I was so amazingly selfish, sometimes I astonished even me.

I reached over and took his hand into mine. It was the first real contact I’d ever had with him. I was always afraid he’d up and vanish on me. Dead people tended to do that. But he didn’t move. He let me fondle his extremities as I searched for any kind of tattoo. Any mark that might lead me to his identity. It was probably too much to hope that he’d have a tat with his name on it like Mr. Andrulis.

I carefully lifted a sleeve. Nothing, though he did have a lot of scars, mostly thin wisps across his fragile skin. The same with the other arm. I bent and lifted a ragged pant leg. Again, scars, though not so many, but no other markings of any kind.

I heard Cookie open the door as I was looking at his right leg.

“What are you doing?” she asked, heading straight for Mr. Coffee. I’d suspected those two for some time now. Cookie seemed suddenly very concerned as to his whereabouts, his everyday activities, how long it took him to brew. She was eyeing him, sizing him up; I could tell. It could have something to do with the fact that her own coffeepot died after a long bout with congestion. I think its fuel pump went out. But she needed to keep her eyes off my man if she knew what was good for her.

“I’m fondling Mr. Wong,” I said, dropping his pant leg and rising. “Did you find anything out about our Mr. Andrulis?”

“Sure did.”

I peeked around Mr. Wong. “Seriously? And?”

She stirred her cup, rinsed the spoon off, then walked over to me and handed me a paper. “Is this him?”

I looked at the clipping. It was a photograph of several veterans from a local VFW event. She’d circled one of them, and underneath was a list of their names, including a Charles Andrulis. I squinted, trying to bring the picture into focus. “You know, that might be him. It’s hard to tell. He’s so naked now.”

“According to the obituaries,” Cookie said, taking the chair I’d pulled up to Mr. Wong, “he died about a month ago and is survived by his wife of fifty-seven years. But she’s not doing well.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s still here,” I said, pulling up another chair and retrieving my coffee cup. “Maybe, I don’t know, maybe he’s waiting for her.”

Cookie sighed in romantic bliss.

“But wait. Why is he freaking naked?”

“Oh.” She scoured her bag until she produced a stack of papers. “Okay, I called the home where he and his wife were living, and according to a Nurse Jacob—who sounded quite yummy, I might add—they were giving Mr. Andrulis a shower when he collapsed. He died instantly of a heart attack.”

“Oh, man. Poor guy.”

“I know. It’s really sad. Nurse Jacob said his wife doesn’t know he’s gone. Even if they told her, it would sink in for only a few minutes before she was asking for him again, so they haven’t told her. They just keep telling her he’s coming right back.”

“You know what?” I said, rising and pacing the floor space. All two feet of it. “I’ve had it. I don’t want to be around death anymore.” I was holding my cup with one hand, but my other flew all over the place in indignation. “I’m done with sad stories that leave me whimpering and fetal.”

Cookie straightened. “But aren’t you the grim reaper? I mean, isn’t death your job?”

“Yes.” I strode to my desk and took out a piece of paper. “Yes, it is, and I quit.”

She relaxed and sipped on her coffee a bit before asking, “So, what are you doing?”

“Writing my resignation letter. How do you spell

disestablishmentarianism

?”

“First of all, I’m not sure you know what that word means if you are using it in a resignation letter.”

I paused and examined my letter. “Really?”

“Second, I’m not sure you can quit.”

“Oh, yeah?” I went back to writing my letter, throwing in a few curse words to get my point across. “Watch me.”

I signed it with all the flair I could muster, then folded it into thirds, tried to stuff it in an envelope, pulled it back out and refolded to make the thirds more even, tried again, pulled it back out. “Oh, my god, how do you get a letter into a freaking—?”

“Would you like to hear my third point?”

I blew a lock of hair off my face and turned to her. “Sure.”

“Third, just who are you going to send that letter to, exactly?”

Damn. She had a point. But I was busy looking at Mr. Wong’s back. I saw something I’d never noticed before through the threadbare material of his shirt. Dropping the letter, I strolled over to him, stood on my tiptoes, and peeked down the collar of his gray shirt.

“Holy cow,” I said. His entire back was covered in tattoos. “I think Mr. Wong may have been triad.”

“Triad?” she asked, standing slowly. “Aren’t they kind of dangerous?”

“From what I hear, they are.” I reached around him and unbuttoned the top couple of buttons of his shirt. “I am so sorry, Mr. Wong. So, so, so, so sorry.”

After I’d unfastened enough to pull the shoulders down, I carefully peeled back the shirt and examined the artwork. It was stunning, but not what I’d seen in the movies that would link him to any underground organized crime syndicate, Chinese or otherwise. It was Chinese characters, beginning with a straight line across, then more characters falling from there and forming vertical lines of text. Only, I couldn’t read them.

I’d been born knowing every language ever spoken on Earth. Part of the gig, I guessed. Even though that didn’t include the ability to read and write said languages, I knew just enough Mandarin to be dangerous.

Cookie was standing back, watching me with nervous anxiety. “Well? Is he triad?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. I’m not sure what he is. It’s just words. Chinese characters. But I don’t recognize them. I can’t read it.” A thought hit me, and I turned to her. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for your fake date?”

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m not sure, Charley.”

“Cook,” I said, righting Mr. Wong’s shirt just in case he was triad and could put out a hit for my head to be brought to him in a plain, brown package, and stepped to her. “You have to snap out of this.” I took her shoulders and gave her a little shake. I didn’t slap her, though. That might be taking it a bit far. “You want this, remember? For reasons known only to you and God above, you have the hots for my uncle.”

She drew in a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. It’s for his own good.”

“Damn straight, it is. And it’ll be funny to watch him squirm. I can’t wait to see the look on his face—”

“Charley!”

“But that’s not the only reason I’m doing this! I swear.”

“You are such a bad liar.”

I chuckled and led her to the door. “Go get ready for your fake date. Ubie should be here around six. Ish. You never know with him.”

She nodded again, handed me her cup, then headed across the hall to her own apartment. I said a quick prayer, asking for divine intervention in her fashion choice, then went back to Mr. Wong. Some of the lines of text went all the way down his back and disappeared into the top of his pants, but no way was I going there. I had to leave him at least an ounce of dignity.

I could try to draw the tats, as I had with Mr. A, but that would take me forever, and I just wasn’t that good. Time to kill two bad guys with one bullet. I summoned Angel, a thirteen-year-old departed gangbanger who’d wanted to see me naked before he’d agree to become my investigator. I was happy to report he had yet to see me naked and he was indeed my investigator. I’d blackmailed him. It was how I rolled.

“Hey, Charley,” he said, popping in behind me. Very close behind me.

I stepped away from him and gave him a good once-over. “You’re being very nice today,” I said, letting the suspicion I felt show. “What gives?”