"At Central or in the field?"

"Let's keep it light and go to them. For now. After you've set them up, you're relieved. Meet me at Central at oh eight hundred."

Peabody shifted her feet. "Are you going home?"

"Eventually."

"I can hang until you do."

"No point in it. We'll do better with a fresh start tomorrow. Just scramble the interviews in. I want to talk to as many people as possible as soon as possible. And I want a follow-up with Areena Mansfield."

"Yes, sir. Great dress," she added as she tucked her memo log away. "You're going to have to get the blood and sweeper gunk off the skirt before it sets in."

Eve looked down, scowled at the elegant black column. "Damn it. I hate not being dressed for the job." She turned, strode deeper backstage, where a uniform stood by a huge, locked cabinet.

"Key." She held out a hand while the uniform took out a key in an evidence bag. "Anybody try to get in this thing?"

"The prop master came back – old guy, pretty shaky. But he didn't give me any hassle."

"Fine. Go out front and tell the sweepers they'll be cleared to run this area in about ten minutes."

"Yes, sir."

Alone, Eve unlocked the cabinet and pulled the double doors open. She frowned, noting the box of cigars, the old-fashioned telephone, and a few other items neatly arranged in an area marked Sir Wilfred's Office.

Another section held props that had been used in the bar scene. The courtroom section was empty. Apparently, the prop master was very careful about replacing and arranging his props, and did so directly after the scene where they were needed was wrapped.