NINETEEN
Frank’s face tensed and he stiffened. The question troubled him, and he knew instantly that he had telegraphed that to the detectives. He had, after all, been holding the knife when he awoke at his desk the night before.
“It’s mostly just for show,” he said. “You know, ornamental. It has a dull blade.”
“Where do you keep it?” K.C. asked.
“On my desk. Like I said, it’s just for show.” Frank’s face reddened as he looked from detective to detective. The tic below his right eye kept time like a metronome. “Why are you asking me about my knife? I assume you know I have one and that I keep it on my desk. Is that the reason you barred me from my office? Because of the knife?”
Jerry leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the table, carefully studying Frank’s face. Frank looked at
