He might dig it out, but only because it might give him more insight into Neva. "Have there been any rumblings about the dance in recent months? Has anyone been trying to close it down?"
"There's always rumblings about closing it down. Always will be. But it never is, because everyone fears what might happen if they did."
Duncan swallowed some coffee, then asked, "So, nothing more than the usual grumbling?"
Neeson hesitated. "There has been more than the normal amount of anger directed toward the Sinclairs this last month. Someone is stirring up trouble, but I haven't been able to discover who."
Join the club, Duncan thought. "Where have you been hearing this?"
"Everywhere." Neeson hesitated and smiled. "People seem to equate blindness with deafness. Some of the things I hear amaze even me."
"And what's the opinion on the street about the murders?"
"That it's one of the Sinclairs. That your games have finally crossed the line."
"And your opinion?"
"It's too pat, and it just doesn't feel right." His sudden smile was a touch wistful. "Just the sort of juicy story I loved when I was at the Gazette."
"Who's running it now?"
"Some fancy pants from Denver. He's as useless as a neutered dog."
Duncan smiled. "If you hear any more interesting rumors, would you mind letting me know?"
"As long as you come back when this is all over and give me a blow-by-blow account of how you found the killer."
At least someone outside his family thought he'd find the killer. "Planning to submit a story to the Gazette?"
Neeson snorted. "And give that a**hole a great scoop? No way in hell. I just like knowing outcomes, that's all."
He nodded. It was that desire, more than anything, that had made Neeson a great reporter and an even better chief. "It's a deal."
"Good." Neeson rose and escorted Duncan to the front door. "Where you off to now?"
"I think I'd better talk to my lying source of information."
"Good idea." He opened the door, and Duncan hurriedly left before the icy touch of the wind stole too much heat from the old man's house.
Then he shifted shape and ran through the storm, heading towards Betise's house.
* * * *
Neva thrust through the hair salon's door and slammed it shut behind her. The heat hit her immediately, making her gasp, and she quickly shed some layers. "Don't tell me," Betise said dryly as she came from the rear section of the salon. "You felt an urgent need to finally cut your hair."
Neva grinned as she took off her ski mask and shook loose her hair. "You and I both know that's not going to happen, so quit asking."
"You sure? You'd look fantastic with a shorter cut styled to suit your features. And it would bring out your eyes more."
"My eyes are just fine the way they are." She shook the snow from the mask and her coats, then draped them over the nearest chair.
Betise crossed her arms and leaned a hip against the counter. "So what can I do for you, then?"
Though the friendliness had not fled from her voice, there was a touch of wariness in her green eyes. And guilt in an emotive trickle leaking past her shields.
Probably because she'd been caught in a lie, Neva thought grimly. "Why did you tell Duncan my father was asking you about the dance?"
Betise sighed. "I'm sorry, but Duncan was wasting time asking me all sorts of questions."