More at Weirdomatic.

Found somewhere.

Because I don't have anything else to do.  Part 1 is here.

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I was eating breakfast at a southside taqueria and had just finished lacing the first taco with a generous dose of habanero sauce when the phone on my belt buzzed.  Nothing like taking the office with you.  It was McCloskey again.

“Got another one for you,” he said.

“Another what?”

“Remember your strangulation victim?  The hooker in the red dress?”

McCloskey was never one to mince words.  I remembered her.  I had bought a tin of Escudo the day after she was killed to cheer myself up.  I must have been feeling pretty bad because it hadn’t lasted more than three days.

“If I’m still a suspect you’ll have to talk to my lawyer.”

“Suspect.  Huh.”

I knew from past experience that this little grunt was McCloskey’s idea of laughter.  “You’re no suspect.  This time I’m calling you in as a consultant.”

“Consultant, eh?  In that case you’ll have to discuss my fees with my accountant.”

“Huh,” he said again.  “Just get over here.  You know where St. James Walk is?”

“Listen,” I said, “I’m eating breakfast.  You’re gonna have to wait.”

“Get over here quick and I’ll buy you another breakfast.  You still eat it with that godforsaken hot sauce?”  McCloskey couldn’t handle anything hotter than a stale pimento.

I wrapped up my leftovers in a doggie bag of foil and started heading north.  I was only vaguely familiar with the street, and had to check the city map that I kept stashed behind the seat along with one or two other tactical items.  As I navigated my way in, I found myself touching the protection inside my belt for reassurance.  It was a beaten-down housing project, where the sidewalks were addressed like streets and someone had tried to pretty up the place by painting inspirational murals on the walls.  To me they looked desperate rather than inspiring, but then I’m a cynical s.o.b. who rarely sees the beauty in such things.  The apartment was obvious from the collection of police cars skewed around the door.

The cops outside were apparently expecting me and let me through.  “’Bout time,” said McCloskey when I walked up to the door.

“What’s so important that my breakfast couldn’t wait?”

“Listen,” he said, “I know in 24 hours the forensics boys will have the full report on my desk, but this one looks like a repeat and I thought maybe you could give me a head start.”

He pointed at the floor and I hesitatingly looked down.  I never really cared much for seeing victims of violence.  I had spent most of my detecting career taking pictures of unfaithful spouses, which was probably responsible for my positive outlook on life.  She looked like she had lived a hard life and died a hard death.  I couldn’t tell how old she was, but I guessed she was probably a lot younger than she looked.  The bruises on her showed she had been strangled, and there was a small pile of something odd on her sternum.

“He left his card this time,” said McCloskey.

I knelt down next to her and looked closer.  It was a small pile of dottle, ashes mixed with unburned tobacco leaves, and the burn on her skin meant that he had dumped it while it was still hot.  “It’s pipe tobacco,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s what we thought.  Can you identify it?”

“Sorry, I haven’t written any monographs on ashes lately.  You’re asking the wrong detective.”

“Come on, you’re a pipe guy.  Can you tell me anything about it?”

I knelt beside the body and with the tweezers from my Swiss Army Knife plucked at the little pile of leaves and ashes.  A mixture of brown and black leaves, and one small black stem less than half an inch long.

“You see this?” I held up the tiny black stem.

McCloskey moved closer and peered down.

“This,” I held it up toward him, “is almost certainly latakia.”

McCloskey straightened and whipped out his notepad, a movement made natural by many years of practice.  He grimaced and began spelling it to himself, so I spelled it for him.

“Cyprian latakia, I should say,” I added.

“Cyprian.”

“Yeah, that means from Cyprus.  An island in the Mediterranean.”

“Yeah, I knew that.  Anything special about it?”

“It has a characteristic smell,” I said.  “And as you can see, it’s kinda black.”

“Smell?  What’s it smell like?”

Hmm.  How to describe a tobacco smell to someone who had never smoked a pipe.  I took a shot.

“Smells like campfires on a cold desert night, and smoke from the fires of strange oaks.”

“You’re a real freakin’ poet, Falcon.  You should write a book.”

“I don’t know how to write, McCloskey.  My job is just to keep the divorce lawyers in business.”

“Don’t remind me."  McCloskey had been a client of mine, a while back.  "Now about this latakia, is it rare or expensive?”

“Well, you won’t find it in your standard cherry-flavored drugstore gunk, but no, it’s not rare or expensive.”

“Damn.”

I figured that about finished things and was headed out the door when McCloskey said, “Hey Falcon, keep your nose open, huh.”  He was laughing again.

“You’re a real freakin’ comic, McCloskey.  You should write a book.”

“Yeah, you should hear my limericks.”

I finished the tacos in the car.  They weren’t quite lukewarm yet and still tasted good with the hot sauce.  By the time I finished the forensics boys were in full gear.  I pulled an old Wellington from the glove box and loaded it with a tasty blend that included maduro cigar leaves.  Somehow I wasn’t in the mood for latakia.

I would someday like to meet the guy who thought it would be a good idea to put water meters in alleys.

And by "meet," I mean "sneak up behind him, sucker punch him in the kidney, and then stomp him into a bloody pulp."