“How can you tell?” I said. “Because my eyes aren’t too close together?”
“I was your last customer?” I said. “That was Sunday. Today is Tuesday. Business always that bad?”
“Got to go back to the morgue,” he said. “You guys come with me, OK? We need to talk. Lot to talk about.”
“Why?” she said. “We’re fighting for our lives here and you want to talk about the Kliners?”
THEY HAD COME FOR US IN THE NIGHT. THEY HAD COME expecting a lot of blood. They had come with all their gear. Their rubber overshoes and their nylon bodysuits. Their knives, their hammer, their bag of nails. They had come to do a job on us, like they’d done on Morrison and his wife.
“Where did you say you were at midnight last night?” Finlay asked me.