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    Ten minutes later I parked in front of a duplex with green siding and brown doors. The grass should have been mowed several weeks ago. An old Ford pickup, with more rust than paint, was parked in the driveway.
    I made my way up to the front of the duplex, being sure to stay on the walkway for fear of what could be lurking in the tall grass. I rang the bell and knocked several times before the door was finally opened by a young man whose unkempt appearance resembled the yard.
    “Yeah?”
    I stepped back a couple of feet, trying to get away from the obnoxious fumes emanating from inside. After taking a breath of fresh air, I asked to speak with an Adam Mullen.
    “I’m Adam.”
    “My name is Kim Murphy. I’m a private investigator and I’m looking into the death of Brian Lewis.”
    “Look, I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you. I already talked to the cops,” he said before slamming the door in my face.
    Undeterred, I knocked on the door again. He yanked it open and shouted, “Look, lady, you better leave or I’m callin’ the cops!”
    “Go right ahead. I’ll wait right here. I can’t wait to hear how you explain the smell.”
    He muttered something under his breath before inviting me in. “You got five minutes, then you get out of here.”
    “No problem.”
    Stupid, that’s what I was. I should have insisted on talking with him outside. With each breath I feared I was inhaling enough pot fumes to be high for a week. My only personal experience with the stuff had been in an ex-boyfriend’s dorm room our freshman year of college. I needed to ask my questions and get the hell out while I could still think straight.
    I sat on the edge of the only chair not littered with food-encrusted Styrofoam containers. The surface of the coffee table was covered with empty beer bottles and two overflowing ashtrays. Fighting the urge to shower in hand sanitizer, I got down to questioning Adam. Unfortunately, he was about as useful as an umbrella in a tornado.
    “How did you know Brian?”
    “We’ve been friends since the third grade.”
    “When was the last time you saw him?”
    “Last week,” Adam said, staring down at the floor.
    “What did you guys do?”
    “We drank beer and watched baseball.”
    “Where at?”
    “Here.”
    “Was anything bothering him?”
    “No, he was cool,” Adam replied, scooping up his lighter, then flicking it on and off.
    “Was Brian having any trouble with anyone?”
    “Nope, everybody liked him.”
    “Well, evidently not everyone.”
    “He was my best friend. Don’t you think I’d have told the cops if I knew anything?” he asked, slamming his fist onto the edge of the coffee table, sending one of the ashtrays flying. I reached down and put it back on the table.
    “I would hope so,” I replied as I watched him swipe at the tears in his eyes. I found my own eyes watering, but not from grief. Deciding I had spent long enough in Adam’s apartment, I tossed a business card down on the coffee table and suggested he call me if he thought of anything useful. I figured I’d get a call from Adam the day I forgave my ex-husband for continuing to live. The least he could have done was move far away to a place with lots of predators, like Alaska.
    Outside in the fresh air, I took several deep breathes, trying to clear my lungs and any brain cells effected by my short stay in Marijuanaville. In the car, I looked up the address before driving to David Jenson’s place with the windows down and the air conditioner on full blast.
    David’s apartment was a converted two-story house on a corner lot, just south of the downtown historic district. I was lucky and found a parking space on the side street. I walked up the stairs and knocked on the door to his apartment.
    A man wearing a yellowed white t-shirt and faded jeans opened the door, a can of Budweiser in his hand. He looked me up and down, staring just a bit too long at my chest.
    “Yeah?” he asked, then gulped his beer.
    “Hi,