Naked Moon

by Domenic Stansberry

  The Feds had sent their own forensics people, and they were moving in now, taking over the remains. Chin shouldered her way in.

  “We’ll do the analysis,” the man said.

  “It’s my case.”

  “No,” the man said. “He’s ours.”

  The breeze stirred. Barricades had been placed at the street, but there weren’t enough personnel, and the press tumbled through and gawkers as well, and up the street an anonymous old man, rummaging the embers, had started to weep. Some chimes turned in the wind, and an aria echoed from a radio, somewhere, full of static, and there was a noise, too, she thought, like water slapping at the side of a boat. It was dusk, and the sounds of barkers carried up from Broad-way. Chin took a last look at the figure spread on the blue cloth, and was tempted to remove the ring from the man’s finger. She clenched her empty hand, then headed into Chinatown. The streets were filled with ash.