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murdered.”
    “What?”
    “Beaten to death. We were hoping you’d come with us to look at the scene.”
    Ezra glanced between them in confusion, then over his shoulder at Ambrose. The marshal was scowling at the two constables, but he nodded when he met Ezra’s eyes.
    “Of course,” Ezra said, reaching for his frock coat. He followed the constables out, making certain the doors lingered open long enough for Ambrose to slip through them. As they headed down the sidewalk, Ezra lowered his voice to a murmur. “Why could they possibly need a Pinkerton from back east to look at a scene that’s local jurisdiction?”
    “Only reasonable explanation is Jennings.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “That’s why I’m still here,” Ambrose growled. “Because Jennings is too.”

    Ambrose followed Ezra and the constables, working hard to keep up amid the bustling streets, dodging wagons that didn’t see him, horses who reared when he got too close, even walking through a man who then shivered. Ambrose grew violently ill for a few seconds as the man went on his way, before regaining himself and hurrying after the others.
    Ezra seemed to remember to look for him every so often. Ambrose was grateful. He didn’t want to wind up back at the saloon, trying to light his damn cigarillo while Ezra was out here doing worthwhile things.
    They reached the Palace Hotel and were shown to the top floor, where Judge Spicer had taken rooms for the duration of the trial. The door was ajar, a large ring of the hotel’s keys left hanging in the lock. A constable and two US Marshals stood guard over the room.
    Ambrose trailed along after Ezra. He missed being able to nod to people in passing and have them nod back. He missed the air of respect that came when someone saw his nickel badge and tipped a cap to him. He missed being alive.
    He was still here, though, so he intended to make the most of it.
    “Why have I been brought here?” Ezra finally asked when the constables directed him toward the body.
    “With Marshal Shaw gone, you’re the only lawman in three territories who’s seen Boone Jennings’s work, Inspector,” one of the men told him. His mustache dropped down past his chin, and it gave him a melancholy air when he frowned.
    “Boone Jennings is dead,” Ezra reminded him.
    “Yes he is. But after we seen what happened here today, we reckon he had a partner.”
    Ezra’s eyes strayed to Ambrose. Ambrose shook his head. Boone Jennings had never employed a partner in any of his endeavors. He’d used people, of course, for robberies and charlatan work. But he’d never inspired the type of loyalty it would take for someone to want to avenge his death. In fact, Ambrose suspected he’d rarely left people alive after they served his purposes. He wasn’t the type.
    “Let’s see the judge, then,” Ezra said. Ambrose hurried to follow him before any doors could close in his face.
    Judge Henry Spicer was still in his bed. They would have to take the constables on their word that it was indeed Spicer, because his face was no longer recognizable. He was still in his nightclothes, the quilt over him undisturbed.
    “He heard no one approach,” Ezra observed.
    “Yeah, ’cause it was a ghost,” Ambrose said.
    Ezra cleared his throat, like he’d been about to respond but caught himself. “Do we know what implement was used?”
    The man closest to the bed pointed to a bloody shoehorn on the floor. Ambrose moved closer and scowled when he tried to poke it; his finger simply sank through it without disturbing it or the blood that covered it. “Weapon of opportunity,” he told Ezra. “That is the way Jennings likes to do it. He uses anything nearby, then leaves it behind when he goes. Unless it’s valuable, in which case he takes it and sells it.”
    Ambrose hefted himself back to his feet. The knee that had given him so many troubles during his life no longer hurt. He was as spry as a billy goat. Too bad being transparent was the