Run the Risk by Scott Frost

homicide, Mrs. Finley,” I said. “It’s part of the process of every investigation. We look into everything, regardless how small.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” she said in resignation.
    â€œDo you know an employee of the shop named Sweeny?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t think . . .” She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I never met him. He must have been a temp.”
    I stood up and motioned toward the door to Harrison.
    â€œWould you let us know if anything is missing after the burglary, or if you find something you don’t expect?” I said, handing her my card.
    She nodded without interest.
    â€œYou can keep the towel, Lieutenant,” she said.
    I thanked her and started out the door, then stopped when I looked out into the yard.
    â€œWhy is the yard in the shape it is?” I asked, turning back to Mrs. Finley.
    She looked at me, puzzled by the question, then made the connection to what I was asking.
    â€œOh . . . that,” she said. “Daniel’s philosophy was changing.”
    Harrison looked over to me and shrugged in confusion.
    â€œI’m not following you,” I said.
    â€œHe was getting rid of the lawn, going organic . . . native grasses.”
    I glanced down at the doormat.
    â€œThink green,” I said.
    Mrs. Finley’s eyes moistened with tears as she nodded. I turned and walked out of the house and into the yard. The sun appeared unnaturally bright after being in the dark house. When I slipped on my sunglasses the frame touched the side of my face where the door had hit me, and sent another wave of pain through my head. I put the ice back against my face and the pain began to pass.
    â€œDoes it seem odd to you that in a business with only three employees she didn’t know Sweeny?” Harrison said.
    I glanced back at the house. “Not if she was lying.”
    â€œYou think she was lying?”
    â€œThe other two employees are women. How did she know Sweeny was a man?”
    I glanced one more time around the yard and realized there was one other thing that troubled me. He was changing his philosophy, going green, the same conversion my daughter had just “leaped” into with both feet and a spray bottle. I searched my memory trying to come up with something that would dismiss this entire line of thinking as the feverish worries of a mother who might just have suffered a concussion. I missed the mark. I remembered the carved wooden sign on the front door of Breem’s flower shop instead. GREEN IS OUR COLOR .
    â€œGoddamnit,” I whispered to myself.
    â€œWhat?” Harrison asked.
    â€œI’m thinking too much. It’s nothing.”
    My heart skipped a beat. There was no such thing as coincidence, not when murder was involved. I didn’t want to believe it, couldn’t believe it. Every dogma eventually runs smack into the reality of the exception to the rule. This had to be it, must be it. The dots we had been connecting were not going to include my daughter. Throw a stick in California you’ll probably hit an environmentalist. Forget it.
    â€œYou don’t look so good, Lieutenant,” Harrison said.
    â€œI’m a little light-headed.”
    I walked out of the yard and over to the passenger side of the car.
    â€œYou better drive,” I said.
    â€œI think you should see a doctor,” Harrison said.
    Absolutely, I thought. I wanted to disappear in a nice fat hospital bed, drift away in Demerol. I took the ice off the side of my face and looked at Harrison.
    â€œSo he can tell me I have to lie in bed for forty-eight hours? I don’t think we have that kind of time.”
    I tossed him the keys. “Unless you want to lead the investigation by yourself?”
    Harrison’s eyes did a little dance and then he shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
    I checked my watch; it was twelve-thirty. The day wasn’t