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unable to resist. She mumbled, “Not that you actually need it . . .”
    “Ha!” I am a man of few syllables.
    My ex is not someone who is easily dissuaded. After all, it took six years of marriage before she divorced me—she probably kept thinking the following year would be better. She regrouped and dove back in. “I sincerely believe that you would be a happier man if you were seeing someone good for you,” she said, putting a hand over mine. This was awkward, as I was actually reaching for one of her french fries.
    “You want to assuage your guilt over leaving me for an anesthesiologist,” I said. “A man who is paid large sums of money to put people to sleep.”
    She took her hand away, and I got the fry. “You’re impossible, ” she said.
    “On the contrary, the fact that you see me makes me possible. Highly improbable, perhaps.”
    “Lunch,” said my ex-wife, “is on you.”
    “It’s your money.” I smiled.

5
    The Middlesex County Prosecutor’s Office wasted no time in sending someone to Comedy Tonight a mere six hours later. I had already been waiting in the theatre—looking for odds and ends I could repair quickly—for four hours when the investigator, Detective Sergeant Brendan O’Donnell, announced himself ready to begin his work. There were Midland Heights officers scouring the place—a couple of them had let me in when I proved I was the theatre owner. They told me to stay away from “the crime scene,” so I was sticking to the front of the auditorium, repairing some broken seats in row C. I had briefly seen Officer Leslie Levant, but she was in the lobby, and I was in the auditorium. It was going to be one of those days.
    When not taking orders, the Midland Heights cops had little to do with O’Donnell. They were the local cops, and he was the investigator from the prosecutor’s office. For a force as small as Midland Heights’, it was necessary to bring in the County Major Crimes Unit on a murder, but that didn’t mean they were happy about it. They answered his questions when he asked—which was a rarity—and otherwise did little in the way of investigating besides searching under seats (although it was unclear what was being sought) as O’Donnell had directed them to do.
    Sophie, who had come directly to the theatre from school, had gotten over her obvious horror of the night before, and was back to displaying the kind of overpowering level of blasé that only a teenage girl can muster. To look at her, you’d think Sophie wouldn’t be especially concerned if Godzilla had entered the auditorium and demanded a really, really large soda.
    Part of her demeanor could be attributed to the presence of her parents. Ron and Ilsa Beringer were trying hard to support their daughter, and by doing so, were in the process of embarrassing her to the point of physical violence. On Sophie’s part. They stood with O’Donnell and me in the auditorium, while their daughter cringed at virtually every word they spoke, moaned frequently, and generally gave off the vibe that the ground should swallow them up.
    Sophie wandered over toward Anthony, who was sitting and reading a copy of On Location , a publication for directors and crew. Anthony is nothing if not an optimist. Sophie started talking quietly to him, in an apparent attempt to forget her parents were in the room.
    “She couldn’t sleep a wink last night,” Ilsa told Sergeant O’Donnell. “She cried for hours. The poor girl.” Ilsa cast a glance in my direction that was not entirely friendly, while I wondered exactly how this had become my fault. “I held her in my arms for half the night.” Sophie was trying as hard as she could to sink into the floor, and I think she had made it up to her knees at that point. “I can’t understand why she’d ever set foot in this place again.” Apparently, my providing her daughter with (semi) gainful employment was merely a ruse to traumatize her. I must have known someone was going to