Loose Screws by Karen Templeton

regularly making my life a living hell. Next thing I know, Nick is hauling me off to one side, encouraging me to take a sip of the latte. I nearly gag on it, but I manage. It’s at this point that I notice the guy who owns the brownstone next door talking to one of the cops. He doesn’t look so good.
    Nick follows my gaze, turns back to me. “You know that guy?”
    â€œNathan Caruso. Lives next door.”
    â€œHe positively ID’d the body,” Nick says softly. My eyes shoot to his, dread making my stomach burn.
    â€œWho—?”
    â€œBrice Fanning. Your boss, I take it?”
    â€œShit!”
    Nick’s expression goes a little funny, which I guess isn’t too surprising, considering my reaction.
    Oh, God. I am a horrible, horrible person. A man is dead, most likely not from natural causes, and all I can think is, “This is so freaking unfair!” Okay, so Brice was a mean, petty little man and I couldn’t stand being in the same room with him for more than five minutes—which made weekly meetings a bit problematic—but he was still a human being and thus deserves some respect, at least, if not an indication of sorrow.
    I hold my breath for a second or two…nope, sorry, not gonna happen. Didn’t like the guy when he was alive, don’t much care that he’s dead.
    If you want to leave now, I’ll completely understand.
    But, God. Brice was Fanning Interiors. I was just a minion among many, one of the small army of designers Brice’s prestige and reputation were able to keep busy. I’d recently begun to get a serious leg up on establishing my own rep apart from Fanning’s, but there is not a doubt in my mind that I wouldn’t be living the lifestyle I was today had it not been for Brice’s taking me on seven years ago. In many ways, I was indebted to the man.
    And now he’s nothing but a schmear on an East Side sidewalk. Oy. That poor guy who found him…
    â€œHow did he die?” I ask over the constant squawking of the police radio nearby.
    Nick’s face undergoes this whole impersonal-police-mask thing, but his jaw is stubbled, as if he hasn’t had time to shave, and there are bags under his eyes. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
    For some reason, this irks me. So I tuck one of the many curls that will spring forth like snakes from my French braid over the next fourteen hours and say, “I saw the blood, Nick. Somehow I doubt he was pecked to death by a rabid pigeon.”
    Nick gives me this look. “Pigeons don’t carry rabies. And besides, you’re just assuming that was blood.”
    I give him a look back. Then he sighs and says, “He was shot.”
    I visibly shudder. I don’t much care for guns. Especially when they’ve been used on people I know. I take another sip of latte. “When?” I whisper.
    â€œReal early this morning.”
    I look up. “Any witnesses?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe man was shot in the middle of 78th Street and there were no witnesses? ”
    â€œAnother assumption. We found him in the middle of 78th Street. Doesn’t necessarily mean that’s where he was shot.”
    â€œOh,” I say, then frown in concentration, which earns me another heavy sigh.
    My brows lift. “What?”
    â€œPlease don’t tell me you dream about being an amateur detective.”
    â€œNot to worry,” I say. “I don’t even like to read murder mysteries.” He looks relieved, at least until I ask, “I don’t suppose you know who?”
    Nick shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nope. Which means we’ve got a lot of questioning to do. Starting with everybody who worked for him.”
    â€œToday?”
    â€œYeah, today. What did you think?”
    I shake my head. “Sorry, but I’ve got a ten o’clock, then appointments straight through the day—”
    â€œGinger,”