It Happens in the Dark by Carol O'Connell

up. “Dickie, the play’s a hit, and no one’s even seen the second act.”
    He looked down at his friend, who showed no joy in this.
    Axel gulped the dregs of his coffee. “Sorry. Have to run. Reporters are waiting at the theater. Oh, and I promised Cyril I’d shake hands with a few politicians. He thinks that’ll give us a shot at going on tonight—in case the police have other ideas.”
    The actor covered the sleeper’s face with snow, the better to keep him fresh and fragrant, though he could not keep him for long. “What will I do when you’re gone?”
    Dickie Wyatt could not say.
    •   •   •
    Jack Coffey tried to concentrate on paperwork for the playwright’s death, though it was hard to ignore the fact that a large bear was standing in the open doorway. He looked up to meet the slow brown eyes of his unannounced visitor, who wore a suit that fit tight across the broad shoulders. And he said to the bear, “What’s up?”
    Heller, the man in command of Crime Scene Unit, lumbered into the lieutenant’s private office, held a small carton over the desk blotter—and dropped it.
    That must be a clue.
    “You caught a lucky break, Jack. All the evidence is useless. If the case ever makes it to trial, your guys won’t need Clara Loman on their side in court. She hates their guts.”
    Now it was Jack Coffey’s turn to shoot. “Yeah, I heard Loman came out of her bat cave last night. When’s the last time she worked in the field? Five, six years ago?” That woman was the sacred cow of CSU, the one who had hired Heller back in his rookie days. But now this man was in charge of the whole department, and he ran errands for no one—not even her.
    So what was Heller doing here?
    “Your detectives had her team crawling all over that theater, looking for damn pieces of chalk. You know how many hours of overtime—”
    “When did Clara Loman
ever
take orders from detectives?” That prima donna had been chained to a desk for good reason. “Did she
find
the chalk?”
    Heller pretended not to hear this. “Peter Beck’s fingerprints are the only ones on that razor. Some prints are smudged, but not the way I’d expect, one print layered over another.”
    “So you’re thinking—gloves.” Coffey picked up the sheet that detailed his detectives’ pub crawl last night. Peter Beck had lost his own gloves long before his throat was cut. But no one from CSU would know that.
    “Yeah, gloves,” said Heller. “That’s what makes the razor useless. And most of the night-vision goggles had prints from the whole cast and crew. Everybody played with those things.” He tapped the carton on the desk. “I can’t cut ’em loose from evidence, but I bought these replacements at a toy store. Councilman Perry’s been ragging my office all morning. He says the theater needs these goggles today.” Heller nudged the box across the desk blotter. “Call it a present, Jack—if you wanna score a few points with the guy. He tells me he’s real tight with Commissioner Beale.”
    Politicians had no influence on Heller, and yet here he was—playing politics.
    Coffey drummed his fingers on the desk. “So . . . what about the chalk?”
    Heller, the very busy man of few words, now sat down to chat for a while. “Blue chalk was found in a desk drawer. The theater people used it to mark up the stage during rehearsals. But the chalk on the blackboard was white, and it was old. Powdery, no modern binder.”
    “Sounds messy,” said Coffey. “So Loman’s crew found it.”
    “No, not a stick. They took samples from the writing on the blackboard. And none of the CSIs noticed chalk residue on anybody’s hands. Maybe your perp wore gloves for the razor
and
the chalk. And now you got a pile of overtime on the books, all for nothing.”
    “But they found the gloves? Loman never said anything to my—”
    “Naw, no latex, nothin’ like that.”
    “It’s winter,” said Coffey. “Everybody’s wearing