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flashing those dumbass hand signals”—he held up his right hand and contorted the fingers into various configurations—“pow-pow!”
    Mr. Sensitivity. “I suppose you want me to show these around, find out if anyone remembers seeing Celio yesterday?” It wasn’t much of a guess on my part—Helland wouldn’t be here showering me with information about the victim if he didn’t want help with something.
    “Exactly.” Helland smiled. “You were a cop—you know the drill.”
    “Funny how you remember I was a cop when you need me for something,” I said drily.
    “Military cops aren’t real cops,” Woskowicz put in. “Standing at a gate saluting generals is about all they’re good for. Officer Ferris, here, though—she’s a hero.” He put a sneer into the word. “Got the medal to prove it. That and a fiver’ll buy her a cup of coffee.” He laughed.
    I was furious, but Woskowicz would delight in any rebuttal I made, and I refused to give him the satisfaction. I didn’t know how he’d found out about my medal—earned in the action that cost me my knee—because I sure as hell hadn’t told him. Helland looked at me with new interest, but I cut him off before he could ask for details. “I’ll spread these around today and get back to you if I learn anything concrete.”
    “Thanks.” Helland walked with me to the door, his long legs covering the distance in two strides. Once the door swung shut behind us, he said, “Sorry about that.”
    I gave him a level look. “Why? You’re not responsible for Woskowicz’s stupidities.” I got on the Segway, placed the photos of Celio Arriaga in the foot well, and took off.
    Figuring I deserved a break, and needing time to recover my temper before interacting with any of the mall’s customers, I headed to Merlin’s Cave, which sold an assortment of magic tricks and magician’s paraphernalia, New Agey crystals and fantasy figurines, and books on everything from alien visitations to feng shui. My friend Kyra Valentine was managing the shop for a year while her aunt Harmony, the shop’s owner, did a sabbatical in Tibet. The store smelled faintly of sandalwood when I entered, and water burbled in a small, countertop fountain. Kyra, six feet tall with smooth dark skin and curly hair that fell to midback, was draping a black cape around a mannequin’s shoulders.
    “Finally!” Kyra exclaimed when she caught sight of me. She let go of the cape, which slithered to the floor. “Damn.”
    “Finally what?”
    “You’ve finally showed up to tell me about the body. I heard it was riddled with bullets, a gang execution.” Her eyes were alight with interest.
    I sighed, not too surprised by this evidence of how rumors got exaggerated until they bore only a slight resemblance to the truth. “It might’ve been a gang thing, or it might not. As far as I know, he was only shot once.”
    “I guess once is enough.” Kyra stooped to retrieve the cape.
    “Huh?”
    “Don’t you remember that old Jacqueline Susann book, Once Is Not Enough ? Hold this.”
    I obediently clamped the cape to the mannequin’s shoulder while Kyra secured it with pins. “There.” She stood back to survey the effect. “So, is Detective Helland on the case?” She gave me a sly look.
    “Yes.” Before she could say anything cutesy about how attractive Helland was—if you liked the icy Nordic type—or how long it’d been since I’d been on a date, I shoved one of the flyers at her. “He wants me to pass these around.”
    “Is this him?” She studied the photo of Celio Arriaga. “The dead guy?”
    “Um-hm. Seen him around?”
    She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Good-looking kid.”
    Not anymore. There’s something about death that steals the beauty from even the most classical features and flawless skin. Maybe it’s the lack of vitality. “I saw him yesterday.”
    “Here?”
    I nodded. “He was with another guy about his age and a slightly younger girl. I kept an eye on