have been trying to hurt herself with a known allergen that would close her throat.â
That didnât 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 Iâm 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.
âShe knew she was allergic to soy,â I told McElone. âShe wouldnât have put it on her food.â
She shrugged. âPeople make mistakes.â
âNot like that. Not when they know they could die.â
McElone raised an eyebrow. âMaybe she wanted to,â she said.
âOh, come on. Suicide by veggie lo mein?â
âI did the due diligence,â she said with a little force. âThere was no reason to think anybody did her in.
Murder
by veggie lo mein?â
Touché. âSo was it ruled a suicide?â
She shook her head. âNot officially. The evidence wasnât conclusive. Could have been on purpose, could have beenan accident. Either way, she died from the allergic reaction.â
Time to change tactics. âWhere did she die?â I asked.
âIn her apartment, over on Pier Avenue. The door was unlocked,â McElone answered. âThe police got a call about loud music playing over and over for two days. Apparently she had a record onâregular vinyl, an LPâon an old turntable that could repeat it, so it was playing the same side endlessly.â
âWhat record?â I asked.
âSomething called
Enemy of the Mind
,â McElone said, scrolling down. âByâwell, what do you know!â
âThe Jingles,â I said. It was not a question.
âWell, thatâs not so unusual,â McElone suggested. âYou said her dad was in this band, after all. She was just kicking back with some Chinese takeout, right?â
âHow about the door being unlocked? Isnât that weird?â
McElone cocked an eyebrow. âDo you lock your front door when youâre in the house?â
âLook, if youâre going to be logical about it I donât see how weâre going to get anywhere with this,â I replied. âVance says his daughter wouldnât use soy sauce, and it makes sense to me. He says somebody killed her and he wants to know why.â
The lieutenant stared at her screen. âSays here Vance McTiernan died eight years ago,â she said.
âAnd?â
McElone closed her eyes tightly. âIâm in no position to tell you thatâs crazy,â she admitted. âBut I canât go to my captain and tell him I want to reopen a death by natural causes because the victimâs dead father says his little girl wouldnât do such a thing. Canât you ask the girl herself? Since sheâs . . . gone?â
I shook my head. âIt appears she didnât become a ghost.â
McElone scowled. âThatâs inconvenient,â she said.
âDo you have anything in there about a boyfriend?â I asked. âBandmates? She was in a band.â
The lieutenantâs 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.
âShe 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.â
That was interesting. âA record?â I said.
âWell, heâs not exactly squeaky clean but thereâs nothing here to indicate a history of violence,â she said. âSome 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
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley