“Look,” I said finally. “This has turned out to be a real sinkhole of a day. I’m tired, you’re tired. We’ve gone over this a hundred times.” I stood, hoping the gesture signaled the end. “What I know about Vincent Darby, you now know, so either take me in or cut me loose.”

Marta and Reingold stood. There was a knock at the door. Reingold opened it and a cop stuck her head in. She and Reingold spoke in whispered tones. I could make out nothing, but the looks on their faces didn’t look promising for me. The cop ducked back out; Reingold walked back.

“Besides the slice and dice,” he said, “GSW to the chest on the victim.”

Marta stepped forward, held her hand out. “I’m going to need your gun.” She read my look. “Don’t make it ugly.”

I turned to Reingold. “What caliber round? What kind of gun?”

He didn’t answer. That meant the ME didn’t know yet, which meant Reingold didn’t know.

I turned back to Marta. “Go fish. Unless I’m under arrest, or until you know what kind of weapon you’re even looking for, my gun stays with me.”

She drew her hand back, nodded, a slight smile on her face. She knew I knew she’d just tried to pull a fast one. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll count the minutes.”

* * *

It took a while for the building to empty, but when it did, I sat quietly at my desk, my door open, staring out into the hall, my eyes on the spot where the box had been. Turk had been Johnny-on-the-spot with a clean mop and floor wax, once what was left of Darby got bagged, tagged, and carted away. He’d scrubbed the hall twice, no doubt hoping to rid the place of the dead man’s juju. His building, he reminded me, his prerogative. I knew Marta would be back to me quickly when the ME determined what kind of gun Darby had been shot with, but she’d only be wasting time. For some reason, she seemed determined to show me up or prove me wrong about Ayers. I couldn’t understand the competitiveness, but it didn’t worry me, either. I had a job to do, same as her.