Speak the Dead by Grant McKenzie

and boney hips. “You prefer Fuck Buddy?”
    â€œI’m not—”
    â€œIgnore her.” Amarela appeared in the doorway, hurriedly slipping her Smith & Wesson semi-auto into a belt holster. “She always wakes up bitchy.”
    Jersey frowned. “I thought you two—”
    â€œBye, Babes.” Amarela cut him off mid-sentence as she gave the half-dressed blonde a quick kiss on the lips before shoving Jersey out the door and closing it behind them.
    Before Jersey could protest, Amarela headed for the stairs. “You’re early.”
    â€œAnd your roommate is—”
    â€œShe’s not my roommate,” Amarela cut him off again. “Why are you early?”
    â€œWe have an errand to run.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œRemember the asshole you spoke to yesterday? Next of kin.”
    Amarela nodded.
    â€œHe tried to drop me in it last night.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œThat,” said Jersey, “is exactly the question I want an answer to.”
    the son of the recently departed Nicholas and Alison Higgins lived in a two-story, off-white spackled house with a suspect moss-covered roof in a gentrification-coming-soon suburb in the city’s diverse northeast quadrant.
    Despite its outward appearance, the solid 1940s-era house had all the earmarks and potential of a smart fixer-upper rather than a woe-is-me hard luck story. The house itself sat on a large grassy lot directly across the road from the fenced ninth hole of the one hundred fifty acre Rose City public golf course.
    Jersey rang the doorbell. It sounded like someone choking a crow.
    â€œIf he gets snippy again, can I shoot him?” asked Amarela dryly.
    Jersey’s mouth twitched. “Sure.”
    Amarela studied the tired, working-class neighborhood as they waited. “You think his inheritance will come in handy? Mom and Dad had a nice big house, probably cash in the bank, maybe insurance. There’s just him and the sister.”
    Jersey started to answer when the door was opened by a slim man in his mid-thirties with a groomed five-day stubble that made him look like a wannabe actor or gigolo. He completed the look with a monotone dark suit over a charcoal T-shirt and matching sneakers. When he saw Amarela, he released an audible sigh of irritation.
    â€œPeter Higgins?” Jersey asked.
    â€œYeah, but I’m burying my parents today, so if you don’t mind leaving me the—”
    Jersey placed both hands on the man’s chest and shoved him into the house. Peter back-pedaled, swinging his arms in an effort to maintain his balance. When he finally succeeded in staying upright, Jersey and Amarela were standing in the entrance hall with the front door closed behind them.
    â€œWhat the hell do you—”
    Jersey held up his hand to silence the protest. “Where do you get off assaulting an officer of the law?”
    â€œAssault? I never—”
    â€œDetective Valente. Did this man just swing his arms at me in a threatening manner?”
    â€œYes, Detective Castle, he did.” Amarela’s smile was thin and cruel. “Both physically and verbally.”
    â€œYou won’t get away with this,” Peter protested. “I know—”
    â€œYou know too many people, Mr. Higgins,” snapped Jersey. “But if collecting the insurance on your parents is important to you, then I’m only interested in one.”
    Peter licked his lips and glanced up the stairs behind him. Jersey wasn’t sure if he was planning to make a run for it or just checking that his wife wasn’t listening.
    â€œWhich one?” he asked.
    â€œWho told you I was at the funeral home last night?”
    Peter’s shoulders relaxed. “So you were there. What did you do to my father’s body?”
    â€œI never touched him,” said Jersey. “I was interviewing a witness, but how did you know I was there?”
    Peter licked his lips again.