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taking from the museum. But he didn’t. He walked in. No strut. That was annoying. What was he wearing? Dark brown buckled combat boots, jeans, a plain white T-shirt in a bistre leather vest, and a medium length leather jacket with brass buttons along wide lapels and small buckles around the cuffs that matched. Oh, and no blood on his hands.
     Officer Jim escorted Knight in, and then left the room. Knight gave me a worried smile that I didn’t return, and then jerked his head around to stare out the windows over my shoulder at something on the other side. I turned on reflex to see what would cause such a reaction but nothing was there.
     “Adrian Knight,” John said.
     I turned back and Adrian still looked out the window. He gave it another moment and whipped around to face John with a weary look.
     “That’s me. Detective Harris, I presume,” he said, offering his hand to John.
     “Follow me,” John ignored his hand. “We have a situation here we are hoping you can help with.”
     “Who’s we ? You and the museum? You and the police? You and Claire?” asked Adrian as we followed John down the hall towards the crime scene.
     “Yes.”
     “And the situation?”
     “I was hoping maybe you could tell us about that, Mr. Knight.”
     Adrian gave John’s back a fake, tight-lipped grin and asked, “Guess that’s got something to do with me coming in the long way around. That’s great. Where’s Wilkins?”
     “He’s back in the storage area. Henry’s office,” John said, giving back his own tight-lipped pseudo-smile.
     “So why am I talking to you?” Adrian asked. “And why is she here?” he asked, nodding to me.
     I was about to tell him why I was there, when he stopped for a second, closed his eyes, and tilted his head to sniff the air. When he opened his eyes, he looked right into mine and, for a split second, they widened in comprehension. He took off down the hall, shoving John aside, and swinging around the open doorway to Henry’s office. I smelled it three feet later. There was no mistaking the acrid, metallic scent of warm blood.
     Adrian stared for a moment, took it all in, then pulled back and leaned against the outer wall.
     John kept staring right at him, getting angrier. And, to be honest, I was too, ever since he walked in, but he did seem genuinely… I don’t know… surprised.
     “That’s George isn’t it? By the desk,” Adrian asked, looking at the floor.
     I didn’t trust my voice to speak, so I nodded. John said nothing.
     “And the other?” asked Adrian.
     “We’ll get to that, Mr. Knight. Don’t you worry,” John said.
     “We’ll get to it?” Adrian snapped. “What the hell…” he trailed off, staring into space and muttering to himself. “Wilkins was working last night. Training a new guy, he said. Rollins? Wilkins is dead,” he looked at John. “In Henry’s office,” Adrian turned to me looking worried. “Where’s Henry?”
     Any other time and I’d have given an arm and a leg to see that cold, arrogant mask of his slip. Only, I could hear it in his voice. He was scared to hear my answer. He didn’t know.
     “Adrian, it’s Henry,” I said softly. I had meant to slam him with it, but I couldn’t. A sadistic killer was walking around my city covered in Henry and George’s blood. I didn’t have enough hate left in me to use on Adrian Knight just then.
     To his credit, all he did was lean his head back to the wall and groan, “Ahh, Henry.”
     John took that moment to stare daggers at me for not backing him up and sticking it to Knight. He was still too angry to see it. If Adrian played nice, we could all get out of this quickly and start looking in other directions for the real killer. Small chance of that, though. It wasn’t a match made in heaven. John was the kind of guy that’d get pissed at the drop of a hat. And Adrian seemed to have a talent for hat dropping.
     John rounded on him. “Mr. Knight, where were you