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interesting with each passing second. It was also getting more confusing.
    ‘We should call this in to the local PD,’ Arlen decided.
    ‘But the letter . . . it says no cops,’ Marnie said.
    ‘This is a matter for police,’ he insisted.
    I reread the note. Someone wanted money to supposedly stop a man being killed. Presumably the contact mentioned would specify the collection details. I wondered why the capital lettering on selected words. Maybe it was used merely for emphasis. ‘Why don’t you take us through the story from the beginning?’
    ‘Do you mind covering that first?’ she asked, her eyes flicking to the tray.
    I considered whether to use something that wouldn’t leave my DNA on it. The tray and its contents would end up as evidence in a case sooner or later, but Marnie had handled it and I guessed this Alabama person had, too; and I doubted that KFC had provided the original packaging. So I picked up the tray with my fingers and gave the hand a closer inspection through the window of frost, now starting to melt, before returning it to the Colonel’s care.
    Marnie relaxed a little once the lid was back in place. ‘Alabama Thornton – she’s a Vegas showgirl. Her boyfriend’s ex–Air Force. That’s his connection to Anna. According to Alabama, he met Anna in Germany, but I don’t think Alabama and Anna ever met. Anyway, from what I can gather, the boyfriend mentioned Anna to Alabama at some stage. When that arrived,’ Marnie said, motioning at the bucket, ‘Alabama didn’t want to involve the police, but she had to turn to someone so she called Anna. And along the way, Anna being my sister, Alabama was given my number. She called, and next thing I know I’m on a plane to Vegas, but I’m not Anna and I’m creeped out in a major way by dead things, let alone things chopped off people. I told Alabama about you, Vin, and that’s why I’m here.’
    To drag me into it. It was amazing how Marnie managed to get the whole tangled mess out in one clean breath. ‘So you picked up the hand in Vegas?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How’d you get it here?’
    ‘I drove.’
    ‘Long drive.’
    ‘Especially with that riding in the passenger seat.’
    ‘Whose idea was the KFC bucket?’
    ‘Mine,’ said Marnie with a shrug. ‘Nothing more innocent than fried chicken.’
    She’d brought the severed hand across several state lines, so I couldn’t argue with her thinking. Driving wasn’t a bad decision, either: airport cops get sensitive about dismembered limbs in the carry-on. But there was a time limit specified in the note – twenty days, and now at least four of them had been soaked up.
    ‘What’s Alabama’s boyfriend’s name?’ I said.
    ‘Randy – Randy Sweetwater.’
    ‘So the hand belongs to Randy?’ Arlen said.
    ‘I doubt it,’ I said.
    ‘Alabama knows it’s not his. She already told me that.’
    Arlen took back his pen. ‘Okay, but how do you know that, Vin?’
    ‘Skin tone. It’s dark – Mexican, perhaps – and Randy’s a white guy.’
    ‘And you know this because Mexicans don’t call their kids Randy or have surnames like Sweetwater?’
    ‘They’re good reasons, but in this instance, no. Actually, I think I’ve met the guy.’
    ‘You met him?’
    ‘Depends on how many Randy Sweetwaters are kicking around out there, but I flew with one of them in Afghanistan. Hitched a ride in his C-17. While we were refueling at a forward operating base, he accidentally dropped some package being ferried around for a colonel and, wouldn’t you know it, half a dozen bottles of Glenfiddich just fell out. Then Randy discovered a whole bunch of mechanical troubles that grounded the plane for several days. My kinda guy.’
    ‘So this package just happened to be full of single malt?’ Arlen said dubiously. ‘Sounds like something you’d do.’
    I grinned. ‘Okay, officer, ya got me. Too bad the statute of limitations is up on this one. And anyway, smuggling booze into a Muslim country