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All it got me was an x-ray, two fillings, and a numb lip the rest of the night.” He rubbed his jaw, then sucked on his bottom lip to make sure he had feeling back.
    Scallion eyed his partner for a moment, wondering exactly how long the man planned on hanging on. Approaching sixty-two, he was already well beyond the career life-expectancy for a cop. Reddish-grey hair cut short, and a rapidly expanding gut made him look even older. He was aware the man had been a good cop in earlier days, but his zest was clearly gone, apparently playing out the string.
    “So, how’d that deal out in Katy go yesterday?” Murtaugh asked, showing little actual interest. “Wild goose chase, I’ll bet.”
    Scallion swivelled in his chair to grab the bag. “Actually, maybe not.” Holding the bag up, he added. “The guy had a gift for us.”
    Murtaugh stared at the bag, then at Scallion. “What the hell is that?”
    Scallion un-zipped the bag, then carefully unfolded the paper wrapping. “Could be the harmonica those witnesses said they heard.”
    Murtaugh leaned across the space separating the two cubicles. His mouth sagged open while he reached into his shirt pocket for his bi-focaled glasses. “Where’d he dig that up?”
    “Under the floor of the icehouse, in the crawlspace.”
    The older man leaned back, frowning. “How come he looked there?”
    “He didn’t. His son did. The bar was damaged by a fire late last year, and the owner decided to sell out. The man—name’s Truluck, by the way—said his son was doing demolition work there. Found it, and happened to mention it to his old man. Turns out, Truluck watches a lot of tv. He saw some cold case shows that highlighted the Becker case, mentioning the harmonica sounds. He put two-and-two together and went and got it from his son.”
    Murtaugh raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
    “His son said it was found right inside an open vent, on the side of the building where the killing occurred. Chances are good it was thrown there by our guy.” Scallion re-wrapped the instrument and placed it back in the bag.
    “You’re thinkin’ it might contain DNA?” Murtaugh asked, doubt showing.
    Scallion nodded. “Possibly.”
    “I wouldn’t count on it. You said there was a fire in the bar? One thing I know for sure is that heat and time together usually destroy any traces of DNA. The killing was, what, six, seven years ago? Looks like a long-shot to me.”
    Scallion’s hopes started to flag, not only due to the man’s defeatist attitude, but more from the fact he knew he was probably correct in his opinion. But with no other workable leads, it was hope worth hanging onto. It was the only possible link to Bernard Nuchols, a. k. a. Bernie Nuchols, the man sitting in an Oklahoma City cell, and the man suspected in the Becker murder.
    Murtaugh seemed to sense the pall he had thrown over the conversation. He rubbed his red face, and gave a thoughtful look. “You plan on taking it down to Marla?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Okay. Tell you what. Why don’t you go on down, if you don’t mind going solo. I’ll get on the horn to Oklahoma City, tell’em to keep us up-to-date on Nuchols’ trial status in case we want to have a sit-down with him.”
    That was fine with Scallion. Matter of fact, he preferred to go alone. The man’s presence was beginning to be somewhat of a downer. Plus, he could use the time to himself to wrestle with Marti’s situation. It would’ve been nice to have someone else to confide in, but Murtaugh was not that person. Which reminded him, “Say, Denny. Before I forget. I’m going to have to take some time next week, maybe two or three days. Marti has a little surgery planned. I’ve already told Otto.”
    “Oh? Nothing serious I hope?”
    “Shouldn’t be. Just a female thing.” Scallion felt lousy not telling the whole story, but got an immediate impression his partner didn’t mind going it alone either. Either from years of rummaging through