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might vomit.
    “You gonna be okay?” Randolph asked.
    He nodded, his eyes returning to the gun in Woody’s hand. Pearl handled. Why did it seem so strange?
    “You don’t mind if I call you by your first name do you?”
    Frank shook his head. The even tone of the detective’s voice seemed out of place for what he was seeing. It was too friendly. Too relaxed and calm for a world that had just been turned upside down, gutted and then trashed.
    “Thanks,” Randolph said. “They went through his wallet, Frank. Took his cash and credit cards. You keep anything of value around here?”
    “There might be some petty cash.”
    Frank led the way to Tracy’s desk. The drawer was already half open. The photographer had already taken the shot. It was empty. Randolph reached for the handle anyway, sliding it all the way open with a gloved hand.
    “Did he have any relatives, Frank? Parents, siblings, a wife or children?”
    Frank shook his head again. Woody didn’t have anybody. Frank knew he didn’t. They’d been friends since law school and started the company right after graduation from the University of Virginia. Small races at first. Local grassroots campaigns propelling them forward until they reached clients with money and clout.
    A detective Frank hadn’t seen before poked his head out of the media room and flashed a grin. Randolph nodded, introducing the man as his partner, Ted Grimes. Frank looked him over as he approached them. Younger than Randolph by ten years or so, Grimes had pale skin and slate gray eyes set wide apart in an extraordinarily round head. He stood as tall as Frank at six feet two, but he was built like an ox, his manner coming off simple, maybe even a little crude.
    “Frank, did you know your partner kept a gun?” Randolph asked.
    “No,” he said. “But I keep one in my desk. Bottom right drawer.”
    The detectives exchanged quick glances. Then Grimes crossed the room. The woman from the coroner’s office had returned with a small Asian man. Once Woody’s hold on the pearl handled gun was broken, they began stuffing his round body into a long black bag. Woody wasn’t cooperating.
    Grimes gave them a look, his grin seemingly permanent, and stepped around them. When he opened the desk drawer, the gun was there. The detective shoved a No. 2 pencil down the barrel, lifted it to his nose and turned back to Randolph, shaking his head.
    “It’s a forty-five,” Grimes said. “The holes in this guy were done by something smaller. They barely poked out the back side.”
    Randolph’s eyes met his partner’s. It was a Glock .45, pre-1994 with an extended clip. Unlike many handguns, there was no art to the weapon Frank kept hidden in his desk drawer. It was a people killer with maximum stopping power and probably seemed out of place for the line of work he was in.
    Frank turned to the door by the stairs, noticing the bullet holes in the plaster as a cop wearing a raincoat rushed in.
    “Heads up, Lieutenant. We just found another one out back.”
    Randolph and Grimes started for the door.
    Frank followed them outside and along the gravel path around back, the cop showing them the way through the rain with his flashlight. When they stopped, Frank saw the body of a teenage boy sprawled on the wet lawn. A pistol lay beside his outstretched hand. He wore jeans and a light colored jacket, and Frank could see the plume of blood that surrounded a small rip in the material right between his shoulder blades.
    “Either it’s raining bodies from heaven,” Grimes said. “Or we had ourselves a shoot-out, fellas.” He moved closer for a better look at the gun. “It’s a Beretta. Nine millimeter. Bet it matches the holes in the guy upstairs.”
    Frank kept his eyes on the body as the female coroner brushed by.
    “Empty his pockets before you get started,” Randolph said to her.
    She nodded and switched on her flashlight. Everyone stood back as she approached the body, step by step, careful not to