“Mr. Bernardo?” She shook his hand. Her grip was firm, but she didn’t squeeze. She stood back and gave him a head-to-toe scan. Manfred had wisely eschewed his public “all black” look for his police visit, instead wearing a pair of khakis and a white linen shirt with subdued palm trees all over it. “No jewelry aside from the piercings, good,” she said. “The piercings are bad enough.”

“But they’ll believe me,” Manfred said confidently. He didn’t know what Fiji had done to him, but he wished he could pay her to come over and do it every morning.

“Are you on drugs?” his lawyer asked sharply.

“I never use drugs,” he said. “And what do I call you? I can’t say ‘Magdalena Orta Powell!’ every time I want to get your attention.”

“Ms. Powell will do just fine,” she said. “Shall we dance?” She pointed up the walkway to the glass doors into the public safety building. “This is less intimidating than going into the Dallas police headquarters,” she added, “but don’t be fooled. This is professional law enforcement, and they hate having a messy case on their hands.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said, with great certainty.

“I wish I could guarantee that meant you wouldn’t end up in jail.”

He did feel a twinge of concern for a moment, but then it floated away on the tide of his conviction that he would convince the police that he was the most upright citizen they’d ever met.

“Detective,” he was saying a few minutes later when they’d been ushered back to an interrogation room. He stood and shook the detective’s hand.

“You know each other?” Ms. Powell didn’t get up, but she nodded to the detective as if she’d met him before.

“We met at the hotel, Vespers, right, Mr. Bernardo?” Detective Sterling sat down opposite them.

Manfred gave him a much closer look than he’d given when he’d first met the detective. Sterling was dark and stocky, and his close-cut hair was graying. He’d put on a pair of glasses with metal rims, which glinted in the overhead light, giving him a strangely old-fashioned look. Another man entered at that moment and took the seat by Sterling. They were wearing what amounted to a uniform: white short-sleeved shirts, blue patterned ties, and khakis. But the other detective was very tall, at least five inches over six feet, and older, too, with snowy hair. He did not wear glasses, and his blue eyes were sharp and intent in a weathered, red, lined face.

Yet Manfred was not afraid. He could feel Ms. Powell tense, though, and she said, “Well, a detective who does not seem to have met my client yet. Hi, Tom.”

Tom smiled at Ms. Powell. “Maggie. Hey, buddy, I’m Tom Freemont.”

Manfred smiled back at him as they shook hands. “Good to meet you, Detective. What can I do for you all today?”

“You’ve gotten all kind of snarled up in something, Mr. Bernardo,” said Detective Sterling. Just us good and simple folks, trying to understand. “We need to straighten that out, make sure we understand exactly what’s happening.”

Manfred tried to look intelligently interested.

Ms. Powell said, “Are you charging my client with anything?”

“No, not at the present time.”

“Then what do you need to know about? What crime are you thinking he may have committed? Because I sure haven’t heard of anything. Did not Rachel Goldthorpe die of natural causes?”

“We’re still waiting for the test results to come back. Maybe a combination of age, weight, high blood pressure, and a bad case of pneumonia all wound up together and killed her.” Detective Freemont flipped open a folder and glanced at the contents. “We have to say there was no immediately obvious cause of death.”

“So you don’t think my client had anything to do with the death of Mrs. Goldthorpe.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you believe she was murdered?”

“We don’t know at the present. But, all right, at this time we don’t suspect Mr. Bernardo of murder,” Freemont said baldly.

“Then what?” Magdalena Orta Powell looked puzzled and vexed. She pulled it off beautifully.

“There are the charges leveled by Lewis.”

“You charging Mr. Bernardo with theft? Do you seriously think Ms. Goldthorpe brought a purse full of jewelry to a séance with her late husband?”

“She might have.” Freemont tilted his chair, waving his hand in an “anything’s possible” gesture.

“Right. And when she slumps over dead, my client’s first impulse would be to go through her purse? No, I don’t think so! He calls downstairs, like anyone would do. His first concern was Mrs. Goldthorpe.”

“That’s what he says,” Detective Sterling said, stopping just short of insulting sarcasm.

“Do you have any evidence at all that suggests any different?” Ms. Powell’s eyes were practically shooting fire. Manfred was proud of her. He was positive that she was defending him brilliantly.

“No, we don’t,” Detective Sterling said. “But we find it strange that his friend”—and here he poked his finger in the air in Manfred’s direction—“was sitting with two people who later that evening died in an apparent murder/suicide, while Mr. Bernardo’s guest, the very next day, died in his room.”

“There’s no connection whatever,” Manfred said calmly. He knew they would believe him. “I didn’t know someone I knew from Midnight was going to be there. I don’t think Olivia knew the couple very well. And the next day, while I was having clients in my room, she went shopping, at least as far as I know. I’ve scarcely seen her since then. You haven’t been by to ask her any questions about their deaths, or she’d have told me. And you know I didn’t kill poor Rachel. I didn’t know she had jewelry to hide until she told me that day during our session.” And here his voice sharpened. “Why was my name even leaked to the press? There’s no evidence at all that I’ve ever done anything wrong!”

Only Ms. Powell’s hand on his arm stopped Manfred from rolling forward. He stopped talking then. But he didn’t lower his gaze, and he waited to hear what they would have to say.

“All right,” Sterling said finally. He pulled off his glasses and polished them with a pocket handkerchief he conjured out of nowhere. “Well, I’ve got to say you put forth a convincing argument, Mr. Bernardo.”

Yes! You go, Fiji! Manfred thought.

“Where were you last night, Mr. Bernardo?”

“At home,” he said promptly.

“Did you go out at all?”

“Nope. The night before, I had some friends in,” he said.

“Who?”

“Actually, Olivia Charity. And Joe Strong and Chuy Villegas, who also live in Midnight.”

“And the night before that?”

Manfred knew this was the question they really wanted to ask, because of the body at the Goldthorpe house. “I went out to eat,” he said. “Then I went home.”

“Where did you eat? It any good?”

Oh, come on! Manfred thought. He got out his wallet and pulled out the receipt from Moo and Oink. “I don’t usually keep receipts,” he said, “but I haven’t cleaned out my wallet lately.”

Freemont leaned over to take the receipt from Manfred, and the detectives gave it a very serious look. They wouldn’t be able to get past the time and date stamp. Sterling sighed.

Freemont said, “So you contend that you were at Vespers for your . . .” He looked down at a paper. “Client weekend, the same weekend your friend from this tiny, tiny town is there, completely by coincidence. Also by coincidence, the people you both meet happen to die.”

It did sound fishy, put that way.

“He doesn’t contend that, he states it,” Ms. Powell said calmly. “Because that is exactly what happened. He never met the couple who died so tragically. His acquaintance, Olivia Charity, never met Rachel Goldthorpe, at least not to my client’s knowledge. This is all nothing more than coincidence, the kind the world is always throwing at us. Mr. Bernardo has never seen Mrs. Goldthorpe’s allegedly missing jewelry. You can hardly charge my client with her death when you don’t know what killed her. So that’s the end of this conversation.” Ms. Powell got smoothly to her feet. Following her lead, so did Manfred. “This was a long way for my client to drive to answer a few questions he’s answered before.” Nobly, she did not mention her own inconvenience, because she would get paid for it. “I trust you won’t demand his presence again.”