LITMIR.BIZ

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guys, you can give it up,” Bitsy interjected. She would tell them the truth, go get Michael James or whatever his name was with his heart still steadily beating, and they could all be on their way to her cousin’s boyfriend’s costume party.

      “It said possibly armed and dangerous. It didn’t say possibly armed and dead,” Hector said disgustedly. “It wouldn’t surprise me if those SFPD desk jockeys got their wires crossed and sent us out on a manhunt for a corpse.”

      Bitsy felt a first frisson of doubt. “Fellas, it’s okay,” she assured them. “I know what’s going on.”

      “I’m glad someone does,” Hector said. “All I know is earlier this evening, we received an all-points bulletin from the San Francisco Police Department telling us to comb the area for a fugitive possibly headed for this locale.”

      The short cop snorted. “I’ll tell you exactly what’s going on. They didn’t want to send a car to claim the body. I say we FedEx this poor bum’s ashes right to the commissioner.”

      “A fugitive?” Bitsy’s skepticism echoed off the dark-paneled walls. “Possibly armed and dangerous?”

      The older cop huffed another disgusted breath. “Not any longer.”

      Bitsy studied the two men. She slowly smiled. “You guys are good. For a moment, you almost had me believing you’re real cops.”

      Hector looked down at her. “Ma’am,” he said, pointing to the patch on his shirtsleeve. “We’re members of the Canaan City Police Department.”

      Bitsy stared at the colored patch, her smile dissolving. At one of the courses she’d taken on self-defense, she’d learned crimes were often committed by assailants posing as policemen. Uniforms, security badges and guns were easy to obtain. There was one way, however, to determine if someone was really a legitimate member of the police force: their uniforms would have departmental-issued patches on the upper sleeve. These patches could not be duplicated. Her gaze met Hector’s.

      “You guys are real cops?”

      “Ma’am, that’s what we’ve been trying to tell you.”

      She didn’t wait to hear more. She turned and ran down the stairs, past the chrome and linoleum rooms, ignoring the policemen’s shouts to stop until she came to the room where the “corpse” had been. She stopped in the entryway, panting.

      The room was empty.

      She spun around and faced the police right behind her. “He’s gone!”

      “Yes.” The short one nodded. “Dearly departed.”

      She shook her head. “He’s not dead.”

      Again a long, puzzled look passed between the partners. “Ma’am,” Hector began.

      “Shh! Did you hear that?” Bitsy looked to the stairs. Above them was the sound of footsteps crossing the oak floor.

      “Inside.” Hector pushed Bitsy into the room as both policemen drew their guns.

      The footsteps continued to the stairs, down the steps, into the hall at the bottom, periodically pausing as if stopping at each room’s entrance, checking inside. The older policeman flattened himself unseen at the right side of the door, his handgun aimed at the entrance. The tall one positioned himself at the other side, pushing Bitsy behind him. Shielded by his back, she sensed his trained tautness. Her own muscles clutched with terror. The footsteps had stopped at the room next door. They started again, slow, hesitant. The policeman’s shoulders and spine were rigid, his body ready. Bitsy held her breath.

      Gwen appeared in the doorway, tiny in the tall jamb. She gasped, her hand flying to the hollow of her throat. “Bitsy?”

      Relief seemed to melt Bitsy’s very marrow. She started to step out from behind Hector. “Gwen, thank goodness, it’s—”

      Hector pulled her roughly back behind him.

      “Hey, let go!” She tried to shake his hand off her arm.

      Hector’s partner stepped out from the wall. Gwen, her features frozen with fear, looked from one pointed gun to the other.

      “Bitsy?” Her voice was thin, wavering. “What’s going on?”

      Bitsy tried to sidestep Hector once more, but his grip only tightened on her forearm.

      “At ease, big boy,” she snapped at him. “Put your gun back where it belongs,” she ordered the other cop. “Can’t you see the poor child is terrified?”

      “What’s your name?” Hector barked.

      Gwen stared at the gun pointed at her heart. Her throat worked but no sound came out.

      “Gwen Rinkert,” Bitsy supplied. “She works here.”

      The policemen didn’t lower their weapons.

      “Go ahead,” Bitsy encouraged. “Tell them all about the ‘corpse’ that came in earlier today.”

      Gwen looked from the gun to Bitsy to the police. Trying to avoid looking at the aimed guns, she said, “I came on about nine tonight. The corpse was already here.”

      “Was it dead?” Hector demanded.

      Gwen’s incredulousness momentarily eclipsed her fear. “Officers, with all due respect, that is the definition of a corpse.”

      “He wasn’t dead,” Bitsy contradicted. “Less than twenty minutes ago, he sat up right here.” She pointed at the gurney. “And said, ‘Something tells me this isn’t the Pearly Gates.’ He was blond, blue-eyed, tall. I’d say six-two, like the report. He was well built. He obviously worked out.” She stared at the empty metal bed. “He had a good smile.”

      “He couldn’t have gotten too far,” Hector said to his partner. “Get on the radio and see if there’s immediate backup in the area. Call the station and tell them we’re going to need more men. He could be to the border by the time we get done checking every masked person out there.”

      By the time Hector had ushered the women upstairs, Bitsy heard the wail of an approaching siren. When the other cop came back from the squad car, Hector pointed at Gwen and said, “I’ll stay here with her until back-up arrives.” His finger swung to Bitsy. “You take her downtown for further questioning.”

      “What for?” Bitsy demanded as the older cop grasped her upper arm. “Am I being charged with something?”

      “We just want to ask you a few more questions,” the older cop reassured her, steering her toward the front door.

      Bitsy glanced over her shoulder as she was ushered out the door. She called to Gwen, “Get ahold of Grey.”

      The cop opened the car’s door and she slid into the back of the cruiser with its unique odor of heavy, desperate sweats.

      Costumed children came around the far corner, headed to the first house at the end of the street. In the split second before the car door slammed closed, Bitsy heard the night’s calling card.

      “Trick or treat.”

      Chapter Two

      “An APB, Arthur?” Mick asked. His last identity had been Michael James, but he had quickly become known as Mick and preferred it. Only Arthur insisted on the more formal name he’d last christened the man.

      Arthur opened the white van’s side panel. The metallic sign on the driver’s door said Frieda’s House of Flora and Fauna. Arthur was a spare man, elegant in body and movement. Forbearance in his stance and natural expression, he stood by the openmouthed van and waited.

      Mick’s gaze shifted from the black insides of the van to the tempered features of his mentor. “I need an explanation.”

      “An explanation?” The older man employed the same economy of speech as he did

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