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“Not really. Since Dad died, may he rest, I have nothing to do with those folks.”
Monck started to ask a follow-up. “Where—”
Benjamin did the finger-snap thing again. He seemed to like doing it. “Hold on.”
Pushing to his feet, Benjamin hurried from the room.
Monck slid a sidelong glance my way. I knew what he was thinking. I was traveling the same path. Stribbe was a butcher. A person familiar with dismembering carcasses.
A full minute passed.
Annoyed at being displaced, Betty stood glaring at me. I may have glared back.
Five minutes of hostile canine scrutiny, then Benjamin returned and offered Monck a small scrap of paper.
“Not sure if that address is still good. As I said, it’s been ages since I’ve seen any of those people.”
Monck thanked him and stood.
I stood.
Benjamin walked us to the door.
“Sorry I had nothing more useful to offer,” he said.
“You’ve been very helpful,” Monck said.
“Life is what it is.”
I watched Benjamin debate with himself. Discretion? Honesty? Honesty won.
“I know it’s unkind to trash-talk others, but I gotta say it. I always had the impression something was off with Uri Stribbe.”
“Off?” Monck asked.
“He’s ashochet. A slaughterer. Fine. I get that some folks cling to tradition. But—”
Benjamin hosted another internal debate about principles.
“But?” Monck nudged.
“In my humble, Uri Stribbe enjoyed the bloodletting way too much.”
19
Familiar with the address Benjamin had provided, Monck passed on navigational guidance and set out on his own. While driving, he contacted headquarters and asked for a run on the name Uri Stribbe.
While he did that, I made one more call to the hospital.
Nope. Scope still tied up. Maybe tomorrow.
Crapshitshittingcrapballs!
“So.” Unvented frustration curdled my voice. “Is this dickhead in the system?”
Monck turned and raked me with his eyes. “Who bit you on the ass?”
“Is he?”
