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I?”
     
    He handed her a rubber glove and she pulled it over her own.   When she dipped a finger in the stuff I took a sudden interest in the paintings.   The third one from the right, a happy eruption of birds, was pretty good, and I made a mental note to find out if the artist was local.
     
    “It’s him,” I heard her say.   “But not just him. There’s something else.”
     
    “Some thing else?” Fisher asked.   “Not someone?”
     
    I turned back.   She was shaking her head.
     
    “No.   It’s something almost reptilian, but it’s not.   And there are traces of sulfur.”
     
    “ Sulfur? ”
     
    Now that she said it I could smell it too, a hint of rotten eggs just on the edge of my nose, buried under the blood-smell.   I nodded agreement, and Fisher ran fingers through his hair.
     
    “At least I know we have a victim and not a fugitive.   Thank you, both of you.   Phelps?   You can call the crew in now.”
     
    Fisher followed Artemis and me onto the balcony, where he lit up and sighed.
     
    “God—sorry Astra.   I’ve been wanting to do that for an hour.”
     
    Artemis smiled.   “I can’t throw stones, detective—all this has made me thirsty and I’m off to The Fortress for a drink.   Goodnight Detective Fisher, and call me anytime you need quick bloodwork done.”   Without looking at me, she turned to mist and faded from sight.   Fisher puffed a smoke-ring.
     
    “And that’s not disturbing.   Sorry about tonight kid.   You okay?”
     
    I sighed.   “I wish Atlas were here—I’m no good at this.”
     
    “You’re better than you think.   It still sucks.”
     
    I leaned against the balcony.   “Do you have any idea who did this?”
     
    “If you mean who put him in the box, no.   Who ordered it?   Yeah, maybe.”
     
    “Could it be the bank robber?”
     
    He made another ring and shook his head.   “ Naw .   The MOs don’t match.   Whoever she is, she left him alive and well; why kill him now, after we’ve already talked to him?”
     
    “The Outfit?”
     
    “Now there’s a possibility.   Especially since our missing Mr. Tony Ross is an independent antiques dealer.   Personally, I think he’s an Outfit banker.”
     
    “A what?”
     
    “Sorry.   I think he’s a wise guy who’s job is to hold the cash.   It’s better than a numbered offshore account—electronically untraceable.   He keeps a ledger with the bonds, and pulls or collects payments on his trips.   An Outfit auditor checks the books quarterly to keep him honest.   Everything’s coded, no names are used, so even if the feds flipped him they wouldn’t get much—and his bosses probably have something on him anyway.   We’ve got the Organized Crime Division looking into that angle.”
     
    “So why kill poor Mr. Moffat?”
     
    “Send a message to anyone who knows what the robbery was about.   For all they know, he might have been our thief’s accomplice.”
     
    “Oh.”   I shivered, hugging myself.   “Do you think Mr. Ross is dead too?”
     
    He nodded.   “Yeah kid, I do.   Or dropped off the face of the Earth.   His bosses have to assume the leak was on his end—or maybe that he arranged it himself.   So he’s dead or running.”
     
    I thought about that.
     
    “You’re not going to catch them, are you?”
     
    Taking a last puff, he ground out the cigarette in his palm (the balcony was still part of the crime scene, I supposed) and tucked it away.
     
    “Not unless somebody somewhere gets monumentally stupid.   Contrary to popular belief, contracted hits are really hard to solve, even if you have a good idea who ordered the job.   We’ll do our best, and they’ve got to be careful.   That’s probably why our thief showed us the bonds; so we’d know who she was stealing from, make them be cautious. Fly safe, kid.”
     

     
Chapter Five
    A protest outside Restormel , the base of the Hollywood Knights, turned violent today. The crowd,