The cops descended on The Last Laff like a flock of seagulls scrapping for old French fries on the boardwalk. They spent hours analyzing the crime scene from every angle. Meticulous and grim, they barked orders, took names, and drank coffee, plenty of coffee. I must have talked to four or five or ten different people—detectives, CSI-types, technicians, medical examiners. Anyone with a question seemed to seek me out. I lost track of time and of faces, anesthetized by the shock of Ryan’s death. Freeman directed traffic, but I got the sense he couldn’t run interference for me. I felt utterly alone in my nightmare and held no hope of awakening.

Artie arrived, face already scarlet. He fumed and sputtered, buzzed and fluttered, alighting everywhere in the club not restricted by police tape. Which didn’t leave much beyond the front sidewalk. And even there, the rubberneckers—all those regular people taking care of their chores on a Sunday afternoon—gathered and gawked and gossiped, sending Artie into conniptions. Gangland-style slayings weren’t good for business.

I had faded into the background, content to watch the stern-faced technicians shuttle back and forth between their vans and the club, when Artie grabbed my shirt and pulled me fifty feet out into the parking lot, past the police cars and evidence vans. “You know who did this, don’t you?”

I knew whom he was going to finger, but I shrugged, not wanting to disagree with him and make him angrier. As if you could make a hornet angrier.

“That prick Reed. This Ryan guy goes there yesterday and today, wham, bam, thank you ma’am, he’s dead. What other explanation is there?” As he spoke, his head swiveled this way and that, as if he were expecting to spot Reed returning to the scene of his crime.

“I don’t know, Artie. Doesn’t seem quite right to me.”

“You kidding? First he kills J.J. after we discussed a long-term with him. Then he burns down my condo. Now he leaves a body in my club, as a giant ‘fuck you.’ He’s after me, all right.” Artie kept scanning the parking lot, searching for something or someone. Maybe just hoping the truth would drive up in a Chevy.

“If that’s true, why kill Ryan? You didn’t even know him,” I said.

Artie’s head stopped moving. “True. But Heather did. And Heather knows you. And you know me. Ergo.” He brushed his hands together, like a baseball player knocking the dirt off. “So it all fits.”

Obviously, the stress had affected Artie’s powers of logic. I had a slightly different theory. In mine, Heather—more specifically, screwing Heather—was the thread tying J.J. and Ryan together. They’d both had sex with her and now they’re dead. And who was psycho enough to go after the screwers? William Dempsey, giving new meaning to “overprotective father.” I fervently hoped he realized my relationship with Heather was strictly platonic.

“Got nothing to say? Then I guess you agree with me,” Artie said. “Tonight’s a goner, pardon the wordplay. Hopefully, we’ll be able to open soon. Take the night off and we’ll regroup tomorrow.”

Maybe we should take a month or two off. “Whatever you say. You’re calling the shots here.”

Artie jerked his head at the club. “I’m going back in. Make sure nothing happens to the liquor.” He glowered at me as he left.

A few minutes later, I caught Freeman’s eye from afar and waved him over. He stopped in his tracks, shrugged, then came my way. “What do you want?” he asked. A toothpick stuck out of his mouth.

“Got any suspects?” I asked.

He stared at me.

“Got anything?”

His expression remained impassive, except for a nose twitch. “Do I look like I’m holding a press conference?”

I remained silent.

Freeman glanced over his shoulder toward all the activity. Then turned to me and spoke in a low voice. “Little blood means he was killed elsewhere and moved here. Means the killer meant this as some kind of message,” he said, tilting his head. “You understand this message?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Sorry.” A lot of messages had come my way lately, all indecipherable.

He kept his eyes on mine for a couple of seconds, then continued. “Back door was jimmied. I thought you fixed that after the fire.”

Leave it to Artie to try another cut-rate solution. I shrugged.

Freeman continued. “According to your partner, nothing seems to have been taken.”

“He would know. He tracks every dollar bill and half-filled, watered-down bottle of scotch.”

“Uh-huh. You say you knew Rizzetti?”

“Come on, we’ve already been through that.” I’d told him, and every other cop I’d spoken to, about his relationship to Heather and about my talking to him. And I told him I’d “heard” Ryan visited Reed at the CCC. However, I left out the part about Artie stalking Reed with the intent to disembowel him. No need to bog Freeman down with an abundance of details. “I also told you to check out William Dempsey. He’s gone off the deep end, and according to his wife, he’s got a gun and he’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, we’re looking for him. You really think he killed his daughter’s boyfriend?”

I shrugged. “Isn’t that a universal theme? Father kills unworthy suitor.”

“Maybe in the Middle Ages.” The toothpick danced in his mouth. “What about the condo? Why would Dempsey torch it if all he was after were those who had ‘despoiled Heather’s honor’?”

“Who knows? Latent anger? Attack on Artie or me for encouraging Heather to do stand-up? He never approved of that ‘comedy shit,’ as he called it.”

Freeman shook his head. “And LaTasha James?”

“Wrong place, wrong time.” I exhaled. “Shit. I don’t know, Freeman. You’re the detective. That’s why you get the big bucks.”

“Uh-huh.” Freeman plucked the toothpick out of his mouth, then repositioned it securely. “J.J. and Heather ever hook up?”

Time to come clean. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that. And it wouldn’t surprise me if they had. In fact, I think I remember J.J. saying something about meeting up with her the night before his first show.” My heart pounded.

Freeman stared at me. I didn’t think he needed a polygraph to know what was going on. “I should take you in and turn you over to Perlstein. Let him interrogate you. You think I’m a hardass?”

I held my palms up. “That was days before J.J. got killed. I’m sure it had absolutely nothing to do with it.”

“We’re friends. But don’t fuck with me. Heather Dempsey is mixed up in this, and we both know it. She might not have killed J.J., but she knows what the hell’s going on. Better than we do, that’s for sure.”

“I guess we can ask her when we find her.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, eying me as if I were a suspect. I sure hoped he was the forgiving type. “One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Bad things keep happening on your turf. A logical man might think someone had it in for you guys. Watch your back, buddy. Don’t want to find the corpse of Channing Hayes decomposing somewhere. Whose balls would I break then?”

_____

I swung by Nathan’s about eight, hoping he’d had time to recover from the detectives’ thorough interrogation. When he answered the door, he looked exhausted, as if he’d just gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. At least his ears still seemed intact.

“Shit. What do you want?” He wore khakis and a black T-shirt with the words Dead Hed printed in pink.

“Had a few questions I wanted to ask. I tried calling.” I’d phoned a dozen times and he’d never answered. If I knew he would have answered his door so willingly, I’d have come over sooner.

“A few questions? I’m all questioned out. Sorry.” He started to close the door on me, but I put my palm squarely in the middle of the door and braced my arm. Nathan glanced at my face, saw I wasn’t planning on leaving until I talked with him, and his whole body sagged as if he’d been suddenly filleted. “Fuck. Whatever.” He stepped back and I stepped in.

Nathan shuffled into the kitchen and flopped into the nearest chair. A couple cans of Pabst rested on the table. He eyed them, but didn’t pick one up. “Ask. Ask your questions.”

I eased into a chair across from him. “You have any idea who would kill Ryan?”

“No.”

“No enemies? No crazy clients? No stiffed bookies?”

“No. No. No.” Nathan shook his head once with each no.

“He say anything about Heather’s father, William Dempsey? He been around here? Maybe he called?”

Nathan’s face puckered. “Huh? You think Heather’s father killed Ryan? Oh shit.”

“Had he come by looking for Ryan?” I asked.

“Not that I know. I’ve never met him. Or talked to him. Did Ryan do something to Heather?”

“I don’t have any idea.” A thousand questions pinballed around in my head. “What did you tell the cops?”

“Nothing.” His eyes flitted to the beer cans and back to me. “I mean I just answered their questions.”

“When did you last see him?”

He pursed his lips. “Friday. Friday night.”

“You didn’t see him at all yesterday?”

Nathan shook his head, shot another glance at the beer cans. Moistened his lips. “Nope. Not at all. But I went out last night, so he might have been here. I don’t know.”

Nobody knew much—that was the problem. Ryan’s visit to Reed yesterday didn’t exactly jibe with my William Dempsey-as-murderer theory, and the mismatch had lodged in my gut. I needed an explanation that fit. “You have any idea why Ryan went to see Gerry Reed yesterday afternoon?”

“What? Ryan knows Gerry?” Nathan shifted in his chair. A few beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. “I didn’t know that.”

“I thought you and Skip took Ryan to a CCC party. Isn’t that where he first met Heather? That’s what you told me.”

Nathan didn’t answer. He swallowed hard, and I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head, evaluating lie after lie until he came to one he thought might fly. Finally, a candidate surfaced. “Reed wasn’t there. At the party. Reed wasn’t there that night.”

Lame. “But Ryan still would have known who he was, right? I mean, you knew him and Heather knew him. You said Ryan was thinking about doing stand-up. Reed’s name must have come up once or twice.”

“Maybe.” Nathan squinted as he tried to noodle it through. “So?”

“So why do you think he might have gone to talk to Reed? About his act?”

Nathan snorted. “No fucking way. I told you. The only place Ryan was funny was in his own head. He didn’t even have an act. He was just trying to stay close to Heather.”

A thought came to me. Ryan seemed pretty hot as he marched into the CCC. And Ambyr had pegged him as the jealous type. “Was Reed sleeping with Heather?”

Nathan flushed. “What? That can’t be true. No. Not Heather. No, no, no, no, no. She wasn’t like that.”

“Like what?” I asked. I’d hit a nerve with the jealousy angle, but it wasn’t Ryan’s jealousy in play here. Nathan was wrestling with the green monster.

“Heather wouldn’t sleep with Reed. He’s too…slimy.” He made a face a five-year-old might think looked slimy. But there was something behind it. Like maybe he did think Reed was involved somehow.

I leaned closer and spoke softly. “You like Heather, don’t you?”

The color on Nathan’s face deepened. “No. I mean, sure, but not like that. What, you think this is sixth grade? I told you, we went out once and we didn’t really click very well.”

“Maybe you were jealous of Ryan. Maybe you thought it would be easier to cozy up to Heather without Ryan in the picture.”

Nathan’s mouth opened and he stared at me, slack-jawed. Blinked fast. I was just making it up, not believing for a second Nathan had the stones to kill someone. Had I hit on something? “Should I call my detective buddy and let him know what I think? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind coming back out here and hauling you in to interrogate you properly.”

His head moved back and forth, mouth opening and closing like a beached carp. “No. No, don’t do that. I…” His eyes closed.

I reached across the table and grabbed his wrist with my good hand. His eyes popped open, filled with confusion. I squeezed once, then eased up. “Tell me what’s going on,” I said through clenched teeth. I’d stomached enough bullshit and evasion.

“Don’t hurt me. Please.”

I had no intention of hurting him. But he didn’t have to know that. “Tell me what’s going on with Heather, goddamnit.”

Nathan tried to shake me off, but I held his hand down on the table, applying only as much pressure as I needed to keep his attention. He began to cry, slowly at first, then faster, until the tears began to drip down his cheeks. I released his wrist, but he didn’t let up. In a small, thin voice he said, “Okay. Okay. You’re right, I haven’t told the truth. But I’m not going to tell you about Heather. You can ask her yourself.”