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hear about that?”
    Helmut says, “Think of the PR nightmare. Crumbling rustbelt city, and then mass suicides.”
    “Definitely didn’t make it into the
Midcity Eagle
,” Simon says. “The big jump, they called it on the blogs. Some of those sleepwalkers were tying themselves to their beds toward the end, right? So they couldn’t move without waking up. But other sleepwalkers came and untied them, and then they all threw themselves off. Like lemmings. Fifteen of them. It was the clincher on Ez’s guilt, because it looked retaliatory.”
    Helmut says, “They say some of the bodies are still down there in the tanglelands.”
    “Wait,” I say. “If I was imprisoned and had command over a group of people, the last thing I’d do is makethem kill themselves. I mean, at the very least, they could bring me stuff.”
    “Piping-hot pizza pies,” Simon says.
    “What if it
was
her boyfriend?” I ask.
    Helmut raises his swizzle stick. “Then why did the killings stop when she got sealed up?”
    Simon shrugs. “Smart boyfriend?”
    “One never really knows for sure on cases like these,” Helmut says. “Most juries would’ve convicted on less than that, though. All those people dead—”
    “Maybe the acquaintances would talk now,” Simon says, “especially to somebody who’s not the cops. I’ll have a look into it. If there was a boyfriend threatening them, that might be over now.”
    “You would look into it for me?” I ask. Simon is an excellent investigator.
    Helmut eyes Simon. “Aren’t you the humanitarian.”
    Simon shrugs. “I didn’t know she was so hot.”
    “I don’t know what I’ll do if she’s innocent,” I say.
    “You would make Otto free her,” Simon says.
    I nod. “Of course.” I don’t tell them about the complication that she’ll have nightly control over Packard and me.
    Helmut raises his swizzle stick again. “Justine, I need you on board with this bodyguard plan. You have the most contact with Packard.”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “Yes, you do,” they say in unison.
    “You just saw him,” Helmut says.
    “He had to deliver some gloves to me,” I explain.
    Helmut raises an eyebrow. “And he couldn’t have sent them with one of his people?”
    I don’t answer. I’m thinking about those pretty gloves, clearly chosen to match that specific dress of mine. So thoughtful. Did he pick them out himself?
    Helmut snorts. “And what was he wearing?”
    “A dinner jacket,” I say, “but just to blend in with the crowd.”
    “And did you share any food or beverage—”
    “It wasn’t a date.”
    Simon tips his glass into his mouth and chews ice loudly.
    “It wasn’t a date. And yes, Helmut, I’m on board with your plan.”

Chapter

Three
    T HE E L B URRO M EXICAN RESTAURANT occupies the ground floor of a brick building that’s squeezed between a little grocery and a pawnshop on the southwestern edge of town.
    I pull the door open and step inside the spicy warmth. Blocky wooden furniture and stained-glass windows of sylvan forest scenes say
German restaurant
, but colorful tapestries and sombreros say
not anymore.
Otto and I have dined here every Monday for four weeks now; it’s our special secret rendezvous spot for our do-over. Not only is the food great, but the place is full of hidden nooks and cubbies. We like to be incognito when we go out. It’s as much for me as it is for him.
    I spot Otto way back, nose in a book. He’s partly obscured by a riot of plants, as well as being in disguise, which means he’s taken off his beret and put on blue-tinted wire-rimmed aviator glasses. Technically, it’s not much of a change, but it’s all he needs. His beret is so much his trademark that people don’t recognize him without it.
    Sometimes he jokes that if he took off his beret and walked around the eighth floor of the government building, his own staffers would throw him out. Most people think he wears the beret as a fashion statement, or to cover a bald head. The