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murder.”
    â€œRitual?”
    â€œCandles, display—everything you described? Could have significance for the killer for many reasons,” she said. “And your killer could be a single person or a group. If it was a ritual death, there was likely more than one person present for the sacrifice, even if only one killed her. I’m sure your cops are looking at every angle.”
    â€œBut how many angles are they going to give me?” I wondered aloud.
    â€œAs few as they can get away with,” she said. “I know you get along well with your guys, but no cop ever fully trusts a reporter.”
    â€œSo if I want to stay ahead of Charlie, I have to dig up what they’re not sharing,” I said.
    â€œBingo.”
    â€œThanks, Em,” I said, smiling. “What would I do without you?”
    â€œYou’d probably be crazier,” she said. “But still just as lovable.”
    â€œAnd short one amazing friend.”
    â€œYou ought to try the ritual angle first.”
    I closed my eyes. “There was so much blood, Em.”
    â€œWhether or not it was all hers will tell you something.”
    I cradled the receiver and considered that, wondering if Aaron had time to have blood typing results back. Probably not on the weekend.
    What else did I have that Charlie didn’t?
    The guy from the hospital. I flipped through my notes from his interview.
    â€œ There’s a cook who gives us leftovers on Fridays. ”
    I shoved my notebook and laptop back into my bag and stood, wondering how early the kitchen staff at Bottoms Up got in on Sundays. And hoping the benevolent cook was chatty.

    Â Â 
    I tapped the toe of one strappy emerald Manolo on the slate-and-camel-tiled floor of the entry, waiting for a hostess with a pixie cut and matching smile to return with the manager.
    It was easier to go through the front door and ask to talk to the kitchen staff than hang out and wait for the back door to open. As long as it worked.
    â€œWhat can I do for you, Miss?” the manager’s dark eyes crinkled at the corners with a grin as he stuck a hand out. I shook it, returning the smile.
    â€œNichelle Clarke, Richmond Telegraph ,” I said. “I’m working on a story I think some of your staff might be able to help me with, if they have time to chat.”
    He waved me into the bar and gestured to a black ladderback chair at a small round table, nodding for me to sit as he pulled out the opposite chair. “What kind of story?”
    Since the word “murder” would likely get me tossed out on my ass, I smiled and said “the homeless.”
    â€œWhat would my kitchen staff have to do with that?”
    â€œWord is, you have a few people who have developed a reputation for helping. I’m hoping they’ll help me, too.”
    He knit his thick eyebrows together. “I’m not sure if I should get you someone to interview or say no comment and ask you to leave.” He spread his hands over the black laminate tabletop. “I can’t have it advertised we feed the less fortunate—we’re running a business, not a soup kitchen.”
    â€œI understand,” I said. “I’m happy to leave names out of it.” It was an easy trade, especially because it carried the bonus of making it harder for Charlie to follow my tracks.
    He stared for a long second.
    I kept my expression neutral, watching his eyes.
    He sighed. “I got four kids. Three boys and a girl, all grown and married. The people I see on the streets down here—some of them are barely adults. It just about kills me on the daily, ma’am.”
    I nodded. “I can only imagine.”
    He pushed the chair back and stood, waving me to my feet. “I read the paper every day. You write about crime. Something bad happen to someone?”
    I studied him for a long minute. “Do you really want to know?” Not that he wouldn’t see it on