“You knew the deceased?” asks the cop. “Do you know how he was set on fire? We haven’t been able to find an ignition source or an accelerant.”

I keep a straight face. “Everyone knows vampires don’t exist,” I say. “So if I was to tell you he was a blood-sucking fiend—”

“You have got to be kidding.” For a moment I wonder if I’ve gone too far: cops take a very dim view of people messing with their heads. But she’s seen the warrant card; I’m not sure who she thinks we are, but as long as she thinks we’re authority figures she can trust, we should be okay.

I shrug. “Have it your way. It’d explain everything very neatly, though, wouldn’t it? Otherwise how else would Vampy Vicious here break his neck sitting down, then spontaneously combust?”

“There are signs of abrasions around his wrists, inflicted pre-mortem. And if you examine his crotch—”

Hmm. “Abrasions? You think someone cuffed him? What about his crotch?”

The sergeant walks over, points at a carbonized mess where the legs join the torso. “Looks like Mr. Polyester Pants suffered a bit of a meltdown in the wedding tackle department. Which was unzipped, privates on parade.” Angleton is watching me with arch amusement. “Hm. Your V—theory. Would Edward Cullen here be very strong, by any chance?”

“Yes,” I admit. “So, um. Hypothesis: the killer seduced him in order to get close enough to cuff him, then broke his neck and left him to face the rising sun. Which would destroy most of the other evidence, wouldn’t it? DNA, skin samples, and so on.” Yummy! Self-cremating murder victims. “How long ago did it happen?”

“We’re not certain yet but the body’s cold enough he could have been dead for—”

“It happened yesterday,” says Angleton.

“What?” I ask, just as the cop says, “How do you know?”

“He left the office yesterday around 4 p.m. and missed work today.” Angleton looks annoyed—and rightly so. Someone in HR was asleep on the job if we didn’t learn about it until after the police. “How did you find him?”

“The housekeeper has a key, came in to make the bed, got the fright of her life.” The sergeant shakes her head. “Am I looking for a female or male?”

I shrug. “I have no idea. We could ask his co-workers which way they think he swings—swung—but he could have been closeted or have some other reason to lie.”

“Well. Perhaps you could introduce me to these co-workers?”

Angleton spares me a quelling look, then slides into gear: “I’m afraid not, Sergeant. Mr. Elliott was engaged in secret work for the government, as are his colleagues, and I must remind you at this point of the terms of the Official Secrets Act. Although, having said that, we entirely understand your desire to bring the perpetrator of this, this—”

“Crime,” I suggest.