Civil Twilight by Susan Dunlap Page A

him when I was so tired. I needed a shower. I felt like something that had been wadded up and tossed on the floor. Korematsu, on the other hand, looked freshly laundered from his light blue shirt, his dark brown sports jacket to the dark hair that flopped over the corner of his forehead. His skin had the shine of scrubbedness and his eyes looked sharper than coffee could create.
    “What were you doing at the scene last night?”
    “Come this way.” I led him into the zendo to the upstairs hall where the phone sat in a nook, punched the number and handed him the receiver. “Listen to this. It’s from Karen Johnson.”

    He stood, eyes half closed as he concentrated on it. He replayed it, then went on to the next message, the one from himself.
    “Hey, I only authorized you to listen to that one.”
    “I’ll need the records of all calls to and from this number for the last week.”
    “No way. This is the zendo phone.”
    “Nevertheless.”
    “Fine, you can deal with my attorney.”
    “Your brother?”
    I didn’t like the way he’d said that. “Snideness is unbecoming in an officer.”
    “Fine. In the meantime I need to hear everything you know about the deceased.”
    “Can we do it over coffee? I’ve been up—chances are you had a late night, too?”
    He hesitated as if loath to admit he was less than a hundred percent, then shrugged. “Sure. Is Renzo’s open this early?”
    “Of course. He’d be insulted you even considered otherwise.”
    “What’re you drinking? I’ll bring them back.”
    “Double espresso.” I was in a better mood than I had been minutes ago, before Korematsu’s sarcastic reference to Gary. If he’d had any idea Gary was representing Karen Johnson, he’d have been all over me.
    I hoisted myself onto the courtyard wall while I waited for him. It was about four feet high with a curved top, a dicey perch for most people and one that would require some attention from Korematsu. He was going to be firing questions; I needed answers of my own. Any physical advantage I could manage would help even things out.
    He held two paper cups as he walked back up the still empty street. When I put out my hands for them I could see that, politely, he hadn’t even sipped his yet. I felt a stab of guilt about the wall.

    But he swung up easily and looked at me and laughed. “What’d you think? That I was John?”
    Was I that transparent? I handed him his coffee. “Nah. It’d take you years of hard couch time to get in that bad shape.” I took a sip. Double espresso barely described it. It was syrup. “Did you put sugar in this?”
    “Nope. Blame Renzo. He had the lid on before he gave it to me.”
    “Guess he figured if a cop was volunteering to get me a double at this hour of the morning I must need all the help I can get.” I sipped again, feeling the rush of hot coffee flow down my tubes warming my whole torso, that boom of caffeine snap open every pore in my face. Renzo, I owe you. “This is Broder’s case, right?”
    He nodded.
    “So how come you’re fetching and carrying for him?”
    “We don’t just assign one detective to a case. You know that, Darcy.”
    “A high-profile case, you mean?”
    He nodded again. Tones of voice can be revealing. A nod is just a movement of the head.
    I prodded. “So Broder’s just figure-heading?”
    “Chief of Detectives Broder is in charge. I am assigned. My assignment is to liaise with you.”
    “Then ‘liaise’ for me the status of the investigation.”
    “We ask; you answer.”
    “You asked why I was at the crime scene. I asked the status. We bargain; you agree.”
    “We’ll see.”
    “Puh-lease.” Korematsu had worked undercover for five years, an eternity in a small city. He was a master at not revealing. He made John look minor league. What he wasn’t revealing was his motive. Was he asking: why
were you at the crime scene of a woman you just met? Or was it: why were you and your brother at the scene where your brother’s