Ice Shear by M. P. Cooley

arms wrapped tightly around her tiny waist, face half hidden in the cascade of her golden hair. They were alone on the dance floor, saying good-bye to their guests.
    As we flipped the album closed, Phil Brouillette took it from Dave’s hands and walked back to his wife, placing the album behind them. We agreed to let them keep it, for now.
    â€œSo you haven’t talked to your daughter since then?” Dave asked.
    â€œI saw her on the street a few times,” Phil said. “She was a cashier over at the pharmacy. She thought we’d be embarrassed seeing her working for a living.” Phil shook his head. “She didn’t last. She claimed they didn’t have the money to pay her. I gave everyone a work ethic except my daughter . She fucked everything—”
    Amanda Brouillette talked over her husband. “The boy she dated in high school. His parents own the pharmacy.”
    â€œJason Byrne,” Hale said.
    â€œYes.” Amanda Brouillette pointed out the west window. “His family lives on the next property over. Good people.”
    â€œYeah, sure, Jason Byrne,” Phil said. “That kid’s got hustle—you gotta when you’re broke. I throw him a few bucks to come over, check on the place when we’re in DC.”
    â€œCongresswoman, when was the last time you saw your daughter?” Dave asked.
    â€œEight days ago, over at the capitol. Marty worked there as a security guard.” Amanda removed her glasses and put them on the desk next to her. Seconds ticked by. “ I got him the job.” The congresswoman picked at an invisible piece of lint on her skirt, waiting for her husband to react. When he didn’t she continued. “It had benefits for both of them, medical, dental, everything they needed, so if something happened. . . . That morning I was meeting the state senate majority whip for a strategy breakfast. I had to run to the meeting, so I invited them to dinner.” Again she paused, giving her husband a chance to blow. “Danielle made me promise to make my lasagna, but . . . they never showed.”
    All was silent. Phil traced the rug pattern with his toe.
    â€œThat sounds nice,” he said finally.
    â€œIt does.” Amanda reached up, and he took her hand in both of his, cradling it.
    Dave flipped back and forth between pages of his notebook, letting the Brouillettes collect themselves. Finally he said, “So do the two of you have any enemies? Any threats come in?”
    The congresswoman let go of her husband’s hand, reached behind her, and grabbed a stack of papers. She assumed that her daughter’s death was about her, which, I realized, it very well might be. “I had Gloria pull together the kook list for you. These people are more than concerned constituents. Agent Bascom, is the FBI aware of any viable threats?”
    Hale shook his head, a sharp no. “But we are going over additional intelligence.”
    â€œAs for my enemies,” Phillip Brouillette said, “I’m really goddamned rich. Someone always wants to kill me. I’ll call our head of HR, see if we have any pissed-off ex-employees. The crazy environmentalist groups have lain off us since we got out of the paper production business.”
    â€œAnd your daughter?” I asked. “Any enemies?”
    â€œOh, no,” Amanda said. “In high school there were always girls with grudges—they were either best friends or mortal enemies.” She dropped her voice, as if sharing a secret. “Danielle was a beautiful girl, you know. But honestly, she was a little young to have provoked serious enemies.”
    â€œExcept she’s dead,” Phil said. He pointed his finger at Dave and me. “Thanks to that husband of hers. Why aren’t you interviewing him?”
    â€œWe did,” Dave said.
    â€œYes, sir,” Hale said before I could back up Dave. “He’s a person of