Free Guilty as Cinnamon by Leslie Budewitz Page B

to Sandra, then scurried out the front door.
    â€œWe’ll let you get back to business,” Spencer said, her voice warm. “Your cooperation means a lot.”
    It meant staying late while Reed downloaded the info off our computer system, checking it, printing it, worrying over it. It might mean helping find Tamara’s killer. And it might mean putting a man who’d been a loyal customer, if not a loyal friend, away for a long time.
    Oh, Alex. Why can you never use your chefly discipline in the rest of your life?
    â€œDon’t forget,” Tracy said, one hand smoothing the front of his jacket, tiny crumbs falling to the floor. “All the records, on time. Or there will be consequences.”
    Good cop, bad cop. The cliché lives.
    My staff fell in beside me, like a row of suspects in a lineup, as we watched them leave.
    â€œThe world, she be a strange place,” Sandra said.
    â€œThanks for running interference with the chocolatier. What did you tell her?”
    â€œThe truth. Sort of.” She paused. I waited. “I told her the police regularly consult you on murder investigations.”
    That would set Market tongues wagging.

Eight

    Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.
    â€”Satchel Paige, Hall of Fame pitcher
    Reed and I worked well after closing until I sent him home, his shaggy-on-purpose black hair tugged and tousled. More tedious than difficult, compiling the records required much finger twisting, cross-referencing, and screen shifting that left us both cramped and bleary-eyed.
    A few restaurants keep late hours, but the Market was largely deserted when Arf and I emerged at half past seven. I needed food, and we both needed to stretch our legs, so we ambled down to the waterfront and Ivar’s Fish Bar at Pier 54.
    â€œFish and chips,” I told the man behind the counter.
    I zipped up my jacket and tried not to worry. But I’d walked down here to think, and sometimes the line blurs.
    Even on a coolish, dampish Thursday night in April, the waterfront hummed. Traffic sped by on Alaskan Way. Ferries chugged across the Sound—one blew its horn to signal “incoming,” and a few minutes later, a dozen cars clanged off Pier 52 and disappeared into the city.
    A pride of teenage boys leaned over the rail between Ivar’sand the ferry terminal, ogling the
Leschi
, the city’s newest and shiniest fireboat. Good to see kids still dream of being firefighters and not just computer programmers. Although fire departments need IT whizzes, and computers catch fire, so there may be some crossover.
    I carried my dinner to a table overlooking the water, the harbor with its giant orange cranes to the south. Arf sat beside me expectantly. “Good boy. Two chips. Here’s the first.” He took the potato in his mouth, then lowered himself as if to savor the treat, though I knew it was already sliding down his gullet.
    I hadn’t had a dog since kidhood, but the adjustment had been fairly easy. Sam, his former owner, had bounced between SROs—single room occupancy units—shelters, and the streets. Arf had been a faithful companion, always alert and on guard, but he’d relaxed a few notches since joining me in loft living.
    While Sam had always kept him clean and well-groomed, regular meals of good-quality food had turned him from scrawny to healthy, and I had to keep track of the treats my Market neighbors offered. And limit the fries.
    Sam had gone back to Memphis, and his sister had sent a Christmas package stuffed with jars of BBQ sauces, tins of hot spice rubs, and other Tennessee treats. Her card said he’d settled in well, the voices quieter lately, but that every time she suggested he consider another dog, Sam said there weren’t no other dog for him.
    I understood.
    Somewhere in the depths of my tote, my phone chirped. I let it go to voice mail, enjoying the salt air on my cheeks and the hot cod melting in my