“Cindy’s a peach,” I said to my lover. “She grows on you.”

“Yeah? I’ll have to take your word for it.” Joe smirked.

“Honey, would you mind -?”

“Will I walk Martha? Yes. Because I work at home and you have a real job.”

“Thanks, Joe,” I said. “Will you do it soon? Because I think she’s got to go.”

Joe looked at me deadpan, his big blue eyes giving me the business. I blew him a kiss, then I made a run for the shower.

Several months had blown by since my cozy apartment on Potrero Hill had burned out to the walls – and I was still getting used to living with Joe in his new crib in the high-rent district.

Not that I didn’t enjoy his travertine shower stall with the dual heads and a gizmo that dispensed gel, shampoo, and moisturizer, plus the hotel-style bath sheets folded over a heated brass rack.

I mean, yeah. Things could be worse!

I turned the water up hot and high, soaked and lathered my hair, my mind going to Cindy’s phone call, wondering what she was so charged up about.

Last I heard, dead bums didn’t make headlines. But Cindy was telling me this was some kind of special bum with a special name. And she was asking me to check out the scene as a favor to her.

I dried my hair, padded down the carpeted hallway to my own walk-in closet, which was still mostly empty. I stepped into clean work pants, shrugged on an aqua-colored pullover, checked my gun, buckled my shoulder holster, and topped it all off with my second-best blue blazer.

I bent to ruffle the silky ears of my lovely border collie, Sweet Martha, and called out, “Bye, honey,” to Joe.

Then I headed out to meet Cindy’s newest passion: a dead bum with a certifiably crazy name.