How do you prosecute the Lord God for murder?

“I doubt it,” said tall, lanky Max, who looked as though he would be more at home playing computer games than in the police department.

For another forty-five minutes or so we continued watching broken or static crossed pictures and videos, before Max said in his best Porky Pig imitation, “T-That’s all folks.”

“So much for that,” said Clary as we blinked against the sudden glare as the lights came up.

“Well, back to relic hunting,” said Mavis heading outside.   “And back to wherever you two were heading when we collided.”

“Yes, where were you heading?” asked the Chief Super; obviously suspecting we were ferreting around in the Hancock Tower’s case.

After a second’s hesitation, I remembered where we had been headed, and said, “Around to see Deni Anders.”

“Oh yes,” said the chief, “I remember Rayleen said you called for the files on Tony Anders.”

Seemingly satisfied that we were not snooping where we should not be, the superintendent returned to his office as we tried our best to look nonchalant as we headed back to the elevator bays.

Fifteen minutes later we were standing outside room 512 of a Collins Street apartment block, wondering what we would say when Deni opened the door.

Clary knocked on the oaken door hard enough to rapture his knuckles, but there was only silence inside.

“She might be out at her catering job,” said Clary.   But almost as he spoke we heard approaching footsteps from within the apartment.

A few seconds later the door opened to reveal the close-cropped redheaded beauty that is Deni Anders.

“Hello,” said Deni with surprising venom in her voice, since Clary and I were long-time family friends.

“Hel…” said Clary, cut off in mid word as Deni said:

“You’ve come then?”

“Come?” I asked, wondering if I looked as half-witted as I felt.

“I thought you would, when I saw you’d spotted me that night.”

“That night?” asked Clary, as though I had not already told him about seeing Deni after being dug out of the rubble.

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