“Zane killed Clint,” I told Madsen.
We stood outside the gift shop where I’d stopped him on his way out. Vases and bright bouquets of flowers decked the window, their fragrance floating lightly on the air. A woman brushed past us, carrying a bunch of helium-filled balloons toward the bank of elevators.
“And I have some ideas about how to prove it,” I continued.
Madsen’s face showed a peculiar mix of annoyance and amusement. “Let’s find a quiet corner to talk.”
We settled into a pair of chairs in a deserted hallway. I twisted sideways, facing him head on, eager to convey my ideas and win his support.
“Zane claims he injured his hand by picking up a splinter from the broken rung of the ladder. If we had the splinter they extracted from his infected finger, it might go a long way towar
