But those things they rode in to go fast, they let out smoke that was a lot riper—it was enough to make a cat gag. And some of the two-legs actually got things that they set on fire so they could breathe in the smoke and breathe it out. He’d seen them do it, and he certainly couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to. Sometimes they’d even blow smoke at him, which he didn’t like. And the odor of the stuff would cling to their hands and faces—not very nice at all. Sometimes he encountered humans with an unwashed, dirty, musky smell. It might not be the nicest scent, but at least it was natural. Better than that smoke.
But this was the first time he’d ever encountered a human who apparently bathed in a bad smell and then went out to spread it around.
He looked out the barred entrance as Sunny set him on the seat of her car.
*
Sunny got home in time to give Shadow his promised paw massage and get in a little television viewing and playing with the cat.
Mike looked at her from his usual place on the couch. “You seem awfully quiet tonight.”
“I’m thinking,” Sunny told him, joking, “in case you were worried that the burning smell was coming from the TV.”
“Did you have problems with Jane?”
Sunny shook her head. “She’s the one having problems. I think the detective in charge of Martin’s case suspects her. But instead of having her mind free to deal with that, she still seems to be dealing with a lot of old crap Martin pulled. The guy’s messing her up more now that he’s dead than he managed when he was alive.”
They went to their beds shortly after that. Sunny awoke the next morning to find that a freak warm front had blown in after the arctic blast.
Mike stood looking out the kitchen window. “If we get enough sun today, we probably wouldn’t have needed McPherson to plow out the driveway,” he said. “It will all melt away.”
When she got into work, Sunny found the warm weather already changing snow to slush. While her duck boots kept the icy water at bay, it quickly soaked into the cuffs of her jeans. She spent the first hour or so sitting as close to the baseboard radiator as she could manage, trying to dry out the damp cloth.
At last the denim got reasonably dry, and Sunny resumed her usual office routine. She went online to find a couple of e-mails at the MAX website, but no messages on the answering machine. Drafting replies to the e-mails went quickly—she had templates to deal with all but the most off-the-wall requests. In some cases, she pulled together a few information packets. After that, well, it was pretty much downtime until the mail arrived in about an hour and a half.
“Well, if you’re going to do it, do it,” Sunny muttered to herself. She hadn’t mentioned her discovery in front of Martin Rigsdale’s office to anyone. Jane was still trying to get her head around how much trouble she was in, and Will was trying to keep himself out of Trumbull’s investigation. And of course, there was the thing that Sunny’s editors always complained about—once she got on a story, she wanted to make it hers.
Taking a deep breath, Sunny cranked up her local sources database. Dealing with tourists meant providing a surprising array of services for a wide variety of people, including folks from foreign countries . . . and smokers. A lot of those foreign visitors smoked foreign cigarettes, and Sunny had compiled a list of stores specializing in exotic brands.
Whoever had been keeping an eye on Martin Rigsdale’s place smoked some sort of Russian cigarettes. Where would he or she find the nearest supply?
She quickly narrowed in with her search. Portsmouth Tobacconists, on the edge of the downtown shopping district, and not all that far from Martin Rigsdale’s office.
Sunny sat, looking at the address, until the mail carrier finally arrived. She almost snatched the thin sheaf of letters from the surprised woman’s hand, and then said, “Sorry. I was, um, expecting something.”
At least it wasn’t Andy, the regular guy. He’d have wanted to shoot the breeze for a few minutes. This fill-in carrier merely shrugged her shoulders and continued on her daily round.
Sorting quickly through the few envelopes, Sunny made sure that there was nothing urgent, nothing that couldn’t be handled after lunch.
Especially the long lunch she was planning. She locked up the office and got into her Wrangler, heading for the bridge to Portsmouth.
It wasn’t hard to find Portsmouth Tobacconists. They had a large black sign with gold letters, and a window display that even included a couple of hookahs.
