Dr. Carver drew on a pair of latex gloves and knelt to examine Ingram’s body as SID techs photographed the scene.

Weaver moved back a few steps. “John, go stand with Shannon and Eileen. Long, take a seat somewhere out of the way. I’ll talk to you in a few minutes.”

Without a word, John did as Weaver instructed.

Long grumbled. He, too, obeyed, but instead of finding a place in the crowd to await his turn for questioning, Long strode to the stage. He picked up the microphone and made that annoying tap-tap-tap noise to be sure it was live.

“Hello, everyone. I’m afraid that this hasn’t turned out to be the event we signed up for. It’s a very sad night with the loss of one of the titans of the world of food criticism, and now we must remain here for a while as the police do their work. To make your waiting time a little easier, I’m going to instruct our staff to bring you all anything you’d like to eat or drink-on the house. Anything our kitchen can make or pour.”

Scattered applause greeted that announcement. Long smiled, but held up his hand for quiet. “That’s not all. Tonight was supposed to bring the charity of our winning star’s choice a check for one hundred thousand dollars. Obviously, the contest can’t be completed, so I’m going to send to the charity chosen by each of our twenty competing celebrities a check for ten thousand dollars-”

Much louder applause interrupted him. Long smiled at that, but after a moment held up his hand to stop it.

“Thank you, but that’s not all. Each of you who came to watch the cook-off donated five hundred dollars to the Healthy Life Fund to be here. Well, to show our appreciation for your patience, we’re going to match every one of those five-hundred-dollar donations with my own personal check to that fund. We’ll work from the guest list, and be sure that each donation will be in your individual names, so remember to deduct the additional five hundred when tax time comes around.” Long’s face assumed a somber expression. “There’s been a tragic death in our midst tonight, but we’re going to make sure some good comes out of it.”

In a wry tone, Roland Gray said, “Did you notice that he’s using the ‘royal we’? ‘We’re going to match’ and ‘we’re going to make sure’ and so forth. My guess is that he’s intending to run for public office in the next few years. Probably for governor.”

“You could be right,” I said.

Roland Gray’s speculation made me think. If Eugene Long did intend to enter politics, I wondered what he thought about the prospect of having Keith Ingram as a son-in-law. I’d learned about Ingram’s bad character easily. Surely Long must know the nature of the man his daughter had fallen for.

After Weaver instructed the uniforms on scene to collect names and contact information from everyone in the ballroom, I watched the SID techs as they processed the area. From where I stood I had a good view, and knew that they hadn’t-or hadn’t yet-found the knife someone had plunged into Keith Ingram’s neck.

Weaver took my arm and steered me around to the end of Roland Gray’s stove until we were as alone as it was possible to be in a room full of formally attired, bejeweled, irritated people muttering their displeasure at not being allowed to leave the ballroom.

“When the brass find out John slugged the victim, he won’t be allowed anywhere near this case. As his partner I’ll likely be thrown off it, too. This may be my only chance to talk to anybody here, so I’ll start with you. Tell me what you saw. Exactly.”

I did, as quickly and as thoroughly as I could, while Weaver took notes. When I got to the part about Yvette Dupree screaming, Weaver said, “This Dupree woman saw the body first? Where is she?”

“Eugene Long’s daughter became hysterical. He asked Yvette to take the girl to his suite.”

“Nobody should’a left here! You know better than that.”

“What could I have done? I don’t have any authority.”

He calmed down. “Oh, yeah. For a minute I forgot you’re just a cop’s wife-widow.”

Hugh Weaver’s tactlessness didn’t bother me; I was used to it. In conversation, he may have been as clumsy as someone trying to dance while wearing snowshoes, but according to John, he was a good detective. Weaver could say any stupid thing he wanted to as long as he was trying to save John. If John were arrested, the emotional trauma might send Shannon into a relapse, and Eileen would be devastated by guilt because of what her ill-fated romance with Keith Ingram had done to her family.

Weaver and I saw that Sidney Carver had finished her preliminary examination of Ingram’s body and was stripping off her latex gloves. That was Weaver’s cue to join her. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was clear that she was leaving.

Weaver came back to me. “The SID techs will be working the area for quite a while yet, but soon the body’s going to be removed to Carver’s office for autopsy. I can’t wait any longer.” Weaver punched a number into his cell. When he reached his captain at the West Bureau Station on Butler Avenue, he reported the unusual situation: that John O’Hara had been in the vicinity of a homicide, and that he’d also had a hostile encounter with the deceased before the murder.

I liked that “hostile encounter” bit. It sounded a lot better than saying John had physically attacked Ingram.

Weaver scowled at whatever his captain was saying. When their brief conversation was over, he snapped his cell shut and nodded unhappily.

“Just like I thought. They’re dispatching another detective to take over the case. But I’m here now, and I’ll keep going until I’m eighty-sixed.”

With me close behind him, Weaver began collecting information from the celebrities in Sector Four, and those attending the gala who had been in our area when the smoke bomb went off. No one saw-or at least no one admitted to seeing-anything helpful.

Weaver had filled a dozen pages in his notebook when I saw another man enter the ballroom. While I didn’t know his name, from his sports jacket, slacks, and the stern expression on his face, I was certain he was a West Bureau detective.

Weaver muttered a curse. “Bad news just walked through the door. That’s Manny Hatch. He hates John’s guts as bad as I hate perverts.”

“Why?”

“A few years ago-remember the murder of that big music guy in Bel Air?”

“Yes. John caught the killer.”

“It started out as Hatch’s case. From the get-go, Hatch figured it was the wife and wasn’t looking at anybody else. John kept digging and found evidence that it was the victim’s stepson. Hatch was embarrassed. Ever since, he’s blamed John for his not getting the promotion he thinks he deserves. With Hatch on the job, John’s chance of getting out of this clean just fell through the hole in the outhouse.”