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mention finding a dead body—or two.
    “I’m going to squeeze your balls,” Archer said, grinning and cracking his knuckles as he spoke. “I’m going to put them in the opening of a cell and slam the door shut. Permanently.”
    The sound of the big fists having their knuckles popped gave Dutton an uneasy feeling in his groin and gut.
    “Archer … Archer”—he wanted so badly to tell the jerk what he thought of him, but worked to keep a civil tongue—“you know I didn’t have anything to do with—”
    Archer cracked a knuckle and the sound echoed in Dutton’s empty stomach.
    “Dartmoor.” Archer grinned, his fat lips smacking with pleasure at the thought of Dutton being locked up in the prison. The man’s face was almost cherubic, with its flushed cheeks and red-wine bulbous nose. “What d’you think?” he asked his partner. “You think this smart-ass reporter for the filthiest rag in London will like Dartmoor? How long do you think it’ll take before he’s some ape’s sex toy?”
    Lois leered down at Dutton. “I’ll send you some vaginal cream. You’re going to need it.”
    “Fuck you. Both of you.”
    The guard stirred enough to look up at Dutton with tired eyes and shake his head. “Not smart.”
    Dutton shrugged, cocky. “My editor will have me out of custody in an hour.” In a pig’s eye, he thought.
    “No, not this time.” Archer’s voice went lower and Dutton could feel the heat of his rage and his foul dragon’s breath. “There’s a reprimand in my personnel jacket because of you. I’ll retire a grade lower, and every month when I get five hundred less than I deserve, I’ll think about you, getting your ass poked at Dartmoor—if you live long enough. I’ll put out the word that you have a snitch jacket.”
    “You have nothing on me, it’s not against the law to chase a story.”
    “I’ve got a dead body back there dressed up for a costume ball. And someone else separated from their head. Two people have been murdered,” he almost whispered, “and all I hear from you is that you were following a lead and fell into the lap of a corpse. But I don’t hear the name of the person you claim gave you the tip.”
    Dutton had been agonizing over that dilemma. If he coughed up Howler’s name, he would betray a source. He had been down that road before. Not that Howler’s life wasn’t in jeopardy already—when he got his hands on Howler, he’d strangle him. Besides, no matter what he did, Archer would burn him. If he was going to get himself untangled from this mess, he would need some leverage. The identity of his source was leverage. When the news media got wind of the gruesome twosome at Westminster Abbey, he hoped there would be enough pressure on Scotland Yard to find the killer that Archer would be forced to deal with him for information.
    “I can’t give you the source. You’ll just have to trust me.”
    Archer howled with laughter until he started choking. When he got his breath back, he said, “What’s the matter, Dutton, afraid you’ll get someone else killed because of your stupidity?”
    “Archer, to me you’re nothing more than a pile of air in this world, heavy air, a stinking pile of heavy air.”
    Archer cracked a knuckle with a big pop. “That’ll be your neck someday,” he whispered. Then, in a louder voice, “Your refusal to cooperate in a murder investigation leads me to believe you are lying about the reason you came here and that you are involved in the murders of two people. I’m going to—”
    “Inspector, Sergeant, can I see you for a moment?” It was Nulty, the scene-of-crime tech in charge of gathering evidence.
    “Watch him,” Archer told the night watchman. Archer and Kramer followed the forensics tech back to where the body was. Other crime scene technicians were checking the area for prints and using a micro-scanner to check for tiny bits of evidence. A medical technician was examining the head on the tomb when they entered the