Free Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel by Steve Martini Page A

he will allow us to visit the crime scene.
    Coward that I am, I send a text message to Joselyn telling her that her dinner with Sofia is off, canceled, that something has come up and that I will explain later. I tell her I am tied up outside the office all afternoon, unavailable. “See you at home later this evening. Love you!” I sign off. I dread the moment.
    Joselyn isn’t likely to hear about Sofia’s murder over the airwaves since the police won’t release the victim’s name until they notify next of kin. That will take a while. According to our records, Sofia’s mother and father live up north, somewhere off the beaten path in the gold country near the small town of Sutter Creek. I would call them, but to what purpose? I have never met them, and the authorities have no doubt already informed them or are in the process of doing so.
    I envision it in my mind’s eye, the creeping black-and-white as it pulls up slowly to the sidewalk in front. A uniform, perhaps two of them, will get out. Then the solemn trek to the door as if marching to the meter of a funeral dirge. They may doff their hats as they ring the bell, anything to telegraph the message before they have to deliver it. I want to warn the people inside. “Don’t open it!” But they will, only to be consumed by the blast of the life-altering message. Your child is no more. Sofia is dead.
    I think to myself, What if it was Sarah? What if it was my own? I expel the thought from my brain, stamp it out before it can take root. Even in the abstract the pain is too great. Hollowed out as I am by the death of Sofia, how could I ever bear that? How can any parent?
    The detectives save Harry for last. They question him as to his whereabouts on Friday evening. It seems that Harry was having dinner and drinks until late into the night with a friend. When they press him, Harry finally admits that he was with a woman. Noland and Owen take this in stride. But you could have knocked me over with a feather. They demand to know the lady’s name. Harry tells them to jam it.
    Noland launches into him instantly: “In other words, she’s married.”
    Harry says no.
    “So then why not give us her name?”
    Harry refuses. He says he has his reasons.
    “What you’re telling us is you don’t have an alibi?” says Noland.
    “You asked me what I was doing. I’m telling you.”
    “Where did all this take place?” Noland pushes him.
    “At a restaurant in the Gaslamp Quarter. We had dinner.”
    “Maybe you can give us the name of this restaurant?”
    Harry does, and Owen writes it down.
    “Where did you go after dinner?” says Noland.
    “Her place.” As Harry says it, he glances at me sitting on the couch in his office.
    “Which is where?” Noland is standing, leaning over Harry’s desk. Owen, the other detective, sits in one of the client chairs quietly observing.
    “Up near La Jolla.” Harry is in his chair behind the desk.
    “That’s a big area. Maybe you can narrow it down with an address?” says Noland.
    “Can’t do that,” says Harry.
    Noland turns toward me and says, “You might want to advise your partner to cooperate. It’ll go a lot easier and faster. That is, if he has nothing to hide.”
    “His interview,” I tell him.
    “Fine!” He turns back to Harry. “So what’s the problem here? You tryin’ to tell us you don’t kiss and tell? The gentleman’s code? That you’re trying to protect the lady’s honor? Is that it?”
    “Something like that.”
    “That’s a luxury you can’t afford. Not in a situation like this. You say she’s not married. So what has she got to hide?” says Noland. He thinks for a moment, then turns back to me and asks, “Could it be that your partner is humping a client? That is a no-no, correct? I’m told the bar frowns on it, right?”
    He doesn’t really expect an answer and I don’t give him one. Besides, I know better. What’s beginning to bother me more is Harry’s silence. I’d expect him to