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“It’ll take two seconds,” I persisted.
“Fine. Give me a few minutes.” Someone spoke to her in the background. “Listen, I need to take this call. I’ll send you the picture of the deed. Let me know when you’ve persuaded Bruce.” She laughed. “I just realized … they’re both named Bruce. The movie with the guy who doesn’t know he’s dead, that was Bruce Willis.”
“So it was.”
I pulled in front of the Castle gate and parked. The large blackbird looked down at me from the iron finial.
“Don’t you ever get bored there?” I asked. “My house isn’t very interesting.”
The bird squawked in response.
I continued through the gate to the house. By the time I reached the porch, I had a photo of the deed. The owner was listed as Bruce Huang. I figured Fatima’s team had been thorough, but I wanted the confirmation.
Solomon clearly had chosen the assisted living story on purpose. He must’ve known Bruce was listed as the legal owner, that he had no will, and that his death would put the future of the house into question. Solomon was also able to enter and remain in the house, which meant he could deactivate the wards. If I could learn more about the djinn, that might help me unravel the mystery of the house on Thoreau Street.
I was deep in research on the computer when Chief Garcia showed up on my doorstep holding a gift basket.
“That looks heavy,” I said.
She thrust it into my arms. “Here. It’s for you.”
I looked down at the basket in confusion. “Why?”
“I won a raffle at the firehouse. I figured I’d pass it along to the person doing this town another favor.”
“Are you talking about Thoreau Street? Because it’s not technically a favor if you get something in return.”
The chief looked blank. “Oh. Fatima said it was.” She shrugged. “Well, I’m also not a big fan of fruit.”
“Who doesn’t like fruit?”
Chief Garcia raised her hand. “This girl.”
I squinted at her. “You’re not hitting on me, are you? Because I’m straight.”
She lowered her eyelids a smidge. “Don’t be that person.”
“What person?”
“The one who assumes that if a lesbian shows you kindness or generosity, there must be a romantic motivation. I’m not hitting on you. You’d know if I were.”
Now I was curious. “How?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean how would I know? What would you do differently?”
She waved me off. “Stop. I’m not playing this game with you.”
“I’m being sincere. I want to know.”
She exhaled. “Fine. If I were hitting on you, then I would simply ask you out on a date. No beating around the bush…”
“Pun intended?”
She glowered at me. “Stop.”
I hefted the gift basket. “So acts of service aren’t your love language, Chief of Police Elena Garcia?”
