“The meds from his cabinet were in his system. You don’t know how they got there. What if Stephen made the whole crazy-brother thing up, knowing Cap would repeat it and that it’d stick? Hell, Cap’s probably sneaking around here somewhere right now, telling everybody again what a sick puppy Tim was.”

“So I have somebody who told me one thing, you have someone else who tells you different. Again, where’s the proof? Because I have a dead guy and no witnesses.” She waited. “Go on. Show me and I’ll reopen this case so fast, it’ll make your head spin.” Marta held her hand out, wiggled her fingers. “Well?” She dropped her hand. “Didn’t think so. It’s done. Walk away now.”

“It is not done. Did you know Tim offered a friend financing for a club, then didn’t come through? People have killed for less, and you and I both know it. Did you know Tim was cut off from his inheritance, by his brother? He had to sell his insurance policy in some weird arrangement just to get by. And where exactly was Stephen the night Tim died? What lie did he tell you? I’d gladly ask him, but he’s avoiding me like the plague, hiding behind his creepy lawyer.” I eyed the slips again, half expecting to see Felton crouching behind a bush.

We were getting loud, and people were paying attention. I was not only walking on thin ice, I was ice-skating on it, backward and with flourish. The look on Marta’s face was enough to freeze a person’s intestines, but I had a job to do, too. Granted, it wasn’t one I initially wanted, but I had it now.

“No witnesses, no prints, nothing on surveillance, and the victim is half in the bag,” she said, ticking off the points on her fingers. “Oh, yeah, and he was dying, which might just screw with your head a tiny little bit. The Ayers case is a slam dunk, and I want you out of my hair. I’ve got actual homicides stacked on my desk right now with actual killers attached to them. I don’t have to go around inventing murders.”

I should have stopped, but couldn’t. “Nobody wipes their prints off their own stuff before they nose-dive into the lake, they just don’t.”

Marta opened her mouth to speak. I raised my hand to stop her. “He was not OCD. I got that from someone who’d know. But for the sake of argument, let’s say he was. He could have obsessively wiped away his prints from the cabin, but he couldn’t have gotten up and over the side without leaving at least one smudge behind.”

“It was a monsoon that night,” Marta said.

“Not one smudge, Marta? That reeks, and you damn well know it.”