He stood, stretched, sat back down, buried his face in his hands for a while and looked up, bleary-eyed. “Creative, Alex. Fanciful, inventive, impressively outside the goddamn box. The problem it doesn’t solve is Peaty. A definite bad guy with access to all of the victims and a rape kit in his van. If the Gaidelases were chasing stardom, why would they have anything to do with a loser like him, let alone set him up to be shot? And how the hell would they know to prime the pump by phoning Vasquez?”

I thought about that. “It’s possible the Gaidelases met Peaty at the PlayHouse and some bonding took place— outsiders commiserating.”

“That’s a helluva lot going on during a failed audition. Assuming the Gaidelases were ever at the PlayHouse.”

“Maybe Nora kept them waiting for a long time then dismissed them unceremoniously. If they did bond with Peaty, they could’ve had opportunity to visit his apartment and pick up on tension in the building. Or Peaty talked about his dislike for Vasquez.”

“Ertha Stadlbraun said Peaty never had visitors.”

“Ertha Stadlbraun goes to sleep by eleven,” I said. “Be interesting to know if anyone at the apartment recognizes the Gaidelases’ photos.”

He stared at me.

“Peaty, Andy, and Cathy. And let’s toss in Billy Dowd, because we’re feeling generous. What, some kind of misfit club?”

“Look at all those schoolyard shootings committed by outsiders.”

“Oh, Lord,” he said. “Before I get sucked into this vortex of fantasy, I need to do some boring old police work. As in pinpointing the phone booth and trying to pull some prints. As in keep searching for any troves Peaty might’ve stashed God knows where. As in...let’s not shmooze any more, okay? My head’s splitting like a luau coconut.”

Yanking his tie loose, he hauled himself up, crossed the tiny office, and threw back the door. It hit the wall, chunked out a disk of plaster, bounced a couple of times.

My ears were still ringing when he stuck his head in, seconds later. “Where can I find one of those amino-acid concoctions that makes you smarter?”

“They don’t work,” I said.

“Thanks for your input.”

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 30

The Brazilian rosewood door of Erica Weiss’s law firm should’ve been used for guitar backs. Twenty-six partners were listed in efficient pewter. Weiss’s was near the top.

She kept me waiting for twenty minutes but came out to greet me personally. Late thirties, silver-haired, blue-eyed, statuesque in charcoal Armani and coral jewelry.

“Sorry for the delay, Doctor. I was willing to come to you.”

“No problem.”

“Coffee?”

“Black would be fine.”

“Cookies? One of our paras whipped up some chocolate chips this morning. Cliff’s a great baker.”

“No, thanks.”

“Coming up with black coffee.” She crossed a field of soft, navy carpet to an entry square of hardwood. Her exit was a castanet solo of stiletto heels.