A Farewell to Arfs by Spencer Quinn

Author:Spencer Quinn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group

* * *

“Here are two theories of the case.” Bernie lit another cigarette. A cloud glided over the sun and Mexico darkened. “First, despite his denial and despite the lack of motive, Billy made the call to Mr. Parsons. That’s where the evidence takes us. Second, someone impersonated Billy, exploiting the soft spots in the old man’s heart. Was there a secondary goal of casting shade on Billy, either with his dad or with someone else, or even law enforcement? Did he have some sort of feud with one of the clients? Holger Niberg, for example? That could explain the bank account angle but it’s not where the evidence takes us. Pure speculation, and yet…”

Bernie turned to me. Was he looking for input? We are a team, after all. I rolled over on my back—not so easy for a dude my size on the shotgun seat—and stuck my paws up in the air. Bernie scratched my belly. That got one of my paws started on some wild vibrations. Bernie laughed. He loved when that happened and so did I! We’re willing to put in the work, me and Bernie, unlike other detective agencies I might name, except none of the names seemed to be coming to me at the moment.

And before they could, Etta was on the phone again.

“I cross-file all the A to Zs by occupation,” she said. “Just for my own amusement. Did you know that line cooks lead the pack when it comes to assault with a shod foot?”

“Don’t they usually wear clogs?” Bernie said.

“So?” said Etta. “What I’m getting at is that there are all these occupations that come up over and over—accountants, taxi drivers, club owners, florists, philosophy majors, but—”

“Philosophy majors?”

“—but I’ve never had a rocket scientist before. Holger Niberg is the first.”

“Where does he work?” Bernie said.

“Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Etta said.

Whoa! Why not? If you’re the speedy type—and do I even have to remind you that I am?—then you’re probably familiar with getting ahead of yourself. I’m not saying it happens all the time, but once in a while, on one of those perfect days where the wind seems to be blowing you along even if there’s actually no wind at all, you take a glance back and what do you see? Nothing! Nada! Zip! You’re not there. Why not? Because you’re running so fast you’ve gotten ahead of yourself? What else could it be? So what I now knew for sure was that Etta was a slow runner, poor thing.

“Have you ever noticed there are ironies in this business?” Etta said.

“Maybe,” said Bernie. “But I can’t think of any.”

“No? I sense that you’re not quite yourself these days. Is something bothering you?”

One of Bernie’s hands was resting on the steering wheel. Now it tightened, in fact gripping the wheel hard even though we were just sitting there gazing at Mexico while … while Mexico gazed back at us? What a strange thought! What was the point of having a

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