The technician looked up, and for the first time seemed to recognize Sanderson. “Nothing obvious, Inspector. Of course, a parking lot like this—you’ve always got trash to deal with as well. There was a crushed compact disc just behind me. It’s going to take a while to sort through. I think we have enough from the outer case and buttons that we might be able to lift a fingerprint or two. At least a partial.”

Blix said, “That is, if he didn’t wipe it down.”

Sanderson frowned. “If this Deadmarsh fellow can make his passport evaporate, I doubt we’re going to find a record of his fingerprints languishing in our files.”

Blix said, “He was using three phones within a matter of minutes. Locations all around town. Is there some way to do that remotely? Relay a telephone call?”

The forensic man said, “Never heard of such a thing, but it wouldn’t seem difficult. Voice over Internet—that’s readily available. A sharp programmer could come up with something.”

“There might be an application already out there,” Blix suggested weakly.

“No,” Sanderson said. “We’re slipping the more basic question. Deadmarsh has gone to a considerable amount of trouble here. Why? What has he gained from all this?”

The forensic man stopped his tweezing. Both he and Blix looked at Sanderson.

“Don’t you see? He’s got us chasing our asses. The question is, why?”

*   *   *

Ten minutes later a frustrated Sanderson was back in his car. He decided he wasn’t going to find anything useful here, or for that matter, at either of the other two sites. His own words kept beating in his head: He’s got us chasing our asses.

That was his overriding thought as he turned toward headquarters, bound for what was certain to be another wretched encounter in Sjoberg’s office. Try as he might, he could think of no better option than to make a last stab at groveling his way back onto the investigation. Even if Sjoberg turned him down, as he probably would, Sanderson might glean something useful from beating around headquarters. Yet as he made his way into town, his foot was uncharacteristically light on the accelerator. Sanderson had spent most of his career dealing with petty criminals, dullards whose methods were as hopeless as their prospects. Deadmarsh was clearly something else. Sanderson racked his brain, sure he was missing something.

How? How did you do it?

He recalled the engine noise he’d heard over the phone. Then he considered the distances involved, along with his first impression this morning. It looks as if the damned thing exploded. That was when it struck him. Sanderson braked to a hard stop, swerving to the side of the road, and craned his neck skyward. Just as had been the case yesterday, he saw nothing but a solid layer of cloudcover above, gray and ominous.

Even so—