Free Kind of Blue by Miles Corwin

Relovich’s hands. “No defensive wounds at all. An ex-cop like him would have been fighting to his last breath. Doesn’t make sense.”
    “I agree.”
    “So what’s the cause of death. Gunshot or strangulation?”
    With tweezers, Gupta lifted Relovich’s lips and studied the gums. He then examined the tissue inside the eyelids, bent over, and peered into his eyes. “No sign of petechiae at all. Which is also very curious. If someone’s been strangled, you’ll see those distinctive red specks inside the mouth or eyes.”
    “What do you think?” I asked.
    “You, Ash Levine, are the homicide detective, not me.”
    “Hard to figure,” I said, adjusting my mask. “Maybe our killer fires the shot, ransacks the house, and right before he’s about to split—even though Relovich was dead—our shooter wants to make sure, to give him a coup de grace. But he doesn’t want to risk another shot and tip off the neighbors. So he strangles him.”
    “You should have been a doctor.”
    I laughed. “You sound like my mother.”
    Gupta dropped his scalpel on the counter. “Indian mothers are the same as your Jewish mothers. My mother was so proud when I became a doctor. But when I chose to become a pathologist, she wanted to cry. She wants me to have a nice office in Artesia, so all her friends can make appointments with me and see how important I am. Now she’s embarrassed to tell them where I work. She thinks I’m crazy.”
    “Tell me about it,” I said.
    “Any other ideas why your perpetrator wished to strangle this gentleman after he was already dead?”
    I shrugged. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”
    I changed my clothes at home, hopped into my Saturn, drove across town, and pulled up in front of my mother’s duplex. Before I could ring the bell, my nephew, Ariel, a skinny, wide-eyed seven-year-old wearing a
Sponge Bob
T-shirt, opened the door and jumped into my arms.
    “Where we going today, Uncle Ash?”
    “It’s a surprise. Get your jacket and we’re off.”
    As Ariel ran back into the duplex, my mom emerged from the kitchen. “Had breakfast?” she asked.
    I nodded.
    “You want an early lunch?”
    “Not hungry. Just came from an autopsy.”
    “That’s disgusting.”
    “It’s part of the job.”
    “Don’t get me started on that. Anyway, Ariel hasn’t eaten anything all morning. He was too excited about seeing you.”
    She shook her head, looking somber. “He can’t go the entire day without food.”
    I rolled my eyes. “You don’t think I’ll be able to find a restaurant in the entire city of Los Angeles that’s open on Sunday?”
    She limply held out her palms. “I just don’t want him—or you—eating
chozzerai
all day.”
    “Don’t worry about it, Mom.” I then whispered, “When’s Marty getting out of rehab?”
    “A few more weeks.”
    “Any chance that marriage can be saved?”
    She shook her head glumly. “I hope so. It’s been very hard for Ariel. So these Sundays with you are very important to him.” She handed me a booster seat and patted his cheek. “You’re a good boy.”
    Ariel slammed the front door of the duplex and ran down the pathway to the car. I opened the back door, dropped the booster seat inside, and strapped him in.
    “Aren’t you forgetting something?” my mother said, leaning through the back window.
    He kissed her.
    “Okay,
einekl
,” she said. “Don’t give your Uncle Asher any trouble.”
    As I drove down the Harbor Freeway, Ariel said. “
Now
can you tell me where we’re going?”
    “San Pedro. We’re taking a boat ride in the harbor. I’ve just been down there for work and thought about you. Thought you’d like seeing all those big ships.”
    “Grandma told me you’re a policeman again.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Why are you a policeman?”
    “Because I want to help people.”
    “Mama said it’s because you didn’t try in school, and that’s what happens to boys who don’t try in school, because they can’t