Normally, I would have cared more about propriety, but half an hour ago my wife had told me she was dying of cancer, I wanted to get back to see her, and right now I didn’t really care if I stepped on anyone’s toes.

“Marcus,” I said, “where were you on Sunday night at ten o’clock?”

“What?”

“Sunday night. We’re checking the subway and the security cameras of the businesses surrounding Trinity Church Cemetery. Will we find you on them?”

He must have anticipated that we would be successful in our search because he said, “There’s nothing illegal about visiting a graveyard.”

“And you’ve been on some recent trips, I understand, to Seattle and Miami?”

He eyed me.

“What’s going on here?” Senator Murray asked.

“Marcus,” I said, “tell the senator where you were on the night his son died.”

Senator Murray looked at me, then at Marcus, and then back at me. “Are you saying he’s the one who was in my house, watching?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Thurman suggested angrily.

Marcus gave us a cold and unforgiving glare.

“Did you know Thomas Kewley?” I said to him.

“If you’re accusing me of something, just come out and say it.”

“Wait,” the senator cut in, agitated. “I want to know if you were in my house.”

Marcus gave him no reply.

“What do you do when you have tens of billions of dollars?” Thurman muttered. “When you have everything you could ever want? You expand your horizons.” Then he pounded the table and said to Marcus, “Who gave the victims the ideas for the ways they died? Was that part of the deal? The more creative, the bigger the donation?”

“I didn’t commit any crime.” Marcus turned to the senator. “Your son loved you. That’s why he did it. Because of your debts.”

“My debts?”

“I paid them off.”

Horrified, Senator Murray rose to his feet. “You could have saved Jon, but you didn’t?”

“He did it for you. I did it for you.”

The senator was quick.

Before Thurman or I could stop him, he rushed Marcus and landed two solid blows to his face.

It took both of us to pull him off the tech mogul.

“I didn’t break any laws,” Marcus protested, holding his broken nose. “I just watched the suicides. Just like thousands of other people did online.”

“Actually,” I said, “since you donated the money before two of the suicides, you influenced the victims—especially since they were on Selzucaine when they died. Those donations will be considered coercive to get the people to harm themselves. So will the money to the bookie. That turns them into homicides, not suicides.”

“That’ll never hold up in court. My lawyers will have a field day with this.”

“Maybe,” I acknowledged. “But maybe not.”