Page 33 of Parting Shot

“Awww, lighten up and get laid.”

“Stiel!” she complained to me, pointing at my partner.

“You knew the job was dangerous when you took it,” I told her.

Her exasperated growl was funny.

I was still amused as we were joined by Robyn Cohen and Seth Benoit, who both gagged and coughed when they reached me.

“Who is this guy?” I queried them both.

“This is Evan Polley.” Cohen spoke up first, as was her way. I liked her; she was earnest and thorough. She passed me the victim’s wallet, her other latex-gloved hand pinching her nose shut. “He’s thirty-four. He owns—or I should say, owned—Rabbit Run Productions⁠—”

“It’s a record label, boss,” Benoit chimed in, fiddling with his own gloves.

“Thank you for that.” I smirked.

“No problem.”

“Suck-up,” Cohen muttered under her breath, and because her nose was pinched, she sounded like a cartoon bunny.

“When did anybody last see him?”

“The girlfriend saw him right around twelve thirty last night.”

“Time of death?” I inquired of Deena.

“At the moment, I’m gonna say between midnight and two a.m., but I’ll know for certain when I get him on my table.”

“Do we like the girlfriend for it?” I checked with the two people who technically worked for me—at least this time out. My grade was higher.

“Probably not.” Cohen shrugged. “She was pissed at Polley because he wouldn’t get her bar tab, so she ditched him and picked up another guy, Artie Thompson, who would. Lots of people saw her and Artie going at it hot and heavy in the VIP room.”

“Why wouldn’t he buy her drinks?” Jimmy sounded annoyed. “That’s so lame.”

“Apparently, Mr. Polley was trying to—and I quote—‘cut the dead weight’ out of his life.” She read out of her notebook. “End quote.”

“And that’s from?” I pried.

“His buddy Nick McCall.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Apparently, Mr. Polley was desperately trying to get his life back in order before he went completely bankrupt,” Cohen went on.

“Okay, lemme get this straight. He’s poor?”

“Yes,” Cohen confirmed.

“But he was here at this high-end club last night? That makes no sense.”

“No,” Jimmy agreed, looking at the two younger detectives. “So what the hell was he doing here?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Okay, so the girlfriend …” I trailed off, needing the name.

“Liz Guerra,” Benoit supplied.