the smuggler’s bible


It’s one of the big houses up in Hollyfork. Barraclough knows the neighborhood. Sort of. His parents used to drive him around to see the lights every year.

Pontchartrain whistles as they pull up. “Nice place,” she says.

“It’s looked better. Anywhere can seem shabby with the coroner’s wagon parked on the curb.”

They go in the back to save forensics a headache. The foyer is still smeared with about twelve pints of evidence.

In the parlor, they look at the mess hanging over the fireplace.

“Jesus, that’s awfully—”

“Intricate,” Barraclough says. “I’ll bet they were at it all night.”