Stone Cold Crazy (Lil & Boris #4) (Lil and Boris Mysteries) by Shannon Hill Read Free Book Online

that had happened. Just about everyone knew he was married to some big tobacco money, and his daughter was engaged to big chemical money. Since he’d gone up to DC, he had a reputation as a pretty solid moderate. He’d been in the news a week or so ago for speaking in favor of some sort of Medicare reform, but someone always hollers about Medicare reform, one way or another.
    “Mind if I keep it?” I asked brightly. “You’re not supposed to stick stuff in mailboxes like that. Makes the post office upset.”
    Aida did something with her shoulders that was a not-quite-shrug. I turned my back on the pretense of calling Boris away from a potted plant, and tucked the flyer into an evidence bag. It might be a coincidence, the fact the victims and the politician in the flyer had the same last name. Or it might not. There’d been a little almost-incident up by Charlottesville a while back where someone with the same last name as a politician had some trouble at his house with people who seriously disliked that politician.
    If there’s one thing I never underestimate, it’s the blind stupid malice of the human race.
    I asked a few more routine questions. I thanked the Weeds. I picked up Boris. I sauntered to my cruiser, where I could finally, safely, express a serious profanity. The last thing I wanted was to go up against someone with a bomb fetish.
    It’s not that I’m against dissent. It’s practically built into the Constitution, when you think about the Bill of Rights and all the freedoms of speech and assembly and all. We’re supposed to dissent. The key part being, dissent peacefully . Not with explosives.
    Boris merowed and butted me in the chin. Then he rubbed his cheek against me. Clearly, he was saying, it was best to be a cat.
    “Got that right,” I told him, and went back to the office to start the investigation.

5.
    I have a white board. Two white boards. One is a calendar that tracks my rare court appearances. The other is for investigations. I finished jotting down what we knew, stepped back, heard an agonized rubber squeak, and kicked Boris’s mousey across the room. He bolted after it, and vanished behind the couch. I heard a clatter of claws, mousey, and squeaks, and Boris re-emerged covered in dust bunnies with a furry catnip chipmunk in his mouth.
    “Y’know,” I said, “we really need to clean behind the couch.”
    Punk swung his prosthesis up on his desk. “You want me to see to it before or after I bake the cookies?”
    God save me from touchy men. Which is all men, when you come down to it.
    I held onto my temper. Our department was not adjusting well to Kim Lincoln going from trusted friend and co-worker to confessed felon. It was the small stuff, like dust bunnies, and unwashed coffee cups. I shook my head at Punk, and called Aunt Marge, because some problems need solving even more than pipe bomb cases.
    She answered on the third ring. “Yes, dear?”
    I explained succinctly, “We need housekeeping help over here. Any chance you can organize some?”
    I’ve always thought Aunt Marge would have made a phenomenal dictator. “Any preferences, dear?”
    “Brevity and discretion,” I replied. “I can’t pay.”
    “I know just the person. She’ll start tomorrow.”
    Even I was taken aback. “Shouldn’t you ask her first?”
    “Nonsense!” said Aunt Marge briskly, without any trace of the faintly British accent she sometimes affects if she watches too much BBC on PBS. That was Roger’s influence. He preferred cable movie channels. “My cousin Veronica will be happy to help, and she can even make the meals for any inmates.”
    That solved another problem. “You sure?”
    “I will see to it.”
    God having spoken, I hung up the phone. I cocked an eyebrow at Punk. “Now can we get some work done?”
    He looked a little chagrined, and sat up straight. Good.
    “We’ve got no witnesses so far, no idea how many people got those flyers, and no idea if the flyer is connected to the