Klempner beer in hand, stands, moving closer to Finchby. In a low voice, “Your building is a write-off. And the police will be all over it now. So, where's Baxter gone?”
“I don't know, Larry.” He’s babbling, his gaze fixed on the knife in James’ hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like he accused you of doing. He's done it himself to me. But I don’t know where he’d go.”
Klempner shakes his head and takes his seat again. “All yours, James.”
James, face impassive, places the knife on the table then chooses another. Not one of his ‘specials’, this one is jagged-edged; wicked-looking.
Moving slowly, taking his time, he eases the blade under the top button of Finchby’s shirt, then slices. The button pops off and he moves down to the next. One at a time, he remov
