Ghost in the Wind by E.J. Copperman

have been trying to hurt herself with a known allergen that would close her throat.”
    That didn’t sound like information Phyllis would be anxious for me to hear. I had to dig deeper. Going back to the
Chronicle
office without new information would be admitting incompetence, and while I’m usually more than willing to do that, seeing Phyllis be smug (and
still
not tell me what I wanted to know!) would be too much.
    â€œShe knew she was allergic to soy,” I told McElone. “She wouldn’t have put it on her food.”
    She shrugged. “People make mistakes.”
    â€œNot like that. Not when they know they could die.”
    McElone raised an eyebrow. “Maybe she wanted to,” she said.
    â€œOh, come on. Suicide by veggie lo mein?”
    â€œI did the due diligence,” she said with a little force. “There was no reason to think anybody did her in.
Murder
by veggie lo mein?”
    Touché. “So was it ruled a suicide?”
    She shook her head. “Not officially. The evidence wasn’t conclusive. Could have been on purpose, could have beenan accident. Either way, she died from the allergic reaction.”
    Time to change tactics. “Where did she die?” I asked.
    â€œIn her apartment, over on Pier Avenue. The door was unlocked,” McElone answered. “The police got a call about loud music playing over and over for two days. Apparently she had a record on—regular vinyl, an LP—on an old turntable that could repeat it, so it was playing the same side endlessly.”
    â€œWhat record?” I asked.
    â€œSomething called
Enemy of the Mind
,” McElone said, scrolling down. “By—well, what do you know!”
    â€œThe Jingles,” I said. It was not a question.
    â€œWell, that’s not so unusual,” McElone suggested. “You said her dad was in this band, after all. She was just kicking back with some Chinese takeout, right?”
    â€œHow about the door being unlocked? Isn’t that weird?”
    McElone cocked an eyebrow. “Do you lock your front door when you’re in the house?”
    â€œLook, if you’re going to be logical about it I don’t see how we’re going to get anywhere with this,” I replied. “Vance says his daughter wouldn’t use soy sauce, and it makes sense to me. He says somebody killed her and he wants to know why.”
    The lieutenant stared at her screen. “Says here Vance McTiernan died eight years ago,” she said.
    â€œAnd?”
    McElone closed her eyes tightly. “I’m in no position to tell you that’s crazy,” she admitted. “But I can’t go to my captain and tell him I want to reopen a death by natural causes because the victim’s dead father says his little girl wouldn’t do such a thing. Can’t you ask the girl herself? Since she’s . . . gone?”
    I shook my head. “It appears she didn’t become a ghost.”
    McElone scowled. “That’s inconvenient,” she said.
    â€œDo you have anything in there about a boyfriend?” I asked. “Bandmates? She was in a band.”
    The lieutenant’s mouth twitched a bit, and as she punched keys she mumbled something about how she believed herself to be mentally ill for even bothering. But she did, and after a few moments her mouth twitched again.
    â€œShe was in a band. Something called Once Again. Three other members: Samantha Fine, a drummer, William Mastrovy, the bass player and lead singer, and a guy named T.B. Condon, guitars. The only one with a record was Mastrovy.”
    That was interesting. “A record?” I said.
    â€œWell, he’s not exactly squeaky clean but there’s nothing here to indicate a history of violence,” she said. “Some dealing, just weed. Nothing huge. An outstanding warrant for his arrest nobody is bothering to enforce because the paperwork would be more trouble than he