“Hi, Officer,” Artie chirped a little too brightly, especially since there was a dead guy lying less than fifty feet from us.
He said nothing but whipped out a notebook from his pocket. He flipped it open to a clean page, extracted a pen from his uniform pocket, and barked, “Name.”
“Jane Smith,” Artie said.
At his tilted brow and look of disbelief, I groaned inwardly. This couldn’t go worse if we had planned it.
“Nice name,” he said, condescension dripping from his voice.
Artie, clueless to his sarcasm, grinned widely at him. “It’s a family name.”
“I’m sure it is.” He then turned to Ares.
“And you are?”
Ares offered him a superior smile and said, “John Smith.”
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