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were by this morning, looking for you,” Walter said. “I didn’t know then they were cops, since they weren’t in uniform.”
    The older detective returned his wallet to his pocket. He had a ruddy complexion and looked around her age, in his early fifties. “We’d like to ask you a few questions. Can we step inside?”
    â€œI told them you’d only lived here a month,” Walter said. “And didn’t know nothing about the murder when I talked to you yesterday.”
    â€œMy neighbor’s right. I first heard about it on the news.”
    â€œYou heard it from me,” Walter said.
    â€œYou are an acquaintance of Callie Moss?” the tall man said. He wasn’t much older than thirty, with a fashionable stubble beard and shaved head. What did he say his name was?
    She glanced at Walter, who looked thrilled by her connection to the case. “Callie and I are friends,” she said. “We were friends, I mean.”
    â€œWhen did you last see her?” the young detective said.
    â€œMarch.”
    â€œHave you spoken since then?”
    â€œShe left a phone message this week. I didn’t return it, unfortunately.”
    Walter squeezed between the larger men. The dark sedan parked behind his pickup must belong to them. They wore suits and drove an unmarked car. The older one’s gut bulged above his belt. Weren’t policemen required to keep in shape? How did she know they weren’t frauds trying to insinuate their way into her house for a sinister reason?
    â€œCan I see those badges again?” she said.
    The young one brushed back his jacket to get his ID , revealing a gun holstered in his belt.
    She scrutinized Detective Michael Vincelli’s identification. The Calgary Police Services badge looked authentic. His photo showed a man in his late twenties with a drooping mustache. Bushy black hair covered his forehead and ears. She looked up from the picture to the bald head and jaw stubble.
    â€œI need to get a new mug shot,” Vincelli said. His badge stated his height was six-foot-four.
    Walter craned for a look. She handed the ID back to Vincelli. Detective Novak’s photo looked more or less like him: pencil mustache, chubby cheeks, thinning blond hair back-combed to hide a balding crown. Height five-foot-nine. She should have expected the homicide unit to show up. A first step would be to check telephone records. Callie’s message on her answering machine would have turned up as a call sent and received.
    Walter tried to follow them through her gate. Vincelli blocked his entry. Even Walter wouldn’t mess with a man that size. She continued up the sidewalk with Novak, who walked with a limp. Had he been injured while apprehending a criminal?
    â€œI doubt I can offer any useful information,” she said. “I haven’t talked to Callie in months. I’m kicking myself for not returning her message. I had two full days to do it.”
    Vincelli caught up with them at the porch. “What about her calls yesterday morning?”
    She halted her key in the lock. “What calls?”
    â€œShe placed two of them to this number,” Vincelli said. “Around 6:40 AM .”
    â€œNo, she didn’t.” Paula pushed open the door. “When I got home from work, I checked my messages. There were no new ones from her.”
    Two pairs of eyes, one brown, one blue, stared at her.
    Novak spoke. “Was someone else present in the house, to take the calls?”
    â€œNo.” She mentally ran through the answering machine messages: Callie’s Monday call, Gary’s and Hayden’s new ones. Between them, some blanks. “I erased a couple I assumed were from telemarketers.”
    Or had Callie phoned and hung up after the machine connected? Vincelli had said the calls were placed around 6:40 AM . Callie’s body was found at seven o’clock. The murder site was at least a half hour jog