“Way I figure it, the ops coordinator or precinct commander's got my phone number. They want me to stop, they can always give me a call.”

Her hand closed on his shoulder. She felt a sizzle. Part of it was gratitude that he was going out on a limb to find out who'd killed Shelly. Part of it was something else.

But she concentrated on the detective part at the moment. “Look, Sam, how 'bout I help you?”

“Help me what?”

“Find the killer.”

“No.”

“Come on, we can be a team!”

“Rune.”

“I can do stuff you can't. I mean, you have to do things legally, right?”

“Rune, this isn't a game.”

“I'm not treating it like a game. You want to catch a perp.” She emphasized the word to let him know she'd been around crime and criminals. Then added, “And I want to make a film.” Her lips were taut. “That's not a game.”

He saw that fire in her eyes. He didn't say anything else.

After a moment she asked, “Just tell me one thing.”

“What?”

“Promise you'll answer.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Maybe,” Healy said.

“What about the fingerprints?”

“I told you. They were negative.”

“Not on the phone,” Rune said. “On the letters? The ones from the Sword of Jesus, about the angels?”

He debated. Then said, “Whoever wrote them used gloves.”

“Where was the paper from?”

“I said I'd answer one question.”

“You said maybe you would. Which means you haven't ruled out answering two.”

“I make the rules. I answered you. Now promise me you'll just make your movie and stay out of the investigation.”

She brushed her bangs out of her eyes, then stuck her hand out. “Okay. But only if you give me exclusive press coverage.”

“Deal.” His large, tough hand enfolded hers. He didn't let go. For a moment the only sound was of the wind. She knew he wanted to kiss her and she was ready to kiss him back — in a certain noncommittal way. But the moment passed and he released her hand. They gazed at each other for a moment. Then he turned toward the pit.

“Come on,” he said, “I'll let you throw a hand grenade, you want.”

“Yeah?” she asked excitedly.

“Well, a practice one.”

Rune said, “That's okay. I'll work my way up.”

Through the huge backstage doorway Rune saw a construction site, not a theater.

The aroma was of sawn wood and the nose-pinching, sweet smell of paint and varnish. Lumber was in constant motion, carried by husky men in T-shirts printed with the names of long-gone Broadway plays. Cables snaked along the dusty, battered stage.

Shouts, the boom, boom, boom of hammers, the shrill screech of electric saws, routers, drills.