Devil's Garden by Ace Atkins

her neck. She used her hands to brace herself against the window frame, letting the cool air come off the bay, nipples growing erect.
    “You are such a great friend, Miss Eisenhart.”
    “You can call me Kate, ma’am. Most everyone does.”
    “Just how does someone so sweet become a policewoman?”
    “Mrs. Delmont, the assistant manager, Mr. Boyle, has been asking me questions about your bill here. He said that you’ve said the San Francisco Police Department has put you up. I told him that he was surely mistaken, but he said that you had hung up in his face. I know he must be exaggerating his point, but I must let you know.”
    Kate let her question hang there, making the rest of it seem indelicate. Maude loved women who still thought about indelicate subjects.
    Maude sat on the bed, crossed her stockinged legs, leaned back on her elbows, and stared down at her perked nipples as if just noticing them and laughing as if a secret shared between two sisters. Kate looked as if she’d swallowed an entire egg.
     
     
     
    “IF My PARTNER KNEW I was meeting you here, he’d eat my liver out with a side of onions,” Tom Reagan said.
    “I wouldn’t eat your liver, Tom. I guess it’s pretty used up.”
    “Funny, Sam,” Reagan said. “What do you want?”
    “I came to watch the sea lions wrestle. You know, they look just like dogs to me. Look at that tough old bastard up on that rock. He looks like someone has taken a few good ole chomps out of his hide.”
    “I can’t talk about Arbuckle.”
    “And I don’t want you to talk about Arbuckle.”
    Sam leaned into the railing of Pier 56, mashing the last of his cigarette against the wood and losing it in the waves beating the crusty pilings. He lit another and stared thoughtfully at the pilings, waiting a few beats before he was going to get to the point, but instead of great timing he found himself in the middle of a coughing fit that nearly brought him to his knees. He covered his mouth, splattering the cotton with phlegm and blood, and hearing bigheaded Tom Reagan say, “Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.”
    “No need to say his name twice,” Sam said, recovering. “God hears you the first time.”
    “You never told me you were a lunger.”
    “You never asked.”
    “Worse in the cold.”
    “Doesn’t help.”
    Tom was dressed in his city detective tweeds and no cap. His boots were shined and his milky Irish skin was so clean-shaven the blood vessels across his cheeks and nose glowed blue.
    “Why would someone conduct an autopsy without permission?”
    “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
    “You got to bring the man’s family into it? I’m just being hypothetical, Tom.”
    “No, you’re calling in your marker for saving my ass in the train yards.”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “You didn’t need to.”
    “Why?”
    Tom peered down at the waves beating the pilings and out at two sea lions barking at each other and play-biting mouths before one did a somersault back into the bay.
    He shrugged. “We don’t know.”
    “But you wouldn’t have known about the girl dying or thought of it as a murder without that anonymous tip. Could it have been Delmont?”
    “The call came from the hospital. It was a nurse.”
    “Can I get a copy of the report?”
    “It will all be handed over after the grand jury sees it today.”
    “Did you at least ask for a second opinion? Did the coroner look at the body?”
    “He did.”
    “Tom?”
    Tom looked skyward and readjusted his coat, making himself stand taller, as if standing at attention. He leaned into Sam’s ear. “It’s tough to make a good inspection when some of the parts are missing from the machine.”
    He walked back on the dock toward the Embarcadero.
    “Tom?”
    The police detective waved back over his shoulder but never turned around.

7
    S am handed the man his card. “I’ve already spoken to the police, Mr. Hammett.” “You been the hotel dick here long?”
    “About a year.”
    “Rotten work.”
    “You