Free You Know Who Killed Me by Loren D. Estleman

with a rusty wire running through it came on the line.
    I said I was an independent investigator working with the sheriff’s department on the Donald Gates case, and asked if it was possible for someone monitoring the traffic lights to work from home. That would be one explanation why Yuri Yako hadn’t shown up on security cameras leaving the building.
    â€œNot possible,” said the woman. “The firewalls would prevent access except through the mainframe itself, and the passwords change by the week.”
    â€œThanks. It was just a hunch.” If Yako had crooked the system to give himself an alibi, he would have had to be photographed coming into the building for his shift; Henty would have checked that. I started to hang up.
    â€œBy the way, our monitor didn’t come to work today. Is he being detained?”
    I tightened my grip on the handset. “Did you try Yako at home?”
    â€œWe don’t need an independent investigator to suggest that, Mr. Walker. We rang him several times, at home and on his cell. He never picked up, and our messages haven’t been returned. Since he was Gates’s replacement, we didn’t have time to train anyone to take his place, so we had to transfer a programmer from headquarters. Traffic lights aren’t his specialty, so we’ve had yellow flashers going all day. It’s a mess. If you take my advice, you’ll stay away from downtown.”
    â€œI’m thinking you don’t want that to get back to the chamber of commerce.”
    â€œI really don’t care. I’ve given notice. Last year, my husband was murdered for his wallet. The year before that, my son lost an eye trying to keep his running shoes. Those were bad neighborhoods. When that element infiltrates the place where I work, I’m out of here.”
    While she was talking I flipped open the sheriff’s department reports, made sure I had Yako’s personal contact numbers, and thanked her. She hung up in the middle of it.
    The Ukrainian-Russian didn’t answer his landline or cell. I disconnected from the answering devices and got back into my winter gear. I was going to have to brave those flashers after all.
    *   *   *
    He had an apartment just off the zigzag main drag in a building intended for student housing, eight stories of what looked like graphite, with vacancy signs in most of the windows. Some financial affairs manager at the county community college had tried to fix a sluggish economy with a steep hike in tuition, and now he was wearing a paper hat in a chain restaurant in Port Huron. The apartments were new, as was most of the construction in the neighborhood, thanks to an impromptu demolition by a fleet of trucks a few years back. I couldn’t claim noninvolvement in that. I cranked a fistful of quarters into a meter that still bore the name of a neighboring city embossed on the steel: The old administration had snapped them up after every other place in the area ripped them out to encourage business downtown. No one keeps track of loose change when the FBI is patting down half the elected officials for tens of thousands.
    I buzzed the manager’s apartment, showed my ID, and gave him my spiel. He scratched his scalp under a lifelike hairpiece and got his passkey. We rode up in an elevator that smelled of fresh paint and made as much noise as a kitten playing with a piece of string.
    Yako’s name occupied a black rectangular insert next to a door with 4A on it in brushed brass. The manager knocked, waited, knocked again. “Mr. Yako?”
    No sound came from inside. He knocked a third time, said “Mr. Yako?” again. When he raised his fist for another cycle, I closed a hand on it. When I gave it back he used the passkey. He started to go in. I shouldered him aside, drawing the Chief’s Special from the holster under my coattail. I went in.
    I didn’t do the two-handed thing you see on TV; my old