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so easy she probably hit herself over the head and fell with her legs wide open.’
    ‘Miiiaaaoooowww www!  It sounds like somebody’s jealous.’
    ‘Of P sycho-Bitch?  You’re joking, right?  When God was distributing hormones and insecurity he gave her a triple shot.  She’s more unstable than nitroglycerine.  Calm one minute, a quick shake and she explodes.  Don’t be under any illusions, Tadhg.  You try and hit me over the head and drag me in here and I’ll cut off your balls and make you wear them as earrings.’
    Nice.  Who’d have guessed that Annabelle Levy, Master Choc olatier, was a raving feminist?  If she ever deigned anyone a first date it would probably start with the poor bastard signing a contract of acceptable conduct.  Given that neither Jason nor I are paragons of good virtue and political correctness, heaven knows why she hangs out with us.  I’d like to think we’re the best of bad bunch, but I suspect it is inertia, habit and we’re easy to handle. 
    Plus Jason is her number one custo mer.  He eats enough chocolate to keep the Easter Bunny working overtime.
    ‘Tadhg?   Backbone.’
    At least the clothes are not still wrapped round a body stiff with rigor mortis.  I step forward and shove my hands into the bin, lifting the shirt and a light grey suit free and dumping them on the floor, trying to avoid contact with my favorite t-shirt.  It’s faded green, adorned with the slogan: ‘If you’re uncertain whether you have any Irish in you, I can guarantee it.’
    It’s yet to lead to a date.  Or even a sniff of a date.   
    Which is too bad, as I have a lot of Irish with which to satisfy demand.
    In my dreams.
    Perhaps not even there.  Less there be any confusion, Marino died pure Italian.
    The point is: I really would like to avoid having to burn the shirt along with the others.
    ‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ Anna says sarcastically.
    At the bottom of the bin I can see a couple of other items and the heel of a shoe.  Just as I reach down to lift them free a loud male voice booms, ‘Hello,’ from the hallway.
    I have a damn good go at trying to leap out of my skin.
    ‘Hello?  Is anybody home?’
    ‘Shit,’ I whisper harshly, bending down to grab the clothes.
    Annabelle flips up the lid with her foot and I shove them down, the legs of the suit flopping down over the rim.
    ‘Hello?’
    I stuff the stray trouser legs into the bin.
    ‘Who is it?’ Annabelle says, shuffling towards the backdoor.
    ‘Anna!’ I hiss. 
    Is she mad?  What if it’s whoever killed Marino?   We should have just snuck silently into the garden and headed for the Canadian border.
    ‘It’s the police, ma ’am.’
    ‘Shirt,’ Anna hisses at me.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Shirt!’ She’s pointing at my chest.
    I glance down.  It’s covered in rust colored stains.
    ‘What the ...’
    ‘Get it off,’ she instruct s.   
    I whip the shirt off, knocking the cap to the floor, just as Sergeant Joe Gerlach pushes open the door with his toe, both hands clasped round a pistol.  I’ve no idea what kind.  A big one. 
    Fuck.  
    I glance down at the bin.
    He follows my gaze.
    My heart attempts to jump out of my mouth.  I reach down and pick up the cap, hoping to divert his attention.
    I’ve known Joe Gerlach since I moved back to Carrick Springs five years ago, a few weeks after my parents perished on a mountain road fifty miles out of Denver.  He’s tall, broad and blond and doubles up as the police spokesperson.  He’s a teddy bear until he has a few drinks, then he mutates into a grizzly.
    I feel completely ridiculous standing bare-chested, my t-shirt wrapped round my bloodstained arms.
    Annabelle has twisted her skirt out of shape.
    ‘You’ve had a break-in, ’ Gerlach states, lowering the pistol.  ‘A neighbor reported the broken pane in the door.’
    ‘We were just tidying up,’ Anna says.  ‘Nothing seems to have been taken, so it didn’t seem worth