“Well that’s interesting because William Portison’s business is aerospace technologies, and they build rockets among other things,” Perry says. “He’s into cars, space travel, timepieces, all sorts of things including rocks, and has his own museum, and guess who helped him with it? His limited brother. I think Theo is William’s Rain Man aide-de-camp.”

“Then it’s likely Theo was acquainted with Elisa Vandersteel since she was living with his brother’s family for the past two or so years. Is the rock collection in the house?” I ask, and there’s much more to what Perry is saying than meets the eye.

“He keeps his collection in a safe room with a gun vault door.”

“Someone needs to find out if anything is missing,” I reply. “Specifically if any type of space rock is missing, and if so, what it is and most importantly what is the provenance. Where did he get it?” I explain what we need to be finding out. “The mineral fingerprint of the meteorite might be the only real evidence in this case. We can match it if it turns up again.”

“But wouldn’t Theo know that if he used to help with the museum?”

“It depends on whether his brother knows the details of what he bought or was given. William Portison might have acquired part of a meteorite and not known its precise elemental composition,” as I hear the lock buzz free in my office door.

“Scotland Yard will be interested in all this, I’m sure,” Perry says, adding to my suspicions that the authorities have more than one fish to fry.

I END THE CALL as Marino walks in, and I’m reminded of his privileged character.

I haven’t gotten around to deleting his fingerprint from certain biometric locks, including the one to the parking-lot gate, the pedestrian door that leads into the building and also the door to my office. It’s been years since he headed investigations here. But I can’t bring myself to eradicate all traces of him, and as I watch him walk in, I notice he’s still in his same sweaty clothes he was working in earlier although he got rid of the navy jacket long ago.

He hasn’t showered. That’s apparent as he hovers by my desk like a predatory bird. On a scale of one to ten with ten the highest, I’d rate Marino’s anger right now at a hundred. He’s in what I think of as a white rage, his face livid, his eyes granite as he clenches his jaw muscles.

“You look about as pissed as I’ve ever seen you, and I hope it’s not at me,” I start to say.