Free Clawed: A Gin & Tonic Mystery by L. A. Kornetsky

no reason at all.
    Then Ginny remembered the way the body had been crammed under the table, the torn clothing and bloodied hands, and shook her head. Even the most inept or corrupt TV cop would have to investigate that, even if they overlooked or ignored what was in the small studio, or—she presumed—on the computers lined up in the living room.
    “They’d have to have looked at the computers, whatever was on them. Wouldn’t they?” she asked Georgie, who was busy sniffing the base of the stop sign at the corner.
    Georgie had no opinion.
    “Some help you are, partner,” she grumbled, but gave Georgie a treat anyway. It wasn’t the dog’s fault she didn’t know enough about actual police procedure. She should learn. Except the cops she knew back in Seattle would be more likely to tell her to back off than to actually tell her anything. . . . Maybe there was a website with that kind of info? There was always a website.
    “Oh, isn’t he a beauty,” a voice said, and Ginny looked up to see an older woman walking down the street, a tiny black fluff of a dog at the end of her leash. “Is that a shar-pei?”
    “Mostly,” Ginny said. “And she’s good with little dogs, don’t worry,” even as the fluff spotted Georgie and strained at the leash, wanting to go meet the newcomer. Georgie looked at the strange dog and wuffed once, then turned her head to look at Ginny, asking if this was all right.
    “Play, Georgie,” she said, and let the leash go slack enough that Georgie had room to move forward and sniff noses, then butts, before the black fluff tried to put its paws on Georgie’s head, indicating it was time to play.
    “Little dogs always think they’re so fierce,” the woman said fondly. “Mika firmly believes that she’s a Great Dane.”
    “Hey, Mika,” Ginny said. “Is she a Pom?”
    “Mostly. And a little Jack Russell, I think.”
    Ginny’s eyes widened. “That must make for . . .”
    The other woman laughed. “A very energetic dog, oh yes.”
    Mika’s owner had to be in her late sixties or early seventies, and Ginny only hoped that she was up to that kind of energy at that age. “You must have to walk her a lot?”
    “Three times a day, minimum.” They paused a moment to untangle the leashes, as the dogs circled each other, sniffing noses, then tails. “I have a yard where she can run around, but it’s good for her to have the discipline of a leash, too.”
    Ginny had the suspicion that the woman had been a teacher at one point. “I know that feeling,” she said with sincerity. “Georgie’s getting full-on training, because if she decided to take off I’m pretty sure she’d take my arm with me. Not that she ever would, she’s a sweetheart, but, well, things can startle even the best dog.” It was a lousy opening, but Ginny took it anyway. “And you never know what’s going to happen these days, do you? Were you out when the cops showed up yesterday? I only heard about it after the fact. . . .” Technically true: He was dead when she got there, so that was after the fact, right?
    “Oh my, yes, such a shame.” The woman made a face, the kind you make when you talk about a tragedy that doesn’t really affect you directly: slightly too concerned, too interested. “Not that I knew the boy who lived there—he seemed to keep rather odd hours, and spent his time with much younger people than me, obviously—but you don’t ever want to think about someone dying in such an awful fashion.”
    The dogs had graduated to mock-leaping at each other, and their owners had to keep adjusting leashes while they talked, handling the reins like seasoned pros to keep them from becoming hopelessly tangled. “Signs have already gone up; we’re going to have a neighborhood watch meeting at the end of the week, with the local police in to talk about safety precautions we can take.”
    “They think it was a break-in?”
    “Oh my, dear, what else could it have been?”
    “That’s