Chloe's house reminded Paul of a cross between a used bookstore, a computer repair shop, and a college dorm. A wall of bookcases dominated the living room, each shelf crammed with two, sometimes three layers of books, videotapes, CD's and DVD's. More stacks of books and magazines stood in every corner. Paul was certain they would have taken over all the other flat spaces as well, were it not for the half-assembled computers and three dusty old monitors occupying the coffee table, end tables, and everything in between. The only semi-open spaces were the two couches that faced each other from across the room. A large red and black checkered blanket covered one of them, while the other was cracked but still serviceable brown leather. Thrift store purchases both, Paul thought. "The computer stuff belongs to one of my roommates," Chloe said. "She's always fiddling with those things to get better performance or whatever. The books are mostly mine or my other roommate, Kurt's. Come on into the kitchen and we'll rustle up a sandwich." Paul followed her back into the open kitchen area, which (given that he was ostensibly here to have lunch) he was relieved to see was clean. There was clutter in there certainly, but no dirty dishes or leftover foodstuffs appeared in evidence. Along the left wall was a cheap, plastic patio table with long wooden benches on each side and miss-matched chairs at either end. Newspapers, books, and a laptop occupied most of its surface area, but the end closest to Paul seemed clear enough to see actual use as a place for dining. "Is peanut butter ok?" she asked, motioning him towards one of the chairs. "Sure," he said and sat down at the table. As she started to prepare a couple of peanut butter sandwiches on white bread she said, "So, tell me Paul, why are you getting fired tomorrow?" Who did the computer stuff belong to? - Chloe - one of Chloe's roommates. - Paul - not enough information
one of Chloe's roommates.

"Hey, guy." "No, this is Ray." He smiled, leaned back in his chair. It was, of course, Pete. Pete was the night shift guy at Crossroads Detox across town. Ray called it the Jesus Shop because it was wholly supported by a contingent of local churches who saw addicts as a potential ministry. Apparently Jesus saved--not only from sin and hell, but also from Dark Eyed Jim Beam. Pete was a relatively innocuous born again fundie who volunteered his time two or three nights a week. When he was not saving the world, his Clark Kent was actually a steady CPA job with the local H&R Block. He'd been pulling shifts for about six months, knew nothing about drugs beyond that bad people used them to escape their problems and that they were tools of Satan, and he always needed Ray's advice about one thing or another. This arrangement was not problematic as Pete had long ago given up trying to convert him. Pete was also the only guy in the city who was, as Ray figured it, making less money than he was at such an hour. In return for Ray's magnanimity, Pete had done Ray's taxes for free last year. They had never actually met, though Ray had faxed him the tax forms and Pete had faxed back a photo of his two pre-teen daughters and his geriatric Lab. "What's the problem?" Ray asked. "I have a recalcitrant." That's what he called them, the drunk and definitely disorderly. Pete's vocabulary did not include the word shithead either in its singular or plural. "Pete, they're all like that. Alcohol is bad medicine. That's why places like ours are in business. To make them calcitrant." "I know that." Pete sounded a little annoyed. There was some commotion in the background, a knocking on doors. Why does Pete volonteere at night? - NIght shifts pays more money - He likes working with Ray - he has another job - not enough information
he has another job

*Question*
His eyes were open and his head bobbed around at an impossible angle. He was sitting in about forty feet of water, stone dead, one arm pinned between the rocks. As best I could tell, he had been dead when he landed there. The mud and ooze around him were as serene and smooth as he was. The cop who was assisting me swam over and made a palms up gesture. I shrugged back at him and began to work the body loose. The corpse had only one leg, and as I worked I wondered what he had been doing in the lake. I got the arm free and kicked toward the quicksilver surface above me. The body turned bloated and heavy when I broke water with it, and it took three of us to load it into the police launch. I dried off and got a coke out of the cooler. It was getting to be another Texas scorcher, and the sunlight bouncing off the surface of the lake felt like it had needles in it. My mouth was dry from breathing canned air and the carbonation burned like fire. Winslow, from the sheriff's office, sat down next to me. 'I appreciate this, Dan,' he said. 'No problem.' Sam Winslow and I had grown up together about twenty miles outside Austin in a little town called Coupland. We'd fought a lot as kids, and there were still plenty of differences in our politics and educations. But being on the police and fire rescue squad had brought me closer to him again, and I was glad of it. A private detective needs all the friends he can get. 'What do you make of it?' I asked him. 'Accidental drowning, looks like.' I raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. 'He's got a bump on the head that could have come off a rock. We'll see what the coroner says.' 'Any idea who he is?' Winslow shook his head. He'd gained weight in his face recently and his jowls vibrated with the gesture. What does Dan probably believe about the cause of death? - not enough information - That it was because the body was bloated and heavy. - That it wasn't an accidental drowning. - That it was an accidental drowning.
**Answer**
That it wasn't an accidental drowning.