Twenty-Seven Bones by Jonathan Nasaw

this?”
    “Lemme see…Faartoft, the cops, the coroner, and of course us—you and me. But that’s not all. Did you see this morning’s paper?”
    “Not yet.”
    “There’s a picture on the front page—missing man from Florida.”
    “What’s the tie-in?”
    “He’s one of the victims who washed up last week. But all the story says is that police are looking into a disappearance, anybody who might have seen the guy please contact the SLPD, blah blah blah. Not exactly journalism at its finest. I’ve been thinking seriously about selling the story to one of the Virgin Islands papers, or the San Juan Star, so the news will filter back down here and people can start watching their asses a little closer.”
    Lewis blew a smoke ring, watched the breeze coming off the sparkling sea tear it to rags, passed the pipe back to Bendt. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, chappie.”
    “Why not?”
    “Blow your job for one story? That’s the definition of killing the goose that lays the golden egg.”
    “Golden egg, my honky ass! That cheap sonofabitch Faartoft ain’t paying me in golden eggs.”
    “Think of the rest of us, then. You weren’t here for Blue Valley, you don’t know what can happen.”
    “You mean other than more people getting their hands cut off?”
    “I mean, news gets out that there’s a serial killer called the Machete Man active on St. Luke, you can kiss the cruise ships bye-bye. Then there’s a ripple effect. No cruises means no tourists, no tourists means restaurants start shutting down, people can’t pay their rent, which is bad for me, ad revenue in the Sentinel drops, which is bad for you….”
    “Okay, okay, I get it.” Bendt took a last hit, handed Lewis back his pipe. As Lewis rose to leave, though, Bendt gave him the wait-a-sec-I-just-thought-of-something-but-I-don’t-want-to-blow-the-toke wave. “Hey, I almost forgot.” He handed Lewis an envelope. “I snagged these a couple weeks ago, been saving ’em for you.”
    Lewis peeked into the envelope. The photos were of Holly Gold in the shower, shot from above, through the screen window of the building known to the Corefolk as the Crapaud.
    “What do you think?” asked Bendt.
    “I think we’re even-steven on the rent this month,” said Lewis with a grin.

3
    Wednesday afternoon at the overseer’s house. Bennie was out shopping. Emily was online, confirming arrangements for their trip to Puerto Rico this coming weekend, for the annual meeting of the Caribbean chapter of the Association of Anthropologists and Archaeologists of the Americas. Phil was at the typewriter again.
    After logging off the computer, Emily lugged a footlocker over to the wall and climbed up on it. Phil heard her, turned, saw his wife from the nose up, peering over the wall. “Zeppo, you look like Kilroy-was-here,” he commented. Zep or Zeppo, short for Zeppelins, was one of Phil’s pet nicknames for his wife.
    “What are you writing about now?”
    “Dwayne.”
    “Ah, more smut.”
    “Don’t knock it,” said Phil, turning back to the typewriter.
    “I’m not—I can’t wait to read it. The last excerpt got me moist.”
    “Here, then.” He took the page he’d just finished out of the typewriter, bundled it with the rest of the chapter, and carried it across the room. “I warn you, though—if I hear that vibrator going, I’m coming in there.”
    “If you hear the vibrator,” said Emily as she reached over the wall to take the thin sheaf of paper, “I don’t need you.”
    Chapter V

    By this time it had become obvious to both P and E that the receptive, strictly opportunistic approach they had been using was simply not going to cut the mustard. They had continued to volunteer for night watches at the various hospices and nursing homes in the area, but now instead of waiting for the final breath, which was hard enough to predict, and hoping they were alone when it did arrive, which happened all too infrequently, if left alone with a