Let's just be safe and say I own nothing in the following pages. Not even the words, I think. Webster does, or whoever writes the Dictionary.

3

Sam St. Claire was one of those six and a half feet tall, blow-dried Fu Manchu wearing, steroid-pumped gym bunnies with suspiciously small feet that always made Eames smile. He was athletic with a quick mind, which is probably why Rose and Monica picked him to donate his DNA for their baby.

Before they came into his studio, the detectives had a little chat in the car. "I don't understand how he could bring a kid to life and not care enough to have a part in her upbringing."

"Statistically," began Goren, "men prefer to have boys. When asked, three to one say they want a boy, and unmarried men are twice as likely to stay with their pregnant girlfriends if the ultrasound suggests a penis. If dads don't get a boy on the first try, they're likely to keep trying until they can't try anymore, or get one."

Eames sighed. "That's terrible. Men are scum."

"Hey," said Goren, affronted. "Not all of us. I've always wanted a girl, actually. One of each. The boy born first to keep an eye on her for me. You know. Stick up for his little sister."

"What if the girl was first?"

"Then I'd have a spy. Instead of 'Keep an eye on her,' it's 'Squeal on her.' Little boys are good informants."

"Just two kids?"

"Yeah," he said. "After that it gets kind of crazy, you know?"

"Yes, I do. What if they're both girls?"

He smiled. "Then I'll have two little princesses to have my tea with."

Eames rolled her eyes as they pulled into the parking lot. St. Claire was holding a punching bag for a wimpy-looking kid with a gray belt. At the sight of the detectives, he called a time-out and sent the little ninja over to partner-up with a slightly older child.

"What can I do ya for?" he asked with a smile that stretched his moustache into a straight line.

Eames suppressed a gag and flashed her badge. "Mister St. Claire, we're here about Monica North."

His face twisted into concern. "Right. Well, step into my office, please." He took them into a little room to the side and parked himself behind the desk. "What's this all about? Is Cynthia all right?"

"She's fine," said Goren in a why-would-you-care tone of voice. Deadbeat dads were not his favorite people. "It's about Monica."

"She was murdered last night."

St. Claire whistled low. "That's terrible. She was so spirited. Surely she put up a fight."

"She didn't have time to," said Eames. "She was stabbed."

St. Claire shook his head. "Well, I don't know what I can do. I haven't seen her in years."

"About that—why didn't you show any interest in Cynthia?"

His moustache drooped like a hound dog's ears. "That's not what her mothers wanted. I agreed to stay out of it. There was no contract or anything, we just agreed. That was all." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. "Monica sent me a new picture every six months."

He handed them the most recent picture. Cynthia had his nose, but everything else was pure Monica. "She's beautiful," said Eames, meaning it. "Have you ever thought about asking for visitation rights?"

He shook his head. "I didn't want to intrude."

The detectives exchanged glances. "Mister St. Claire," said Goren. "Where were you last night at nine?"

"Here," he said. "Filling out paper work."

"Was anyone with you?"

"No. We close at eight."

Goren ran his hand over his mouth. "Do you have any proof of your whereabouts?"

Suspicion clouded St. Claire's beady little eyes. "What's this about? Do you think I killed her?"

"We're just ruling you out, Mister St. Claire. You seem like a nice guy, I can't see you stabbing Monica just for the hell of it." Eames gauged his reaction carefully.

"There's a security camera by the door," he answered slowly. "I left at quarter-til ten. It should be on there."

"We're going to need those tapes," said Eames. "Do you teach knife-throwing?"

St. Claire snorted. "No. Unless you're a secret agent or something, it's illegal."

Goren nodded at the larger man, tapping his own much larger foot on the ground, a signal to Eames that they weren't going to get anything more interesting out of this guy. "Thank you for your time. We'll show ourselves out."

"If you think of anything else, call us," said Eames, handing him her card.

"Will do, ma'am."

They stepped outside his office, Eames grumpy from her lack-luster afternoon, Goren watching the kids kick, punch and scream their ways into warrior-hood. "I'm starting to run low on cards," she said, counting up the remaining ones. "Remind me to refuel when we get back to the Plaza."

He had his knuckles against his lower lip, lost in thought. "What I don't get," said Eames, "Is what he'd have gotten out of killing Monica."

Goren shook his head. "We'll check the finances of Blessing and Rose to see if anything is missing."

"You think they had a hand in it?"

"Somehow. But I can't see him doing it for money."

"What then? Revenge?" He sent her a dubious look. "Managed to shift the blame from his sperm to her eggs for giving him a daughter he couldn't force himself to care about."

He rubbed the back of his neck as though a tension headache had taken over the highest quarter of his body. "Unlikely."

"Sexual favors, then," she suggested, getting exasperated. "Two bisexual babes all over a loser like that? What wouldn't he do?"

"I don't know. I'm hungry, let me buy some lunch."

"Sounds good to me. Where to?"

"Someplace close," he said, pulling the door open. "There's a little pawn shop I want to take a look at."

The Shannon River Shop specialized in Celtic goods and novelty items. Eames smiled over a T-shirt in the corner. "Warning: Irish Temper and Italian Attitude. I should get that for Mom."

Goren's phone rang before he could answer. He picked it up while Eames perused the shop and waited for an employee to show. After a brief conversation, he closed the phone and turned to his partner.

"That was ballistics. The weapon was an old carving knife that had been sharpened until it was razor-thin. It's untraceable. Probably sold in a pawn shop." He took a suggestive look around the store until his eyes rested on a collection of swords, daggers and arrows behind a shelf of shot glasses.

"This just keeps getting better and better."

"Can I help you?" asked a withered old man from behind the counter.

"I'm Detective Eames this is Goren, we're investigating a murder in which one of your knives might have been the weapon."

"That's not possible," he said defensively. "All our blades are blunted down. Nearly harmless."

"Unless someone sharpens them back up again."

"That would leave them paper-thin and flimsy."

"Do you have any idea how many people have died of paper cuts?"

He looked peeved but didn't say anything else. Eames showed him a picture of the knife. "Is this one of yours?"

He checked the picture carefully. "It's not Celtic. It's American. You'll have to try Patriot's Pawn."

"We'll do that, thanks."

The girl behind the counter at Patriot's Pawn recognized the knife immediately. "Sure, I sold that one about a week ago."

Eames held up a picture of Blessing Knowles. "Is this who you sold it to?"

She glanced at the photo. "I don't think so. I don't think I've ever seen her before."

She had the same thing to say for Sam St. Claire, Rose Buhler, even Mick Rodriguez.

"Do you remember who did buy it?"

The girl's eyes darted to the left, a sign of honesty. "No, ma'am. I'm sorry."

"That camera back there," said Goren, indicating the security camera over the girl's left shoulder. "Is it always on?"

"It is now, but the day before I sold the knife a car crashed into the power line over the shop. The power was out for two days. But the weather was perfect and we have a lot of windows, so we stayed open. It's busy season for novelty shops."

"That's convenient," said Eames. "And the buyer didn't use credit cards."

She shook her head. "Nope. Most of our customers pay in cash. Small purchases, you know. Collectors."

Eames nodded and handed her yet another business card. "If you think of anything let us know," she said, sounding like a broken record.

Outside the shop, Eames peeked through windows at the pretty treasures on display, the vast majority of which were completely useless. "Were they able to lift any prints off the knife?"

"A couple. They're running them through the system right now but if it came from a pawn shop, a lot of people have handled it."

Eames sighed. "What we need is to take a look in St. Claire's apartment."

Goren shook his head. "We need a warrant, and Carver's not even going to try on this evidence."

"Good thing we've got more than one lawyer friend," said Eames, starting the car and pulling out.

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