She’d reached the emergency exit door, put her hand against the wood.

“So?”

“So they are going to think one of us had something to do with the dead guy in the chair. That makes you my alibi. And me, yours.”

The girl put her weight against the door—and then a brief look of panic crossed her face, when it didn’t budge. Nick pulled a security keycard from his pocket. The girl raised her eyebrows—seemed to take in his jacket for the first time.

“You swiped that from the guards. Downstairs, outside the elevator. That’s why you bumped into them.”

Nick shrugged, used the key on the fire door. When it clicked open, the girl edged past him.

“Well, I don’t need an alibi. And, no offense, but you don’t look like much of an alibi. You look like you just got out of jail.”

They were in a cinder-block stairwell heading downward. No alarm, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something buzzing in some security booth somewhere. They had to move fast.

“I did. And I don’t intend to go back, not for murder. If I’m going back, it’s going to be for something worthwhile.”

They were taking the steps two at a time, her in front, him right behind. As he went, he reached into his jacket and retrieved the little plastic bag. He tapped her shoulder, then handed it to her. She looked through the clear plastic, at what was inside.

“What the hell is this?”

“This is what I was bringing to Jimmy the Lip. He was going to give me a hundred thousand dollars for it, as a down payment.”

She stopped, one tennis shoe above the next step.

“This is a Polaroid picture. He was going to give you a hundred grand for a Polaroid?”

“Look closer.”

She squinted through the plastic.

“Looks like a picture of a picture.”

“A painting, yes.”

“Looks old,” the girl said. “A woman playing a piano, next to a guy with a guitar and another woman singing. It’s nice, I guess.”

“Nice?” Nick said.

“What? It’s not nice?”

He took the Polaroid in the plastic bag from her and jammed it back into his jacket. Then he started forward again down the stairs, taking the lead. Now she was a step behind him, but he could tell she wasn’t just heading the same way, trying to get away from hotel security, or the police, or the casino. He was leading, and now she was following.

“It’s not a piano, it’s a harpsicord. And it’s not a guitar, it’s a lute.”