Margrit’s forehead wrinkled with amusement. “Are you flirting with me, Father?”

The priest waggled his eyebrows, good humor in his eyes, then shot a glance at the cordoned-off corner of the church. “I’ve never spoken to him, Ms. Knight, but I believe he is our protector. Church sanctuaries are no longer recognized as such, so I helped the police as best I could. But tell me.” He turned to face her, blue eyes bright in the afternoon light. “Am I right?”

Tears stung the backs of Margrit’s eyes, prickling her nose and making her sniffle. She smiled around them and nodded, clearing her throat. “You are. I think he’s been kind of a quiet guardian, but…” She paused, turning to look at the empty space in the sky where the towers had once stood. “But he’s one of the good guys, Father. Sorry if that’s not the right word to call you. I’m Catholic.”

The priest grinned through his beard. “Everyone has their flaws.” He glanced at the church, then nodded toward it. “Good luck in finding the truth, Ms. Knight.” He walked away, his purposeful strides calling attention to himself. Margrit slipped through the hidden door under cover of his dramatic departure, and let it close behind her.

The chamber below still glowed with torchlight, dim but steady. Margrit jogged down the steps, afraid to see a disaster left by the police force. A dull thud echoed as she came down the stairs, and she startled. “Alban?”

“Not exactly.”

Margrit rounded the corner at the base of the stairs. Detective Anthony Pulcella sat in the chamber’s single chair, elbows on his knees, a leather-bound book open in his hands. Beyond him, the books stood in tidier rows than they’d been left, straight in the shelves and piled neatly on top of each other. The cot was back in its corner, the cedar chest at its foot rather than under it. Books that hadn’t been on the floor before were now, although the stacks were orderly, and the wardrobe stood several inches away from the soot-blackened walls. The patch behind the wardrobe was pale, the same color stone as the church above. Tony, still in uniform, looked as out of place in Alban’s home as Margrit imagined she must: both of them modern pieces in a refuge meant for classics.

“So no Superbowl this afternoon?” The casual question came at a price, sorrow draining into Margrit’s chest as if a faucet had been opened. Tony looked up sharply, eyebrows drawn down over dark eyes. He looked, Margrit thought, like a policeman ought to, his strong jaw set with concern and maybe a little righteous anger. She felt as if she were watching him through a window, a distance that allowed her to see the world he lived in without being able to step through and rejoin it herself.

Heat flashed over her at the thought that she might not want to belong to that world anymore. Margrit shivered despite the warmth she felt, pushing the idea away. It was too large and too uncertain to wrestle with just then, especially with Tony literally in the picture.

“I won’t be able to get the afternoon off,” he said after several long moments, his voice steady. “Even if I could-”

“I wouldn’t be there,” Margrit agreed. A smile played across her mouth, more pointed than she wanted it to be. “I mean, really, Tony. Is there any way for us to get through this?”

“I don’t know.” The detective’s voice dropped. “Grit, none of this was supposed to go this way. I really wanted to make it work. I wanted us to be together.”

“I know. But then I started harboring a murderer, and you started arresting me, and things just really get out of control when incidents like that are part of your everyday life.”

“I didn’t arrest you.”

“This probably isn’t the time to get hung up on the details, Tony. I didn’t harbor a murderer, either, but what fun is a fight without sweeping statements?”

“I’m sorry, Grit. I don’t have time for a fight right now.” Tony sounded weary, closing the book he held and hefting it a little. “ Great Expectations. First edition, just like almost everything in here. Signed by Dickens himself. This is the first of three volumes.” He offered the book to Margrit. She opened it, looking at the author’s signature, black ink browned with age, then closed it again gently. “Who is this guy, Grit?”

“He’s an author,” Margrit said, smiling with an unkind pleasure at irritating the detective. “Very famous. Wrote a lot of long books-”

“Margrit.”

She looked up, still smiling. “Sorry. What do you want me to say, Tony? He’s not a killer. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Tell me how you got out of here last night. The bed was still warm from body heat when we came down the stairs. Tell me how you left my man behind at Huo’s, for that matter.”

Margrit’s smile thinned. “Tell me how you found this place if I lost your man.”

“I got another tip.”

“From Janx.” Margrit watched the skin around Tony’s eyes tighten, and nodded slightly at scoring a hit. “You working for him, Anthony?” The question was intended to get a rise, Margrit no more believing Tony was dirty than he believed she was involved in the murders.

Anger flashed across the detective’s face, her ploy successful. Margrit waited for a pang of regret and felt none, her own anger keeping more delicate emotions at bay. “I said I wasn’t looking for a fight, Grit. I’ve been after Janx for years. I’m looking for something to pin on him.”

“So you used me as bait? Tony, you might not be looking for a fight, but I’m spoiling for one, and don’t you think setting your girlfriend out as bait is a little shady? Or did you think I was guilty enough to see if setting me up gave me the rope to hang myself with?”

“You’re right.” Tony got to his feet, words driving him to action. Stacks of books made pacing difficult, but he moved around them with grace that belied exhaustion. Ponderous grace, Margrit thought; human grace.

“Setting you up sucked,” Tony said abruptly. “And I’d do it again, Grit, because you were the only goddamn lead I had. I’m sorry that it fucks with us, but if it helped me catch a murderer I’d just have to find a way to live with it.”

Margrit rolled her tongue around the inside of her mouth, looking away and studying Alban’s room as she worked to hide her displeasure. The tidiness did something to loosen the knot of anger within her, and she sighed. “I’m surprised you didn’t destroy the place.”

“You know me better than that.” Hurt, more tangible than offense, filled Tony’s voice. “A B.A. might not be as impressive as a law degree, but I know when I’m dealing with priceless material. We took the place apart, but I wasn’t sending books like that one up in flames.”

“Thank you.”

Tony nodded. “As a favor, answer my question. We found the stone beneath the bed, but one person can’t lift that thing. Not even one person and you. And there’s no other way out.”

“Then I guess we weren’t here. Look.” Margrit held up a hand. “There’s nothing here, Tony. You didn’t find anything, and I’m not going to volunteer any more information. For one thing, my attorney told me not to. For another-”

“You’re protecting him.”

Margrit pressed the novel against her chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Tony rubbed a hand tiredly over his hair. “You’re going to a lot of trouble to be a pain in the ass for somebody who’s sorry.”

“It’s not really any trouble at all,” Margrit mumbled, then raised her voice a little. “I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to get mixed up in this, and I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

“I could arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

“But you’re not going to, or we wouldn’t be talking about it. Believe it or not, the reason I’m stuck in this is because I’m trying to do my job, just like you’re trying to do yours. I don’t know how, but somehow these murders have got to be tangled up with Eliseo Daisani and that building he wants taken down.”

Color leeched from Tony’s eyes. “Is that an educated guess, or do you know something?”