The officers ignored the protests of innocence as they loaded the woman into the car. “Oh shit, here comes Knave,” one of them said as a slouching man moved from shadow into the dancing red light.
“Gentlemen,” said Jonah Knave, “a moment?”
“Make it quick.”
“How many bullets left in the gun?”
The officers exchanged glances. The smaller one volunteered, “Three.”
“And how many wounds in the victim?”
“One,” the larger said, impatience hanging around him like a stink.
“I see. Thank you, officers.” Knave moved up the walk. He stood in the door, staring past the cooling body just inside, beady eyes focused over the crouching medical examiner at the wide glass pane at the back of the room.
“You’re gonna catch hell if the captain finds you here, Knave,” the M.E. remarked.
Knave grinned but didn’t look down. “Perhaps the captain should be more concerned about finding the shooter.”
Knave looked at the door to his right, cocked his jaw and ran his gaze the length of the frame, squinting at last at a pair of small holes near the hinge. “The real perp shot from, and fled through, the backyard. You have the wrong woman.”