Free No Neighborhood for Old Women (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) by Judy Alter Page A

get into police business tonight?”
    “Okay, sorry, I was just curious.”
    “We don’t have a description of the homeless person, no idea whose sleeping bag it was, so that’s a dead end.”
    I changed the topic because all I could think of to say would have made it worse. It seemed to me they’d just discard the homeless person—yes, I agreed it was probably a man, but maybe not—and focus on other suspects, when they might be overlooking the solution.
    We ate Italian cream cake for dessert—well, it wasn’t so bad, because we split one piece—and then we were in the car, headed home. “Want to see my place?” Mike asked. “It’s not far, and it’s only nine-thirty. I can still have Cinderella home by eleven.”
    “I’d love to,” I said.

Chapter Five

    Mike lived in a condo, a newish one, probably filled with people our age, married and single. His two-story unit was decorated with spare, modern taste and a tendency toward southwestern decor—who would have guessed? I was glad I’d worn my turquoise jewelry.
    “A final glass of wine?” he asked.
    I nodded.
    “Follow me into the kitchen. You want to stick with white wine?”
    “Yes, please.”
    From the kitchen, it appeared that he liked to cook, and I thought I should ask him to cook more at my house—or bring the girls here for supper. Granite counters were lined with small appliances—a food processor, a coffee grinder, a state-of-the-art coffee maker, an electric juicer. There was an Aga stove, larger than the one in my new house, but it looked less used.
    “I inherited that stove,” he said when he saw me glancing at it. “I bought this place only a year after it was built, but the guy who had it was a gourmet cook—or at least that’s what he told me.”
    He poured two glasses, and then asked if I’d like to see the rest of the place, and of course I said yes. Much of it was what you’d expect from a mid-thirties bachelor—Nordic track in the bedroom, fairly bare walls, and so on. I looked for pictures of old girlfriends but saw only a framed photo of his parents—or at least I assumed that’s who they were. Mike rarely talked about family, and I didn’t ask, though I knew his dad wanted him to be a lawyer.
    But the surprise came in his office, the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms. In contrast to the bare neatness of the rest of the house, a roll-top desk was cluttered with papers and books. A flat-screen monitor sitting on a credenza next to the desk indicated a computer somewhere.
    “My secret hobby,” Mike said. “I’m interested in early law enforcement in Texas, and I’ve been doing some research on the first police in Fort Worth. I’m particularly interested in the men—no women back then—who died in the line of duty. There’s a huge movement in law enforcement these days to memorialize our heroes. Fort Worth might as well be part of it.”
    I stared at him. This was another whole new part of Mike Shandy that I’d never guessed. I felt self-centered because I’d been concentrating on my life and my feelings and not reaching out to him. “Mike,” I said, “I . . . I didn’t know you did this research. I mean, you’re accumulating a lot of historical information, and it doesn’t seem right to just keep it to yourself.”
    “Who knows?” He grinned a little bit. “Maybe I’ll write a book someday. I’ll just see what happens. Meantime, I’m having a lot of fun. It’s what I do when I’m not working or not with you and the girls.”
    While we finished our wine in the living room, he told me the story of Longhair Jim Courtright’s miraculous escape from marshals who’d come to arrest him. “It’s sort of a legend in local law enforcement lore. After all, he was once the marshal. And then there’s his death—shot by Luke Short, a gambler and gunman. Nobody knows who drew first.” Old West gunfights didn’t do much for me, but if Mike was interested, I’d try to be too.
    By then, we were