“Big talk from the guy holding Chekhov’s gun.”
Christoph studied her face, his eyes going glassy. “God, you’re the spitting image of Serafina when you’re angry.” He eased the gun down a notch.
“Please, put it down and explain,” she said.
“And get arrested? I can’t go to prison.”
“You should have considered the consequences before you pulled out a gun,” said Andreas. He wasn’t looking at Christoph but at Sterling. Scanning her body, taking inventory of every scrape. The intensity of his gaze made her blush.
“I’m fine,” she said.
Christoph scoffed. “I don’t appreciate how you’re ogling my niece, Detective.”
“I don’t appreciate you shooting at Fernando. Any nimrod knows that’s as good as aiming at her,” said Andreas.
Fernando put his hand on his hip. “Glad to see such heartfelt concern formysafety.”
“Oh, please, she was never at risk,” said Christoph, nonchalantly tossing the gun aside.
Shrieks scattered through the crowd.
The gun scraped across the stage, stilling within Beate’s reach. She snatched it up, released the cylinder, then rolled her eyes. “It’s a prop, they’re blanks,” she said.
Yet another trick.
But there was one genuine peril in the theater: Mr. K.
His gargantuan frame was silhouetted in the glow of the open door. He cracked his neck, then marched forward. Before he reached Christoph, Andreas jumped between them. He was a full head shorter than either man but tall enough to sock Christoph square in the stomach. “On. The. Ground,” he ordered.
Christoph meekly raised his hands, then lay face down. “Pity, I just had this jacket dry-cleaned.”
Andreas held Christoph’s hands behind his back as he searched his hip for handcuffs, forgetting he was out of uniform.
“You have cuffs?” he asked Beate.
She shook her head, then eyed Harry, who winked, slipped off her necktie, and strutted onto the stage, unfazed by the ruckus. Whatever cocktail of illicit substances she was on had smoothed her temper. She cocked her head, motioning Andreas to step aside, before binding Christoph’s hands with a necktie knot secure enough to rival police-issue cuffs.
Andreas gave Harry’s work an impressed frown of approval. “So. You’re under arrest.”
“You made that abundantly clear when you ruined my ensemble,” said Christoph. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“We’ll see about that at the station,” said Andreas and pushed him forward.
Sterling pinched her ripped skirt seam together and waddled over. “Wait.”
He came to a halt, breath catching as he looked back at her. He’d avoided her gaze all afternoon, but they finally locked eyes.
“Please, don’t take him in. I need to hear this,” she said.
Andreas shook his head. “There are protocols.”
“AftereverythingI did for your investigation, you can’t grant me one favor?”
Andreas looked pained.
Beate nudged him. “Technically, we still have special dispensation to interrogate suspects at the Hotel Orient.”
The detective and Mr. K engaged in a staring contest, a silent negotiation passing between them like a discreet envelope exchanged on a park bench. They’d been acting weird since Madame’s arrest.
