allow himself to say, “You stupid ass.”
Raising his eyebrows and looking stricken, as if he couldn’t imagine
what he’d done to earn such enmity, Lowbock said, “Surely, Mrs.
Stillwater, you realize there are people out there, a world of cynics,
who might say that attempted strangulation is the safest form of assault
to fake. I mean, stabbing yourself in the arm or leg would be a
convincing touch, but there’s always the danger of a slight
miscalculation, a nicked artery, then suddenly you find yourself
bleeding a lot more seriously than you’d intended. And as for
selfinflicted gunshot wounds–well, the risk is even higher, what with
the possibility that a bullet might ricochet off a bone and into deeper
flesh, and there’s always the danger of shock.”
Paige bolted to her feet so abruptly that she knocked over her chair.
“Get out.”
Lowbock blinked at her, feigning innocence long past the point of
diminishing returns. “Excuse me?”
“Get out of my house,” she demanded. “Now.”
Although Marty realized they were throwing away their last slim hope of
winning over the detective and gaining police protection, he also got up
from his chair, so angry that he was trembling. “My wife is right.
I think you and your men better leave, Lieutenant.”
Remaining seated because to do so was a challenge to them, Cyrus Lowbock
said, “You mean, leave before we finish our investigation?”
“Yes,” Marty said. “Finished or not.”
“Mr. Stillwater . . . Mrs. Stillwater . . . you do realize that it’s
against the law to file a false crime report?”
“We haven’t filed a false report,” Marty said.
Paige said, “The only fake in this room is you, Lieutenant. You do
realize that it’s against the law to impersonate a police officer?”
It would have been satisfying to see Lowbock’s face color with anger, to
see his eyes narrow and his lips tighten at the insult, but his
equanimity remained infuriatingly unshaken.
As he got slowly to his feet, the detective said, “If the blood samples
taken from the upstairs carpet are, say, only pig’s blood or cow’s blood
or anything like that, the lab will be able to determine the exact
species, of course.”
“I’m aware of the analytic powers of forensic science,” Marty assured
him.
“Oh, yes, that’s right, you’re a mystery writer. According to People
magazine, you do a great deal of research for your novels.”
Lowbock closed his notebook, clipped his pen to it.
Marty waited.
“In your various researches, Mr. Stillwater, have you learned how much
blood is in the human body, say in a body approximately the size of your
own?”
“Five liters.”
“Ah. That’s correct.” Lowbock put the notebook on top of the plastic
bag containing the leather case of lock picks. “At a guess, but an
educated guess, I’d say there’s somewhere between one and two liters of
blood soaked into the upstairs carpet. Between twenty and forty percent
of this look-alike’s entire supply, and closer to forty unless I miss my
guess. You know what I’d expect to find along with that much blood, Mr.
Stillwater? I’d expect to find the body it came from, because it really
does stretch the imagination to picture such a grievously wounded man
being able to flee the scene.”
“I’ve already told you, I don’t understand it either.”
“Muy misterioso,” Paige said, investing those two words with a measure
of scorn equal to the mockery with which the detective had spoken them
earlier.
Marty decided there was at least one good thing about this mess, the way
Paige had not doubted him for an instant, even though reason and logic
virtually demanded doubt, the way she stood beside him now, fierce and
resolute. In all the years they had been together, he had never loved
her more than at that moment.
Picking up the notebook and the evidence bag, Lowbock said, “If the
blood upstairs proves to be human blood, that raises all sorts of other
questions that would require us to finish the investigation whether or
not you’d prefer to be rid of us. Actually, whatever the lab results,
you’ll be hearing from me again.”
“We’d simply adore seeing you again,” Paige said, the edge gone from her