the cedar chest at its foot rather than under it. Books that hadn’t been on the floor before were now, although the stacks were orderly, and the wardrobe stood several inches away from the soot-blackened walls. The patch behind the wardrobe was pale, the same color stone as the church above. Tony, still in uniform, looked as out of place in Alban’s home as Margrit imagined she must: both of them modern pieces in a refuge meant for classics.
“So no Superbowl this afternoon?” The casual question came at a price, sorrow draining into Margrit’s chest as if a faucet had been opened. Tony looked up sharply, eyebrows drawn down over dark eyes. He looked, Margrit thought, like a policeman ought to, his strong jaw set with concern and maybe a little righteous anger. She felt as if she were watching him through a window, a distance that allowed her to see the world he lived in without being able to step through and rejoin it herself.
Heat flashed over her at the thought that she might not want to belong to that world anymore. Margrit shivered despite the warmth she felt, pushing the idea away. It was too large and too uncertain to wrestle with just then, especially with Tony literally in the picture.
“I won’t be able to get the afternoon off,” he said after several long moments, his voice steady. “Even if I could-”
“I wouldn’t be there,” Margrit agreed. A smile played across her mouth, more pointed than she wanted it to be. “I mean, really, Tony. Is there any way for us to get through this?”
“I don’t know.” The detective’s voice dropped. “Grit, none of this was supposed to go this way. I really wanted to make it work. I wanted us to be together.”
“I know. But then I started harboring a murderer, and you started arresting me, and things just really get out of control when incidents like that are part of your everyday life.”
“I didn’t arrest you.”
“This probably isn’t the time to get hung up on the details, Tony. I didn’t harbor a murderer, either, but what fun is a fight without sweeping statements?”
“I’m sorry, Grit. I don’t have time for a fight right now.” Tony sounded weary, closing the book he held and hefting it a little. “ Great Expectations. First edition, just like almost everything in here. Signed by Dickens himself. This is the first of three volumes.” He offered the book to Margrit. She opened it, looking at the author’s signature, black ink browned with age, then closed it again gently. “Who is this guy, Grit?”
“He’s an author,” Margrit said, smiling with an unkind pleasure at irritating the detective. “Very famous. Wrote a lot of long books-”
“Margrit.”
She looked up, still smiling. “Sorry. What do you want me to say, Tony? He’s not a killer. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Tell me how you got out of here last night. The bed was still warm from body heat when we came down the stairs. Tell me how you left my man behind at Huo’s, for that matter.”
Margrit’s smile thinned. “Tell me how you found this place if I lost your man.”
“I got another tip.”
“From Janx.” Margrit watched the skin around Tony’s eyes tighten, and nodded slightly at scoring a hit. “You working for him, Anthony?” The question was intended to get a rise, Margrit no more believing Tony was dirty than he believed she was involved in the murders.
Anger flashed across the detective’s face, her ploy successful. Margrit waited for a pang of regret and felt none, her own anger keeping more delicate emotions at bay. “I said I wasn’t looking for a fight, Grit. I’ve been after Janx for years. I’m looking for something to pin on him.”
“So you used me as bait? Tony, you might not be looking for a fight, but I’m spoiling for one, and don’t you think setting your girlfriend out as bait is a little shady? Or did you think I was guilty enough to see if setting me up gave me the rope to hang myself with?”
“You’re right.” Tony got to his feet, words driving him to action. Stacks of books made pacing difficult, but he moved around them with grace that belied exhaustion. Ponderous grace, Margrit thought; human grace.
“Setting you up sucked,” Tony said abruptly. “And I’d do it again, Grit, because you were the only goddamn lead I had. I’m sorry that it fucks with us, but if it helped me catch a murderer I’d just have to find a way to live with it.”
Margrit rolled her tongue around the inside of her mouth, looking away and studying Alban’s room as she worked to hide her displeasure. The tidiness did something to loosen the knot of anger within her, and she sighed. “I’m surprised you didn’t destroy the place.”
“You know me better than that.” Hurt, more tangible than offense, filled Tony’s voice. “A B.A. might not be as impressive as a law degree, but I know when I’m dealing with priceless material. We took the place apart, but I wasn’t sending books like that one up in flames.”
“Thank you.”
Tony nodded. “As a favor, answer my question. We found the stone beneath the bed, but one person can’t lift that thing. Not even one person and you. And there’s no other way out.”
“Then I guess we weren’t here. Look.” Margrit held up a hand. “There’s nothing here, Tony. You didn’t find anything, and I’m not going to volunteer any more information. For one thing, my attorney told me not to. For another-”
“You’re protecting him.”
Margrit pressed the novel against her chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” Tony rubbed a hand tiredly over his hair. “You’re going to a lot of trouble to be a pain in the ass for somebody who’s sorry.”
“It’s not really any trouble at all,” Margrit mumbled, then raised her voice a little. “I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to get mixed up in this, and I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
“I could arrest you for obstruction of justice.”
“But you’re not going to, or we wouldn’t be talking about it. Believe it or not, the reason I’m stuck in this is because I’m trying to do my job, just like you’re trying to do yours. I don’t know how, but somehow these murders have got to be tangled up with Eliseo Daisani and that building he wants taken down.”
Color leeched from Tony’s eyes. “Is that an educated guess, or do you know something?”
Margrit frowned up at him, shaking her head. “Just a guess. I-Why? What’s happened, Tony?” When he didn’t answer, she took a step forward. “Tony?”
“Eliseo Daisani’s personal assistant, Vanessa Gray, was murdered this morning, a couple of hours before sunrise.” He met her eyes. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that.”
Horror pounded in cold spurts through Margrit’s body, tingling and prickling. She shook her head, a jerky, numb movement. Tony sucked on his teeth. “You were one of the last people to see her alive, you know.”
“I only met her Thursday,” Margrit whispered scratchily. “She didn’t like me.”
“From what I’ve heard so far, she didn’t like anybody except Daisani, and maybe not even him. She had no social life outside the office.” Tony gave a sharp nod. “Which is why you were one of the last to see her. Unfriendly or not, she was good at her job. And she fit the profile.”
“Nobody else was that high-profile, though.” Margrit shuffled to the chair Tony had abandoned, sitting down hard and clutching the book against her chest.
“No, and this time he made a mistake.”
“I was with Alban all night, until just before sunrise.” And not until after sunrise had it struck her that Alban’s daytime refuge had been compromised. Irritation welled in her breast again, this time at the simple lack of foresight that gave her no way to contact the gargoyle. “It wasn’t him.”
“I know.”
Margrit wrenched her gaze up. “You know?”
“Gray’s building has security cameras on the doors and in the elevators. We’ve got an unidentified male assaulting the doorman and getting off the elevator on her floor. Nine minutes later he gets back on. It’s not your man.”
Margrit sagged, putting the book in her lap and covering her face with her hands. “He’s not mine,” she said quietly, though voicing the statement made her heart tighten. “Does that mean this is over now?”
“For you, yeah. For me, no. I still gotta find this guy. He’s an expert.” Tony made his way through books to the stairwell, lifting his hand to put it against the wall, then dropping it before he touched soot. “And I still want to
