“Have you had dinner?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you have any food?” He clasped his hands as though in prayer.

“Sure. I have tuna,” she said. He made a face. “I buy a lot of it, Alfie. It comes in cans, and lasts a long time, so it’s good when we wind up working nights and I’m not home to cook.”

“Tuna sounds great.” He followed her into the kitchen, delving into the rack for one of her bottles of questionable red wine as she drew out tuna, mayonnaise, bread, lettuce and tomatoes.

“So?” he said, opening the wine as she prepared the food.

“So?”

“Oh, please! There’s a massive rumor mill! You’re helping the cops! Or the FBI. The ghost FBI.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insisted. She pushed him aside to get a knife out of the drawer. Act innocent, she’d been told.

Alfie rested his elbows on the counter and jiggled his brows. “Studly, macho FBI agent—old employee of the studio—arrives, and you’re assigned to be with him!”

“I showed him around the studio.”

“Aha!”

“Aha what?” she asked.

“So he is studly and macho,” Alfie said triumphantly.

“I suppose. It’s not something you really notice when you’re worried because there’s been a murder and a friend is accused of that murder and our livelihoods are at stake.” That was a lie. Sad as it was, she’d noticed everything about Sean Cameron, down to the scent of his aftershave and the single ring he wore, some kind of coat of arms. He also wore a dive watch. His hands were large, his fingers long, his fingernails neatly clipped; his were the hands of someone who was clean in appearance and habits, yet heedless of artificial enhancements. His hair was cleanly cut and simple, too. The way it fell slightly forward was entirely unaffected.

“I don’t get it,” Alfie said. “I mean, how could anyone but Alistair have done it?”

“I don’t know. I’m not an investigator.” She took the glass of wine he held before her nose, sipped—it was indeed questionable—and set the glass down. “Alfie, I’m just a friend and an artisan and a fabricator. I showed him around the studio because I was asked to.” She cut the sandwiches in halves and bent down to give Ichabod his portion of tuna. “There are chips in the cupboard,” she said.

He went for the chips, poured them into a bowl, then put it and their plates on the kitchen table. He pulled out his chair, waiting for her to join him. When she’d done so, he practically pounced on her. “And you went to see Alistair!”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Has he confessed?”

“No! Alistair swears he didn’t do it—and I believe him.”

Alfie leaned back, sipping his wine. “If Alistair didn’t do it, then who did?”

“Alfie, we’re talking in circles. And I told you, I have no idea. If we knew who did it, the cops wouldn’t have to investigate, would they?” Madison demanded. “So, you tell me. How do you know my every movement?”

“Let’s see,” Alfie said, frowning, “I got the info from Mike Greenwood, who got it from Andy Simons, who apparently saw you with hunk-o-FBI man.”

“How’d you find out I saw Alistair?” she asked.

“That one is more convoluted,” Alfie said, grinning. “I heard it from Vickie at the coffee shop, who heard it from her boyfriend, Victor—Victor, Victoria, cute, huh?—who goes to the same manicurist as Pierce, who apparently escaped the bondage of the current Mrs. Eddie Alistair long enough to get his nails done this afternoon.”

“Well, the fact that I went to see Alistair is no secret,” Madison said.

Alfie laughed. “In our world, does anything stay secret?”

“Probably not. But it doesn’t matter because I don’t have any secrets to worry about,” Madison said.

Alfie chewed thoughtfully for a few minutes. Then he set his sandwich down. “This is all so horrible,” he groaned. “I know you don’t know anything. But who do you think did it?”

“Alfie! I already told you. I haven’t got any idea.”

“What I’m afraid of is that no one will ever find anything. That Alistair just snapped or something. That he doesn’t realize he did it—he’s too good a kid—but that he did do it. And then he’ll go to jail, Eddie will go crazy—and we’ll all be in the unemployment line.”

“He didn’t do it,” Madison said stubbornly. “And it’s way too early to worry about losing your job.”

“So…who could’ve done it?” Alfie asked.

“You tell me. Who do you think could have done it?”

Alfie frowned. “Ah! The evil Mrs. Eddie Archer. The current one. No, no, never mind. That would mean breaking a nail or messing up her hair. Back to the drawing board. Hmm. Aha! Mike Greenwood. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Mike has access. No one knows the studio better. No, no, he likes his job.” Alfie looked frustrated. “Colin Bailey! He’s the guard, right? He’s in charge of security. But why? Maybe…somewhere, somehow, years and years ago, Eddie dated a girl Bailey was in love with. Yeah…no. No, can’t see Bailey and Archer being involved with any of the same women, nor would Bailey risk his cushy job. God knows, he gets to make a mint and snooze and read magazines. Hey! Maybe we did create something so real it came to life and killed her. What do you think?”

“I think you need to finish your sandwich and your wine, and go home. I’m exhausted.”

“I can’t even get you out for some boba green tea?” Alfie asked, clearly disappointed by the dismissal.

“I hate boba,” she told him.

“Plain green tea, then?”

“Alfie, I just want to sleep.”

He sighed. “Okay, but no holding out. I’m your assistant, for God’s sake! Keep me in the loop,” he said, rising. “Hey, you want some help cleaning up? Doing the dishes—”

“Alfie, we ate on paper plates.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Okay, fine—send me out into the cold and the dark, feeling lonely and anxious!”

“Alfie, it isn’t in the least cold. Go home. Or go to a club. I’ve got to sleep!”

She steered him to the door and nudged him out. There, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll keep in touch, I promise, although we’re supposed to be back at work the day after tomorrow. Drive carefully…and go home!”

“All right, all right!” Grinning, he walked out to her drive where he’d parked his car.

When he was gone, Madison closed and locked the door. She turned to lean against it and realized she hadn’t seen Bogie, which was odd, because he loved to talk to her when she had company. He considered it amusing to see if he could push her into answering.

It wasn’t that late, but she really was tired. The kitchen received a lick and a promise, as her mother used to call it, she checked Ichabod’s food and water bowls and then went to her room and prepared for bed. Tonight, there was no drone of voices from the television in the living room, so she turned on the smaller set in her room, found a ridiculous movie about a massive snowstorm freakishly hitting San Diego and willed herself to nod off.

Just as she was falling asleep, she was awakened by the shrill sound of an alarm.

The noise was horrendous, shattering, shocking—and brought her leaping to her feet, terrified and disoriented.

She rushed into the living room and immediately saw that Bogie was back; he was at the window looking out. The sound was coming from her car. Somehow the alarm had been activated.

She rushed to find her keys, and discovered that they must have fallen out of her purse because they were on the coffee table.

“Bogie?”

He turned to her. “I did it. I managed to press that little key and set off the alarm. There was someone out there, Madison. I saw movement in the shadows across the street. There was someone out there—watching. Watching you. And I…I could feel the malice like a wave of hot air, the malice and the…evil. Madison, someone doesn’t like what you’re doing. Someone is out to kill you, too.”

8

Sean sat at the desk in his hotel room, studying the handwritten notes Benny Knox had given him. They were photocopies, and sometimes he had to squint to read them. They might be entering a brave new world where younger cops were working more and more with technology, but a lot of law enforcement officers still carried notebooks and wrote down their observations.

He had the crime scene photos spread before him, and from what he could tell, every single notation matched perfectly with what he saw. It could be argued that Alistair had enough knowledge of the studio to figure out someplace to stash the weapon, but Sean didn’t believe that was what had happened. And Alistair had been covered in blood. There’d also been trace and cast-off blood along the path he’d taken to summon Bailey.

Colin Bailey had been sitting in security. He’d been on the property. But Alistair had found him in his little booth, just where he always was. Bailey had not been covered in blood spatter.

He set down the photos and picked up the phone; he’d wanted to talk to Pierce—in privacy—ever since he and Madison had visited the Archer house.

He hoped Eddie wouldn’t answer, or Helena. If one of them did, he could just ask how they were doing.

He was glad when Pierce did answer, cordial and proper as ever. “Archer residence.”

“Pierce, it’s me—Sean Cameron.”

“Sean,” Pierce said with evident pleasure.

Sean first thanked him for the text messages he’d sent.

“I didn’t know if I should or shouldn’t, but…I mean, their marriage isn’t my business, but—”

“This is an investigation. You did the right thing,” Sean told him. He asked Pierce how he was, and sympathized with him for a moment. Pierce was a good man, always there for Eddie—no matter who he married.