“You live in a place like this, don’t you?” Nick asked, unlocking Larry Rupley’s door while Weber surveyed the street.
“I live in a townhouse, if that’s what you’re trying to get at.”
“I was going more for soulless bachelor pad with no future.”
“Just because you got yourself a girlfriend doesn’t put you in a better position than me.”
“That’s exactly what it means. I’m living with a woman. I’m better than you are.”
“Why are we here?” Weber asked, glancing around the living room.
It wasn’t messy because Larry didn’t own enough to mess up.
Nick led the way into the dining area, yanking a pair of gloves out of his back pocket. “Wait for it,” he insisted as he pawed through Larry’s mail. The first two packages were from Amazon. The third one was the right size and shape, and the return address said it was from a business called Shape Up.
“This,” he said, holding the box up triumphantly.
“A box. Congratulations, Santiago. You just broke the case wide open.”
“It’s a glitter bomb, jackass. At least according to my hot, psychic girlfriend.”
Now he had the detective’s interest. “You’re saying your missing person is tied to my two dead bodies?”
“Only one way to find out,” Nick said, nodding at the box.
“Very funny, glitter boy. I’ll have a uniform take it into the lab.” Weber ducked into the living room, already dialing his phone.
He returned minutes later. “This better be a glitter bomb. What the hell am I going to put in my report? My ex-partner called with information gleaned from his psychic girlfriend?”
“And her scary grandma,” Nick added. “Who drew this when I asked her where the body is.”
“Remember the good old days when criminals were too stupid to cover their tracks? I can’t believe it’s come to consulting psychics to solve murders,” Weber complained. “How scary is this grandma, by the way?”
“I keep expecting wings to sprout from between her shoulder blades so she can flap around the room biting people.”
“Lemme see this,” Weber said, taking the paper from Nick. He cocked his head. “Looks architectural.”
“Holy shit.” Nick snatched it back and gave it another look. “I know where our dead body is.”
* * *
They cruisedpast the property on Front Street first. A rusty iron gate blocked the driveway.
“Pull in at my place, and we’ll walk over,” Nick instructed.
“No, really, PI Obvious? I was planning on ramming the gate and kicking in the front door,” Weber said, heavy on the sarcasm.
“Who pissed in your Marshmallow Munchies?” Nick asked.
“Excuse me if I care about getting justice for the victims and their families.”
“How much justice are you going to get for three certified assholes?”
Weber slid into the Bogdanovich mansion parking lot, and they got out. Almost half an acre of thigh-high weeds and piles of dog shit lay between them and the Tudor-style estate.
Huge oak trees dotted what had once been a lawn. There was a detached three-car garage that matched the same buttery yellow and brown exterior of the main house.
They were halfway to the house, the dead grass and weeds crispy underfoot, when someone called his name.
