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my threshold.

    26 Josh Lanyon

Chapter Four
    “Still think it’s harmless fun?” Jake inquired, after I had finished filing my complaint with the uniformed patrolman who answered my call.
    “Refresh my memory. When did I ever say I didn’t take this crap seriously?”
    “Quiet,” he muttered, as the officer returned after a brief conference with his compadre.
    “It’s not blood,” Officer Hinojosa informed me. “The color is a good match, but it’s paint.”
    Not blood was good. Very good. I let out the breath I seemed to have been holding for the last hour.
    “Not blood? Just…custom color, huh? Well, is it okay if I wash the evidence away? It’s liable to wreck the Christmas vibe.” I had already used my digital camera to take several photos of the artwork. Not that I had high hopes that they were going to be bringing anyone to trial in the near future.
    Hinojosa shook his head regretfully. “It’s enamel. Quick drying. I don’t think you can wash it. I think you have to paint over it.”
    “Nah, it’ll come off with paint solvent,” the other uniform said, joining us.
    “Not if it’s dried.”
    “Yeah, it’ll come off if you put some elbow grease into it.”
    “No. But you might be able to cover it with that concrete resurfacing paint.”
    “You could try that Goof Off stuff.”
    It was like Home Improvement with guns. Jake gave it up after a minute or two and stepped inside the shop. I waited it out. Eventually they called a draw, told me to have a nice day, got back in their patrol car, and drove away.

    The Hell You Say

    27
    I located Jake cornered by Mrs. T at the coffeemaker.
    I wasn’t exactly sure why or how Jake had appeared on the scene of what, after all, was merely a vandalism complaint, but I had been glad to see him. Mrs. T did not seem similarly reassured. Her doll arms were flailing around like the button on her remote control was stuck. I made out one word in ten of that rapid-fire exchange.
    “What language is that?” Jake inquired, sotto voce, as I joined them.
    “I thought it was Spanish, but I’m beginning to think she’s speaking in tongues.”
    “It’s not Spanish.”
    I nodded earnestly, smiled at Mrs. T like I’ve seen legions of immigrant workers do to Lisa when they don’t have a clue what she’s requesting of them.
    She shook her head at my obvious stupidity and stalked away. Jake took off his sunglasses, picked up my camera. He studied the photos in the monitor.
    “What did you plan on doing with these?”
    I knew I was going to have to come clean sooner or later, so I said, “I’m not sure. I thought I might show them to Angus’s professor at UCLA.”
    His gaze narrowed on me like he was lining me in the crosshairs.
    “What professor is that?”
    “Van Helsing,” I said at random, hesitating (not sure why) to give up Snowden to the long arm of the law. “Didn’t I mention --?”
    He was not amused. “I don’t recall the name of the professor being mentioned. I wasn’t aware you knew the guy’s name. Are you telling me you’ve talked to him?”
    “Briefly.”
    “Why would you do that? Why wouldn’t you just give me his name and let me deal with it? Seeing that it’s what I’m paid to do.”
    He had a point, so I responded a little irritably. “I don’t know, Jake. Speaking from personal experience, it’s not exactly a joy ride when the police show up at your place of employment asking questions. I didn’t know that it was warranted.”
    “Warranted?” His face tightened. “That’s not for you to decide. You’re not a cop. I told you I wanted to talk to Angus, that I thought there was a chance he might be able to provide a lead on these killings. You didn’t think I’d be interested in knowing the name of the professor who started all this shit?”
    “All what shit? You also said you realized that there probably wasn’t a connection between your case and this.”
    “That girl they dug up in the Hollywood Hills? Her name was