“It’s early.”

“One of the girls may have been Deaf. The young one.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t. It’s just a hunch. Can you check if there have been any missing girls from the School for the Deaf in Santa Fe? Like, ever?”

“Sure. What time will you be in?” He was in short supply of patience when it came to the whole arson thing.

“Around ten.”

“Can’t you come in sooner? The DA is going to be here at nine.”

“Can’t. I’m getting checked under the hood.”

“Okay, but if Captain Eckert finds out you’ve known who the arsonist is for days, he’s not going to be your biggest fan anymore.”

“I knew he liked me.”

“Charley, you’re putting me in a very awkward position.”

“Then paint polka dots on me and call me Twister, but I think you can sweet-talk your boss. Or, well, lie. Yeah, lying is probably best. And besides, I told you I didn’t actually know for sure, for sure until last night.”

“Right after that bunker burned.”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, if you do a little time for conspiracy, I’ll for sure, for sure bring you something to read.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet. Thanks, Ubie.” He always had my back.

I found the pixie again when I stepped out of my room fully clothed and ready for action. Or, well, a vaginal exam. The girl was sitting on the floor by Mr. Wong, picking at the hem of his pants, which hung above his bare feet, trying to pull a stray thread off him. At least she was occupied and not attacking me. Always a plus.

I sank to my knees beside her, hoping she didn’t think I was there to pick a fight. My moves were innocuous, unhurried as I examined her hands. I had three scratches on my face, two under my left eye and one along my jawline. But why not four? Why not four scratches? I watched as she plucked at the string absently. She had a small mouth, round cheeks, and thin nose. She would have been beautiful, given the chance. I looked at her hands and even as filthy as they were, I could tell she was missing a fingernail. The nail on her ring finger had been broken past the quick. I winced at the thought. She fought her attacker and hopefully he paid some small price for his actions. But it would never be enough.

I reached over and took her hand into mine. She let me. She didn’t look at me but stared off to the side, well aware of my presence. Then, as though afraid to do so, she removed her hand and touched my jeans. The knee had a small rip. She ran a tiny finger along it, then examined her own clothes. Sadly, there wasn’t much to look at. She’d been wearing a nightgown when she died and nothing else.

I reached out, tentatively touching her forearm and, just in case, I used my voice and signed as I asked, “Can you tell me who did this to you, pumpkin? Do you remember who it was?”

She withdrew back inside herself, crossing her arms at her chest and rocking.

I tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s okay, honey. We’ll figure it out.”

In a movement almost too subtle to notice, she lifted a finger over her crossed arms. Then another. And another. Until she held up three fingers once again.

Sadly, that could mean a million things, but just in case, I texted Ubie.

Can you see if any convicted felons have only three fingers on either hand?

Sure, will have Taft do a search, he texted back.

It would take a miracle to solve this case. Luckily, I believed in miracles. No, wait, that was testicles. I believed in testicles.

We were so screwed.

I opened Cookie’s door and yelled into her apartment. “I’m taking Virginia to the doctor!”

“Got it,” she said from her bedroom. “I’ll be at the office in fifteen. Let me know what’s on the agenda for the day.”

“Okay, but I might be hard to pin down. I have a lot of crap to stir. People to annoy. Lives to ruin.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I started to close the door when she called out again. “Wait, who’s Virginia?”

She’d figure it out later. Or sooner if I complained ad nauseam, as I tended to do after offering a doctor a free glimpse of paradise. And two hours later, I was on the phone with her.

Complaining.

Ad nauseam.

There was nothing like a trip to the gynecologist to make one feel just a little violated.

“But it’s important,” Cookie said, defending my gynecologist’s overzealousness.

“I get that. I really do. But why use enough to lubricate the Panama Canal? I went through an entire box of tissue.” My phone beeped. “Oh, got another call. It’s Ubie. He has the hots for you.”

“Does not,” she said.

“I’ll call you right back. Unless I get arrested. Then it could be a while. And costly. How much cash do you have on you?”

“No, really? He has the hots for me?”

I’d lost her. I hung up with an evil grin and accepted Ubie’s call. “Charley’s House of Tiny Tomatoes.”

“I have an arson case just begging to be solved that, oddly enough, is still sitting on my desk,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir, but what does this have to do with tiny tomatoes?”

“It’s almost ten.”

“That’s old. Aren’t those unsolved mysteries called cold cases?”

“The time. It’s almost ten o’clock.”

“Oh, thanks! I hadn’t checked in a while. Is this part of the new initiative to better serve the public? You call and tell random people the time before they can wonder about it?”