"Fine. Now let me see if I got this right: You were playing a match when the gun went off. You finished the match. You shook hands with your opponent. I assume you shook hands with your opponent?"

Duane nodded.

"Then you did an interview."

"Right"

"Did you shower before or after the interview?"

Myron held up his hands. "Okay, that's enough."

"You got a problem, Bolitar?"

"Yeah. Your questions are beyond idiotic. I'm now advising my client to stop answering them."

"Why? Your client got something to hide?"

"Yeah, Rolly, you're too clever for us. Duane killed her. Several million people were watching him on national television during the shooting. Several thousand more were watching him in person. But that wasn't him playing. It was really his identical twin, lost since birth. You're just too smart for us, Rolly. We confess."

"I haven't ruled that out" Dimonte countered.

"Haven't ruled what out?"

"That 'we' stuff. Maybe you had something to do with it. You and that psycho-yuppie friend of yours."

He meant Win. Lot of cops knew Win. None liked him. The feeling was mutual.

"We were in the stadium at the time of the shooting," Myron said. "A dozen witnesses will back that up. And if you really knew anything about Win, you'd know he'd never use a weapon that close up."

That made Dimonte hesitate. He nodded. Agreeing, for once.

"Are you through with Mr. Richwood?" Myron asked.

Dimonte suddenly smiled. It was a happy, expectant smile, like a school kid sitting by the radio on a snow day. Myron didn't like the smile.

"If you'll just humor me for another moment," he said with syrupy phoniness. He rose and moved toward his partner, the Pad. The Pad kept scribbling.

"Your client claims he didn't know Valerie Simpson."

"So?"

The Pad finally looked up. His eyes were as vacant as a court stenographer's. Dimonte nodded at him. The Pad handed him a small leather book encased in plastic.