Final Edit by Robert A Carter Page A

did I feel? I answered Margo’s first question first.
    “There was the unmistakable odor of death in Parker’soffice when I walked in,” I said. “The odors of blood and excretions. After a visit to the morgue, and a fleeting sojourn
     at one of our recent undeclared wars, I didn’t
need
to see his body to know. How did I feel? I was shocked, certainly, and rather frightened. The murder must have taken place
     shortly before I arrived—the murderer was still there, for God’s sake… and despite reports to the contrary, I still haven’t
     got used to being around corpses.”
    “Who would want to kill Parker Foxcroft? Have you any ideas?”
    “That’s what the police wanted to know. The answer is…”
    She finished the sentence for me. “Anybody.”
    “Precisely.”
    I went home after dinner without complaint, feeling pleasantly satisfied—and not all that disappointed. After a day like this
     one, I wasn’t altogether sure that I would have been up to Margo, who at her best has more than once kept me awake and virile
     a good part of the night. And I was confident there would be other nights, somewhere along the way. And if not, well…
    Since my divorce, I have found that there are substantial rewards in the single state. For example: curling up in bed with
     the cushions plumped up, the night-light on, a snifter of Courvoisier in hand, and the manuscript Sidney had given me on my
     bedside table.
    I picked up the first few pages of the manuscript.
    Iceman.
Okay, nice title. “By Sarah Goodall.” Never heard of her, but it was probably a first effort. Where, I wondered, would the
     setting be? California? Sue Grafton had staked out the southern part of the state. Chicago? Sara Paretsky territory. Forget
     Richmond—Kay Scarpetta had central Virginiain her medical bag, thanks to Patricia D. Cornwell. It was getting hard these days to find a city that some P.I., male or
     female, hasn’t already laid claim to. There are at least two in Boston and half a dozen or more in New York City. And isn’t
     there one in San Francisco? A gay sleuth, I believe.
    I read on.
    St. Paul, Minnesota, on a cold December night is about as cheerful as the Ramsey County Morgue. Only a fool or a private investigator
     working a case, as I was, would be over on the South Side in weather like this. Even with the temperature at twelve above,
     I could still smell the stockyards. Sleet whipped against my cheeks, and stung my eyes until they watered, almost blinding
     me.
    I’m P. V. Knudsen, and I’m a licensed freelance investigator. You can call me a private cop. The “P” stands for Paula, a name
     I don’t much like, and the “V” for Violet, which I like even less. I’m thirty-five and holding. I’ve been married twice. My
     first husband ran off with my best friend, and I threw the second one out when I caught him pushing PCP in the Grove-land
     Park schoolyard. As you might expect, after two Mr. Wrongs, I don’t have a lot of faith in the male of the species. I hear
     there are birds that manage to remain monogamous, however, and maybe they’re what the whole thing is for.
    Although I was bundled up in my heaviest parka, the wind still whipped at my arms, and I could tell that the gloves I wore
     weren’t going to stave off frostbite. I slapped my right hand under my left shoulder, whereI could feel the comforting bulge of my shoulder holster. I was packing a .380 Beretta. What I like about this gun is its
     grip, which feels perfect for my hand. Also, it takes a thirteen-round staggered magazine. I like to go with a friend of mine
     on the force to the target range in Minneapolis for practice, at least once a month. At thirty yards, I can group my shots
     perfectly, right in the center of the targets. You never know when the target is going to be a baddie aiming at you.
    I wouldn’t have had the gun with me, except that I was on a tail, in the darkest, loneliest part of town. The case I was on
     this time was