“When does your medical examiner think that Walter Newell could have died? Forget CCTV cameras. Forget paint scratches. Level with me, or if you can’t, say you can’t. What does the body tell you?”

Frank pushed away from the table.

“What are you thinking?” Stanley said, giving Emily a narrow look.

“I’m thinking that your medical examiner has done a thorough job but maybe he’d come to a different conclusion if he had all the facts. I want to know what’s the earliest that Walter Newell could have died? What’s the time range? How certain is he? Because at the time when Walter Newell was supposed to have been at an auction in Hyannis, and later when he’s supposed to have been driving back in what you told me yourself was a major traffic jam, and later when he’s supposed to have hit my car in the Square and then gotten run down at the town wharf, is it possible that he was already dead?”

Stanley propped an elbow on the table, rested his chin on his knuckles, and gave her a speculative look. “From the autopsy results?”

“This is crazy,” Frank said. “Walter Newell was at that auction. He registered, didn’t he?”

What happened to Don’t speculate? Don’t offer information?

Stanley tilted his head to look at Frank and gave a slow nod. “He registered.”

Frank said, “So doesn’t that mean—”

“It doesn’t mean a thing,” Emily said. “All you need to register at an auction is a credit card. If he had his credit card at the auction, then why didn’t he use it later that night to pay for his coffee?”

Stanley said, “You really think someone went to the auction pretending to be Walter Newell?” He sat back. He seemed to be enjoying this. After all, they were doing his job for him.

“Maybe,” Emily said. “Smoke and mirrors and men wearing beards and baseball caps and tinted glasses. What I want to know is, from the body and only the body, what’s the earliest he could have died?” She looked at Sergeant Stanley. At Frank. “Anyone have a problem with that?”

Frank shut down, his face drained of expression.

“Fair enough.” Stanley stood. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he left the room, Frank turned to Emily and gave an exasperated huff. “I only hope you know what you’re doing.”

Emily shushed him and pointed to the mirror. She was banking on something from Stanley, assuming he was going to level with her, that would account for a whole lot of ice.

A minute ticked by. And another. After five more, Emily glanced toward the door. “What do you think he’s up to?”