Duran frowned. And then he smiled, as if he’d just remembered something important. “Two clients are normal,” he said. “Two clients are fine.”

Her jaw dropped, as much from the sudden cheerfulness in his voice as from what he said. Letting her head fall back on the seat, she closed her eyes and muttered, “He’s out of his mind.”

The police detective was a white guy in his early thirties. He looked about twenty pounds overweight, and sported a single gold earring and Polynesian tattoos on his forearms. Dressed in vintage Chucks, gray sweatpants and a T-shirt with a pit bull’s head under a banner that read Be the Dog, he had twinkling blue eyes and a salt-and-pepper ponytail that needed washing.

His name was Freeman Petrescu, and he sat with Adrienne and Duran in a fluorescently lighted “intake room” that reeked of Lysol. In front of him was a notebook computer with a Yosemite Sam decal and a monitor with a crack along its side.

“And you’ve never seen these men before?” Petrescu asked, typing softly.

Adrienne shook her head. “No. Never.”

The cop looked at Duran, who seemed doubtful. “What about you?”

“I’m not sure.”

Surprised by the answer, Adrienne turned to him. The cop stopped typing.

“What do you mean?” Petrescu asked.

“Well, maybe I’m imagining it, but… the big guy was… a little familiar.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t know. It’s like… I’ve seen him around. I think I may have seen him around.”

“Okay, that’s good. Where?”

“I dunno,” Duran told him. “I’m not sure.”

“O-kayyyy,” Petrescu replied, and resumed typing. “May… have seen… subject… around! That about right?”

Duran nodded.

“They call you ‘Doc’?” the detective asked.

“Sometimes,” Duran replied.

“Which makes you, what? A psychiatrist?”

Duran shook his head. “No, I’m a clinical psychologist.”

“Except he’s not,” Adrienne insisted, crossing her legs and then her arms. “He isn’t registered, he didn’t graduate from anywhere—”

Duran made an exasperated sound as Petrescu looked from one witness to the other, and sighed. They’d been over this twice before.

“Ask him how many clients he has.”

“What difference would that make?” the detective wondered.

“Ask him!”

Petrescu looked at Duran, and shrugged. “Okay, how many clients do you have?”

“Two.”

The detective digested the answer as if it were a peculiar food that he was determined to like. Finally, he turned to Adrienne and said, “So he’s got two. Must be tough to make your nut, huh Doc’?” When Adrienne gave the policeman an astonished (and withering) look, Petrescu blew her off. “I know what you’re thinking, but look at it from my point of view: we’ve already got your complaint about Dr. Duran—”

“He isn’t ‘Dr. Duran.’”

“—and that’s why you’re suing him! I understand that. But this isn’t a civil complaint. You’re here because you saw someone murdered. The rest—that’s a whole other ballpark. So if we could just change the subject back to the subject… ?”

Adrienne ground her teeth together, and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Don’t you think the one has something to do with the other?”

Petrescu ignored the question. “You said the big guy shot his partner—”

“So he could get at Mr. Bonilla,” Duran said, finishing the sentence.

“So what you’re saying is, he missed.”

“No, he didn’t miss—” Adrienne began.

“Mr. Bonilla was using the shorter man as a shield,” Duran explained. “He wanted the big man to… you know—drop his gun.”

“And the big guy shot him?”

“He was clearing a path,” Duran explained, “to Mr. Bonilla.”

“Is that right?” Petrescu asked.

“Yes,” Adrienne told him. “Now, are you going to take us over there, or what?”

The detective shook his head. “No point. Homicide’s been there for an hour. Better we wait for them. See what they can tell us.”

The detective continued to question them about what they’d seen and, in particular, the way the big man had tried to kill Adrienne, but not Duran. “And you said he put a gun to your head?”

Duran nodded.

“But then he changed his mind, and hit you with it.”

“That’s right,” Duran told him, and gestured to the bruise on his forehead.

“So he didn’t want to kill you,” Petrescu decided. “But you—” he said, turning to Adrienne.

“Me, he wanted to kill,” she said. “And Eddie.”

“That’s what you said, but… why? What was on his mind?”

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“He didn’t say anything?”

Adrienne shook her head, then changed her mind. “Well…”

“What?” the cop asked.

“He said, ‘It won’t hurt.’”

“‘It wont hurt,’“ the cop repeated, typing. “What won’t hurt?”

“Shooting me in the face!” Adrienne replied. “I think he was trying to be reassuring.”

Petrescu flinched. “Fuckin’ A,” he muttered, and resumed typing.

A swarthy man with glistening black hair stuck his head in the doorway.

With a glance at Adrienne and Duran, he asked Petrescu if he could see him for a second. “Now we’re in business,” Petrescu said, and got to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

Adrienne and Duran sat without talking, her right foot bouncing nervously. Finally, Petrescu came back in and carefully shut the door behind him. Returning to his seat, he switched off the computer with a sigh, turned, and rubbed his hands.

Adrienne was shocked. “You didn’t save your file,” she told him.

Duran shook his head. “I can’t believe it,” he said.

Petrescu waved the issue away. “That was Detective Villareal,” he told them. “He’s just back from your apartment.”

Adrienne looked at him expectantly. “Was Eddie—”

“He’s filling out his report now. The U.S. Attorney will want to use it as the basis for the complaint against you. What I’d suggest is that—”

“What?!” Adrienne exclaimed.

“I said—”

“What complaint?” Duran demanded.

Petrescu held up his hand. “For all I know, there may be some mitigating factors. The two of you may need psychiatric help,” he suggested, looking from the dumbfounded Adrienne to the astonished Duran, and back again. “But it’s a criminal offense to file a false report. A misdemeanor, but still—there’s time and a fine.”

“What are you talking about?” Duran demanded.

“I’m talking about the fact that nothing happened—your apartment’s clean.”

“You went to the wrong place,” Duran said with a groan.

Petrescu shook his head. “The security guard let him in. Your mail—Jeffrey Duran’s mail—was in a pile on a table in the hallway of the apartment. That sound like the wrong place?”

Duran was too surprised to answer.

“They moved the bodies,” Adrienne said.

Petrescu cocked his head, considering the possibility. “Now, why would they do that?” he wondered. “And who are ‘they,’ anyway? There’s only the big guy—the other one’s supposed to be dead, right?”

“I don’t know,” Adrienne told him. “I mean… how am I supposed to know? You’re the detective!”

“Right. I am the detective. And so is Villareal. And what he says is, there’s no blood on the floor. No damage, either. So maybe the big guy cleaned it up. And maybe the shooter was Deadeye Dick, so there weren’t any bullet holes, except in the bodies. So there’s no blood, there’s no bodies, there’s no mess. And nobody heard anything either—nobody saw anything. Just you two. Which, being a detective, makes me wonder: how does the one guy take two bodies out of a busy apartment building without being noticed—never mind why. Does he carry ‘em down the stairwell, or does he take the elevator? Does he wrap ‘em in a rug, drop ‘em out the window, or what?” He looked at Duran. “I’d be interested in your theory” he said.

Adrienne and Duran sat where they were in stunned silence. Finally, Petrescu pushed back his chair. “I have a lot of work to do,” he told them, and got to his feet. With a weary gesture toward the door, he invited them to leave. “It’ll be a few days before you hear from us—we’re pretty backed up. But trust me. You will hear from us.”