The Same Place (The Lamb and the Lion #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,94

Tooele. Is she married? Maybe she changed her name.”

“I don’t know. Ok. Do you have like flags on her account or anything?”

“No. What’s this about?”

“Honestly, I don’t even know anymore.”

Scipio gave an enormous sneeze.

“What was that?”

“His dog.”

“Oh Christ. Will you please come stay at my place? You won’t have to play mind games, and you won’t have to deal with a dog.”

“Thanks for the offer. I’ve got to go.”

“I’m not picking up the pieces when this goes to hell.”

“Thanks, Tinajas.”

“You can get high and pass out on somebody else’s couch and tell her all about existentialism or whatever you were trying to tell me last time.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“And I’m not bailing you out—”

Jem disconnected the call. He let Scipio out of the apartment, and this time he managed to herd the Lab toward the strip of grass at the back of the apartment building. Scipio pranced around for a while, peeing on everything he could reach, snuffling patches of clover for minutes at a time.

His phone buzzed, and Tean’s name showed on the screen.

“I just finished up with the ME,” Tean said.

“Oh. Shit. Ok.”

Tean told him about the injury that had ended Joy’s life, the animal attack, and the attempt to cover up how she had died.

“But it doesn’t really get us any closer to a suspect, does it?” Jem said. “I mean, if the bite can’t tell us if it was a coyote or a dog or a cougar, you know?”

“Well, it won’t be that specific, but we can eliminate some types of animals. The teeth marks on the bone weren’t perfect, but I could at least see the partial shape of the mouth. It’s not a pig, and I don’t think it’s a coyote. I think in both cases, their mouths are too small.”

“Hannah has a dog, doesn’t she?”

Tean was silent for a moment. “Hannah didn’t do this.”

“I know, but that’s not what I’m asking.”

“Yes, she has a teacup Yorkie. I’ve never read of a teacup Yorkie biting through someone’s arm and amputating it.”

“Maybe it’s like that rabbit from Monty Python.”

Another silence. “Oh my gosh. I actually think it’s worse when I understand what you’re talking about.”

“So,” Jem said, “we’re not any closer.”

“We know how she died, and we know someone wanted to cover it up.”

“Not necessarily. We know how she died, but we’ve always known someone wanted the body destroyed so there wouldn’t be any evidence. Chopping it up might not have been to hide the manner of death. It might have just been to speed the process along.” Jem paused. “I also want to say I’m not a psycho, because I’m saying a lot of stuff I never thought I’d say.”

“Ok,” Tean said. “Ok, I guess that’s true. We got a little carried away because we finally had the cause of death.”

“Covering it up doesn’t make any sense,” Jem said. “It was an animal attack. If it really was a murder, that’s the perfect way to do it because you’ve already got your alibi: my Yorkie did it.”

“But there’s liability, criminal charges—”

“I know, I know. I’m just saying, a cover-up doesn’t feel right.”

“I’m not even sure it matters. Unless we find a specific animal and get a match with dental impressions, this is all moot.”

“We’re getting closer,” Jem said. “We just have to keep working.”

Scipio barked.

“It sounds like you’re outside.” Tean said. “Was that Scipio?”

“Um.”

“Wow, you got him into his harness?”

“You know what? I’ve got to go.”

Jem disconnected while Tean was trying to ask another question. Scipio was still inspecting every square inch of grass. Jem followed him, quietly suggesting they go back upstairs, reminding Scipio he had other things to do, and wondering if Scipio had forgotten their gentleman’s agreement. Eventually, though, Scipio let Jem coax him back upstairs, and Jem locked the apartment.

After pulling up the maps app on his phone and plugging in the address LouElla had given him, he got on his bike and headed north and west into the part of the city known as Capitol Hill. He passed the Marmalade District, one of Salt Lake’s gayborhoods, and zagged east again down two side streets. Some of the homes here had been extensively renovated, while others were obviously teardowns, but many of the original homes still stood: brick Victorian, Craftsman-style bungalows, many of the squat, boxy, 1950s-era homes with aluminum carports and bleak, industrial lines.

He stopped in front of a home that was relatively new construction. Two stories sprawled to the edge of the lot, with gray stucco that had