Who was Spada to decide when people died? And for what? Money? I glanced at Spada’s expensive toys, the framed photographs of his perfect family, those documenting his rich-man’s pastimes: boating, golf, fly-fishing. Nick Spada had discovered a way to make dying his business, and I was going to make sure he didn’t get away with it. Unfortunately, the files only proved that the deaths were to Spada’s benefit. They weren’t evidence that either he or Darby had committed murder.

I pulled the newspaper article on Langham’s death out of my pocket. I unfolded it and laid it flat on the desk. Why had Tim kept it? It didn’t appear to have any connection to Spada. The short article offered nothing new. I’d stared at it a million times, all but memorized it. The photo was just as grainy as before. There were the firemen standing around, the crowd looking on. The crowd. Looking on. Something there. Something I’d missed.

I got real still, afraid to move or even blink, for fear that what I thought I saw would evaporate like mist. I searched Spada’s desk for a pair of eyeglasses, a magnifying glass, anything to get a closer look, finally finding the latter tucked inside his mahogany in-box. I lasered in on the photo, studied it, every dot, every murky shadow, every face. Not the firemen. Not the house. The tall man standing in the back, partially hidden by the crowd: dark, curly hair, handsome. “Darby,” I muttered, my heart pounding. It was Vincent Darby.

I rose slowly. That was it. Why Tim kept the clipping. He’d somehow stumbled upon what Spada and Darby were up to. He knew why Langham and the others were dying. When he saw Darby in the picture, had he put two and two together? Had he accused Darby that night on the boat of rigging Langham’s furnace, flooding the old man’s place with carbon monoxide? Was this the big picture Tim Ayers missed? That was it. I was sure of it. I grabbed up the clipping, put the magnifier back where I’d found it.