four capsules in his pocket Sunday night. The same drug he used on Primrose.”
He looked at me.
“She also found a length of wire that matches the garrote from Hobbs's neck.”
The cold fist. It still didn't seem possible that Primrose was dead.
“He told me he did it because he could.”
“An order may have come from the inner circle, or he may have been acting on his own. Perhaps he feared she'd discovered something. He probably stole her key and password to remove the foot from the morgue and alter the file.”
“Has the foot been found?”
“Never will be, I suspect. Hang on.”
McMahon disappeared into the hall, returned with two more empty boxes.
“How can so much crap accumulate in one month?”
“Don't forget the rubber snake.”
I pointed to an artifact on his desk.
“I'm curious how Crowe found me.”
“She and Ryan hit High Ridge House minutes apart Sunday night, well past the time you should have arrived. Finding your car in the lot but no sign of you in the house, they went looking. When they found the dog—”
He glanced up, quickly back to the box. I kept my face neutral.
“Apparently your chow got hold of Stover's wrist before he was shot. Ryan found a medical bracelet with Stover's name on it lying next to the dog's snout. Crowe made the connection based on something Midkiff had told her.”
“The rest is history.”
“The rest is history.”
He threw the snake into the box, changed his mind and took it out.
“Ryan headed back to Quebec?”
“Yes.”
Again, I kept my face neutral.
“I don't know the monsieur that well, but his partner's death really turfed him.”
“Yes.”
“Throw in the niece, and I'm amazed the guy held it together.”
“Yes.” The niece?
“‘Danielle the Demon,’ he called her.”
McMahon crossed to his jacket and tucked the snake into a pocket.
“Said we'd probably read about the kid in the papers one day.”
The niece?
I felt a smile tug the corners of my mouth.
At times neutrality is difficult.
I found Simon Midkiff bundled in overcoat, gloves, and muffler, dozing in a rocker on his front stoop. A brimmed cap hid most of his face, and I suddenly thought of another question.
“Simon?”
His head snapped up and the watery eyes blinked in confusion.
“Yes?”
He wiped a hand across his mouth, and a filament of saliva glistened on wool. Removing the glove, he dug under layers of clothing, withdrew glasses, and slid them onto his nose.
Recognition.
“I'm glad to see you are all right.” Chains looped to either side of his head, throwing delicate shadows across his cheeks. The skin looked pale and paper-thin.
“Can we talk?”
“Of course. Perhaps we should go inside.”
We entered a combination kitchenette–living area with one interior door, which I presumed led to a bedroom and bath. The furnishings were lacquered pine, and looked like they'd come from a home workshop.
Books lined the baseboards, and notebooks and papers covered a table and desk. A dozen boxes were stacked at one end of the room, each marked with a series of archaeological grid numbers.
“Tea?”
“That would be nice.”
