door, then turned back, curiosity impelling her to linger.
“Be careful with it,” Tony called, then lifted his eyebrows at her again. “Thought you had to run.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I just…” Margrit’s calves knotted up and she bounced in anxiety.
“I know. You’ve just got to know.” He gave her a faint, comprehending smile.
“I’m being careful,” McLaughlin said, “but there’s something weird.” He looked down over his shoulder.
“Weird,” Tony echoed. “Is that your clinical diagnosis, Officer?”
“Yes, sir, it is,” he replied without a hint of sarcasm. “I’ll be down in a minute and you can see for yourself.” He grinned then, a note of humor in his voice. “Unless you want to come up here, sir.”
“Watch it, Officer,” Tony said good-naturedly. The man on the ladder laughed. His descent this time was much more cautious, and he spoke as he came down the last few rungs.
“I got an index through ring finger on the left hand and a partial thumb and pinky,” he announced. “And I dusted a partial of his shoes. We’ll let the guys in forensics do their magic.”
“His shoes?” Margrit peered up into the lights, remembering the little girl hanging from the monkey bars, and envisioning herself grasping onto the girders with her arms wrapped around them. “How’d he get his shoes up there?” She glanced at her watch again. She could spare another minute. Two, tops.
“Honestly, it looks like somebody perched up there for a while, ma’am. Like he just dropped down from on top and crouched there. I’m guessing he’s left-handed,” McLaughlin said to Tony. “Judging from the fact that his left hand was his third balance point.” He laid the prints out on the DJ’s table, sweeping a finger over the film-covered dusting paper. “He kept most of his weight on the middle three fingers, only brushed the surface with pinky and thumb. But look at the prints, sir.”
Pulcella leaned over the paper, holding his breath as an unnecessary caution. After several long seconds he straightened up, letting his breath out in an explosion. “He must’ve been wearing gloves.”
“He was not wearing gloves,” Margrit said with absolute certainty. Both cops turned to look at her and color flooded her cheeks. “Well, he wasn’t,” she mumbled. “We were dancing. I had my hands over his. He wasn’t wearing gloves.”
Tony’s expression darkened, one part concern and one part jealousy that not even McLaughlin could miss. He looked from his boss to Margrit, then let out an intended-to-be-nonchalant whistle and deliberately turned back to the prints. Margrit thrust her jaw out and met Tony’s eyes forthrightly. After a few moments he lifted his chin and turned his head away, a gesture of defeat Margrit wouldn’t have expected from him.
“All right,” he grunted. “So tell me how you explain this.” He made a short, sharp movement, indicating the prints. Margrit walked forward warily, not quite trusting the invitation to intrude. Neither cop spoke again, preventing her, and she leaned over the prints.
“He wasn’t wearing gloves,” she repeated, less certainly, nearly a full minute later. Tony stood behind her left shoulder; she twisted her head to look back at him. “I mean, what I don’t know about fingerprints could fill a library, but—” She broke off and frowned down at the prints again. “But I’m sure he wasn’t wearing gloves.”
Ridges and swirls of fine black dust marked the paper. Margrit turned her own hand up, examining her fingerprints closely and comparing them to the prints on the paper. The ridges on her fingertips were much closer together than Alban’s, with nearly twice as many swirls. There was a peculiar consistency to Alban’s, as if tiny streams of water had carved them into oxbows. In the spaces between the ridges, there were porous marks, suggesting pumice. “Acid burns…?” Margrit suggested.
“You’re sure he wasn’t wearing gloves?” Tony growled.
Ir-rah-shun-al pounded out in her temples, better than counting to ten. Margrit inhaled and spoke carefully. “I’m sure he wasn’t when we were dancing. I didn’t look at his hands on the stairs, though.”
“I can’t believe you danced with him.” The detective scowled at her abruptly. “What were you, out of your mind?”
“I didn’t know who he was!” Margrit yelled. McLaughlin took two judicious steps backward and found a mote of dust on his shirt to become concerned with.
“Didn’t you?” Tony demanded. “You’ve been very cozy with this whole investigation since minute one, Grit.”
Margrit’s jaw fell open. “What?”
“You’re the best eyewitness we’ve got, someone who actually spoke with him the night of the murders. He just ‘happens’ to show up at the club you’re at last night? You just ‘happen’ to think he might have been hiding in the rafters? Is this some kind of sick game, Margrit?” Anger and suspicion flooded his voice, as well as jealousy. “It’s not an uncommon pattern for an accomplice to provide just enough information to drag an investigation out. Are you pulling some sort of shit like that, Grit? It’s a federal offense!”
Margrit thinned her lips, deliberately spreading her fingers as if she could release tension through them. When she trusted herself to speak, she said, “I’m well aware of the penalties of interfering in a murder investigation, Anthony. If you intend to arrest me, I invite you to do it now. Otherwise, I suggest you put some more thought behind your spurious claims.”
“Or what,” Tony sneered, “you’ll sue me for libel?”
“It’s slander,” Margrit said through her teeth. “Libel is if it’s in print. If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.” She turned and stalked toward the door, so tense with anger she could scarcely walk in a straight line.
“Margrit! Margrit!” Tony’s shout followed her down the street.
She ignored him, still walking with great precision, afraid if she began to run she would mow somebody down. The detective caught up to her and grabbed her arm, turning her around. Margrit dropped her gaze to his hand and then lifted it to his eyes.
He let go as if she’d screamed, tucking his hands behind his back, then bringing them forward again to twist together. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t have an excuse. I haven’t had enough sleep, but that’s not an excuse, and I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
“Apparently what got into you was the idea that I’m a coconspirator in a murder case. A suspect, if that word was too big, Detective.” Margrit’s voice found its courtroom tones, polite and mocking to mask outrage.
Tony blanched. “I don’t think you’re a suspect. It’s just—”
“Just a remarkable series of coincidences,” she said with a pointed smile. “I’m so glad you don’t think I’m a suspect, Tony. There’s something we agree on. If you’ll excuse me,” she said again, and turned away.
Tony grabbed her arm once more and spun her around. He lifted both hands to her face and caught her cheeks, bringing his mouth down to hers for a desperate, intense kiss.
For a few seconds
