Dust Up: A Thriller by Jon McGoran Page A

problem?”
    Gonzalez looked at me and shook his head, annoyed and disappointed, like he never actually liked me, but he’d thought I at least understood how busy he was.
    He led us to the laundry room, fidgeting impatiently by the door while Royce and Divock took turns looking under the change machine.
    “And this is where the gun was found, is that it?” Royce asked, pointing.
    “Yes.”
    Royce nodded at that. “And did Miriam Hartwell use these facilities here on a regular basis?”
    Gonzalez looked back and forth between the three of us, like he was trying to figure out how this worked. “Well, yeah. I mean, she did her laundry.” He looked at his watch.
    I was wondering if he was going to ask if she used fabric softener, but we left after that and headed over to my neighborhood to recanvass for witnesses. The first round of interviews hadn’t turned up anything, and this round was equally unenlightening—a few people heard the banging on the door. A few more heard the gunshots. No one saw anything.
    Several neighbors asked if Nola and I were okay, which was nice. A few asked if we knew who’d done it. The first time, Royce said the victim’s wife was the main suspect. After that, I made sure I answered first, saying we didn’t know and couldn’t comment.
    I didn’t blame Royce and Divock for wanting to double-check Warren’s investigation, but I wasn’t crazy about the way they did it—pissing people off, making insinuations about Ron’s and Miriam’s characters.
    I don’t think they learned anything new. But I did.
    I confirmed that they weren’t serious investigators, not even on a par with Mike Warren. It made me wonder what they were really after.
    They seemed like they were putting on a show, trying to convince me, or even themselves, that Miriam Hartwell was guilty.
    They might also have been trying to gain deeper insights into me, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen. Not until the last stop of the day.
    I felt bad about inconveniencing Bernie Lawrence and Gonzalez, even the people who lived on my block. But Dorothy Hartwell had lost her son—and possibly her daughter-in-law, as well. She was hurting. I didn’t want to let them hurt her anymore or trick her into saying anything that might make things worse for her or her family.
    When she answered the door, I said, “Hello, Mrs. Hartwell. Sorry to bother you, but these gentlemen are from Energene. They think Ron and Miriam may have been engaged in industrial espionage, or spying, and they’d like to ask you a few questions as part of their company’s investigation.”
    Royce, Divock, and Hartwell all dropped their jaws.
    Hartwell recovered first. “What do you mean?”
    “They think it’s possible Ron and Miriam may have been selling company secrets. I am here as a courtesy to them, but the police are not investigating this. It is strictly a private investigation, and you are under no obligation to answer their questions.”
    Divock’s mouth continued to hang open, but Royce’s slammed shut, his jaws grinding as he glared at me.
    I smiled. “I just wanted to make sure there was no confusion.”
    Dorothy Hartwell looked at Royce, her expression turning stormy.
    He seemed to realize he was on the spot. “We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hartwell.”
    She folded her arms. “Thank you. What would you like to know?”
    Royce took out his notebook, keeping his eyes on it and away from her. “Um … did Ron or Miriam show any signs of sudden wealth or money concerns in the weeks before Ron’s death?”
    “No.”
    “Were they stressed out or otherwise behaving strangely?”
    “No.”
    “Had they expressed any negative feelings about Energene?”
    “No.”
    “Had they made any comments or statements that might lead you to believe they were planning on leaving town anytime soon?”
    “No.”
    “Did their marriage seem in any way troubled?”
    “No.” Her eye twitched and started to water. “They were both