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I’ve been covering for him. We see everyone who comes and goes. That’s why this desk is set up here right by the front door. Every guest who comes in is required to sign in right here.’ Marsh tapped the open leather guest book set up on the counter for emphasis. ‘We check licences and make photocopies of ’em. Security here is tight, Miss McCormick.’
    ‘How long have you been keeping this guest book?’
    ‘Ever since nine-eleven,’ he said. ‘That changed everything. You can’t go anywhere without signing your name and flashing your licence.’
    ‘Do you keep all the copies?’
    ‘Yes ma’am.’
    ‘The security cameras,’ Darby said. ‘How long have you had them?’
    ‘They were put in place when Mr Hale was rehab-bing the building back in, oh, ninety-six or so. They watch the front doors, the delivery area – we got a camera inside the private parking garage. We take security here very seriously.’
    ‘You keep mentioning that, Mr Marsh. Is there something you want to get off your chest?’
    ‘Me? No, I’m just a lowly security type. Your buddy there, Mr GQ Detective, he thought I might have had something to do with what happened to Emma. You ever walk around with a microscope up your ass?’
    ‘Can’t say that I have.’
    ‘Well, let me tell you, it don’t feel too comfortable. I think if Detective Bryson put the same amount of effort into the investigation as he does how his hair looked on camera he would have found Emma. Are you any closer to catching the son of a bitch who killed her?’
    ‘We’re investigating several leads.’
    ‘Which is cop-speak for you don’t have jack shit.’
    ‘How long have you been retired from the force?’
    ‘I worked patrol in Dorchester for twenty years. That’s why Mr Hale gave me this job. It’s a great gig. I don’t have to wonder if some dipshit I pull over is going to pop a cap in my ass.’
    ‘Mr Marsh, you said you put new locks on Emma’s home.’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Do you have a set of keys?’
    ‘The penthouse was released back to Mr Hale.’
    ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
    ‘I have a spare set, yes, but no one is allowed up there. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you up there without his permission.’
    ‘Then you better get on the phone.’
    ‘Mr Hale’s out of town.’
    ‘How do you know that?’
    ‘He was here Wednesday or so and happened to mention it to me.’
    ‘Why was he here?’
    ‘He wanted to go up to his daughter’s home.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I don’t know, and I didn’t ask.’ Marsh leaned back in his chair, the spring squeaking under his weight, and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you come back here Monday morning and –’
    ‘Maybe I wasn’t clear,’ Darby said. ‘I need to get inside Emma’s penthouse tonight.’
    ‘I don’t have his number.’
    ‘But you do have an emergency number to call in case there’s a problem.’
    ‘The number I have goes to his answering service,’ Marsh said. ‘You think I have the man’s home phone number? You know how many people he employs? Come back Monday.’
    ‘I can have a court order here within the hour.’
    Marsh stared at the makeup-covered scar on her cheek. Darby took out her cell phone and started dialling.
    ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Marsh said, standing. He walked into the back room behind the desk and shut the door.
    Darby paced the small lobby, listening to the wind howling outside the front doors. Why had Marsh given her such a hard time? Was it because she was a woman? She wondered if Tim Bryson would have received the same treatment. Maybe Marsh was simply acting in what he believed was the best interest of his employer.
    Darby turned her attention to the security monitors. One camera monitored the front door. Two swept the street, what little of it she could see; the snow was coming down at a furious clip. Another one was installed above a large bay door – probably the delivery area for bulky