in the mirror, got out, adjusted my tie, and buttoned my jacket. We walked up the drive and onto the porch, where we paused to listen for a moment. I heard what might have been a TV or a radio on the other side of the door. Things usually went better if the person being notified was already awake.
I rang the doorbell. A few seconds later a shadow moved behind the peephole. Then a woman opened the door. She was dressed in business clothes—slacks and a cream-colored blouse. Her blonde hair was pulled back, and she had a curious but pleasant expression on her round face.