“She's all yours.” The detective turned to her. “We'll want you to sign a statement. Where can we get in touch with you?”

Rune gave them the phone number of L&R Productions.

Climbing into their unmarked car, one detective said, “I hope you consider this a lesson, young lady. Get your life together.”

“I wasn't —,” Rune began. But they slammed the doors and sped off.

Cowboy was studying her face. “Not too bad.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The cuts, I mean. You were lucky. It'd been on ground level, you might not have made it.”

Rune was staring at the smoldering hole, where firemen had set up portable lights in metal cages hanging from scorched wires and conduit.

“What was her name?” he asked.

“Shelly Lowe. That was her stage name. She was an adult-film star.”

“That was a studio?”

“Lame Duck Productions.”

He nodded, looking up at the hole in the side of the building. “Another porn bombing.”

“They” — she nodded at the detectives who'd just left — “thought I worked for them.”

“They were giving you the shock treatment. They do the same thing with kids they find with drugs, and hookers and drunk drivers. You humiliate them, they're supposed to change their wayward lifestyle and go back to school or go on the wagon and join the church. I did it myself when I was a portable.”

“A what?”

“A beat cop.”

She walked a foot or two toward the building, staring at the opening. “I didn't work with her. I'm doing a documentary about her. I don't do those kind of films.”

“I've seen you before.”

“I was at the other bombing, the theater, and I saw you. Then again last night.”

“I saw somebody with a camera. I didn't recognize you.”

“I asked you something and you didn't answer me.”

“I didn't hear,” he answered. He touched his ear. “Hearing's not so great. Been doing bomb work for a few years now.”

“I'm Rune.” She stuck out her hand.

His fingers were narrow, but thick with calluses. “Sam Healy.”

Healy motioned for her to step back as several blue-and-white police cars pulled away. Rune noticed that most of the police were gone. Just a half-dozen fire trucks were left. And the blue-and-white Bomb Squad station wagon.

He stood with his hands on his hips, looking at the shattered wall. He paced up and down.

“Why is everyone gone?”

Healy stared at the bricks. He asked, “Did you see a flash?”

“A flash? Yeah.”

“What color was it?”

“I don't remember. Red or orange, I guess.”

He said, “Did you feel a chemical irritation, like tear gas or anything?”

“It smelled pretty bad but I don't think so.”

“No one threw anything through the window?”

“Like a hand grenade?”

“Like anything,” he said.

“No. Shelly called out the window, asked me a question. Then she went to make a phone call. It blew up a minute later. Less, maybe.”

“Phone call?”