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Patrick was talking about changing things, cutting corners on the menu, focusing on foofy drinks and bringing in a band for the weekends, like that would be a good thing. . . .
    â€œYeah, I figured,” he said to Ginny, putting his worries about the bar to one side for a moment. “That’s why she came to you?”
    â€œI don’t know. Apparently, people are talking about—” She stopped, and he understood why. Other people might talk about it, but they didn’t. They’d been there. Their erstwhile client had been tagged by the feds for money laundering—thankfully after paying them and nobody had been around to sniff at that money, or tell them they had to give it back—and what more was there to say?
    â€œReputation?” he said, to fill in the uncomfortable silence. “We have a reputation?”
    Ginny frowned at him, and he guessed that it wasn’t because she didn’t get the joke, but because she was thinkingabout their new case. Potential new case, he clarified, to soothe his nerves. They hadn’t agreed to take it, yet.
    â€œThe shelter’s pretty new; it’s only been around a few years. They’re no-kill; they keep the animals until they can find a home for them.”
    â€œSo they’re probably always strapped for cash.”
    â€œYeah, I think so. They had about a dozen dogs, when I found Georgie, and more cats.” Her frown deepened. “They’re the only shelter in the area that takes in pit bulls and pittie mixes. If they close . . .”
    Teddy wasn’t much of a dog person, for all that he’d gotten fond of Georgie, but even he had read about the trouble finding homes for pit bulls, deservedly or not. He didn’t like to think about what would happen then.
    â€œThey can’t pay much, if they’re strapped,” he said.
    She raised an eyebrow at that, or tried to, anyway. Both went up, making her look more surprised than disapproving. “You’re in this for the money?”
    Now it was his turn to frown at her. “You know I’m not. I’m just not sure this is a good idea. I told you that.” He meant the entire venture, not merely this particular potential job, but he’d take it one battle at a time.
    â€œWe’d be doing a community service.” Her voice had a singsong tone to it he was starting to recognize.
    â€œWe’d be snooping,” he said bluntly. “In financial records. And she’s not the owner, not even the manager. She has no right to ask us to do this.”
    Ginny waved that off with a hand. “But she was theone who was asked to handle the grant paperwork. Which means she has access to all the records we need.”
    â€œAccess doesn’t mean authority, Mallard.”
    â€œWell,” she said brightly, “then it’s a good thing we’re not official PIs with licenses that could get pulled, isn’t it?”
    â€œDamn it, Gin.” He pulled back from the bar and crossed his arms, staring at her.
    â€œLook, just think about it, okay? If you don’t want to do it, fine. I won’t ask again.”
    There was that voice again. “But you’re going to do it, anyway?”
    She gave an elegant half shrug and took the business card out of his hands, tucking it into the case of her cell phone, as usual set on the bar next to her like a digital IV.
    â€œGinny Mallard. Are you taking this case?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Ginny said. “I’m going to think about it, too.”
    He wasn’t convinced, but short of calling her a liar, there was nothing he could say.
    *  *  *
    Four and a half years ago, the owners of LifeHouse Shelter had taken over an abandoned warehouse down by the old docks, buying it for pennies on the dollar, and set up shop. Lacking the money to gut the building entirely, they had to adapt the existing structure as best they could, which meant