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I found several videos the influencer couple had posted, and all of them were lively and colorful and fun. They also had plenty of likes and shares. Their career had begun three years before, and their early videos showed how devoted they were to try and save the planet, and further their environmental endeavors. The more I progressed through the chronology, though, the more commercially motivated the videos became, which told of the rift between Chiquita and Oren.

Next up was Ruby and her folks. Ruby herself had a nice Facebook, filled with the pursuits a teenage girl of her age would go for: she seemed to be into sports big time, as there were plenty of pictures of her in a soccer outfit, kicking the ball around. Her parents, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have any discernible social media presence.

And finally I googled the Biles family: Bertha, of course, but also David and Laura.

“Who’s that?” asked Dooley, who lay next to me and followed my search with interest.

“Bertha Biles,” I said. “With her first husband.”

“The one who died?”

I nodded, and studied the picture. It had been taken at some kind of society event.

“She used to be a real socialite,” I said. “And a benefactor to several charities. Her husband, too.”

Tony Matz, Laura’s dad, was a heavyset man with a receding hairline and a pasty, pockmarked face. He was holding aloft a glass of champagne, but looked a little bored in the picture, and clearly not all that interested in the opening of the new opera season. His wife, though, looked very much alive, and appearedto be having a ball.

David Biles was easy to find, and most of the pictures featured him in a physical therapy setting. He owned his own business, and was clearly a well-respected and talented professional.

Laura Matz was well represented on the World Wide Web, with plenty of pictures and websites referencing her. The company she worked for designed self-driving bicycles, and she was an important member of the design team.

Dooley suddenly reached out and tapped the screen with his paw pads, typing‘Liltack.’

“Who’s Liltack?” I asked.

“The murder victim.”

I smiled and typed‘Lil Thug,’ and a picture of the rapper popped up.

And as I studied the man’s face, suddenly the smile was wiped from my own face as if with a squeegee. “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said.

“Please don’t curse, Max,” said Dooley.

“I’m sorry,” I said absentmindedly, as I backtracked through the browser history until I reached a picture I’d seen earlier. I hadn’t been mistaken. “Oh, dear,” I said, as a shiver ran down my spine.

“What is it?”

“I think I’ve just figured out who killed Liltack.”

25

This whole thing needed careful thinking through, and so I walked out onto the balcony, took up my now customary position underneath one of the deck chairs, and gave myself up to thought. Dooley soon followed me out, and lay down underneath the other chair, and studied me carefully.

“I still think we need to do something for Salvatore,” he said finally.

“Mh?”

“Okay, so parakeets are out of the question, and so are cats and dogs, but what about gerbils? Gerbils are nice pets. Or even a pet pig. One of Gran’s friends has a pet pig, and she’s crazy about it. Though it’s becoming really big.”

“I don’t think Salvatore would like a pet pig for a friend.”

“Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong, Max. Maybe Salvatore likes small things, since he’s very small himself.”

“Hey, I heard that,” suddenly a voice sounded through the night.

We both looked up, and saw that our friend had walked out onto his own balcony, and was grinning at us.

“Salvatore! What is your position on pet pigs?!” Dooley yelled, as if to cover the distance from balcony to balcony, which wasn’t much of a distance at all.

“My position on pet pigs is that I don’t have a position. Why?”

“Dooley is still trying to come up with a friend to keep you company,” I said.

“I already told you not to bother, Dooley. I’m fine all by myself.”

“But it makes me so sad!” said Dooley.

“Then you get another friend,” said Salvatore with a chuckle.

“Aren’t you going to the concert?” I asked.

“Not a chance. All that noise and all those people? I’m basically a homebody, never happier than when curled up on my human’s lap. Which is exactly what I’m going to do right now. Goodnight, you guys.”

“Goodnight,” I told Salvatore.

“How about a turtle?!” Dooley yelled.

“No, thank you!” was the swift response.

“Turtles are nice,” said Dooley.

“I know. We’re friends with one, remember?”

“That’s why I thought of a turtle for Salvatore.”