He leaned over with a magnifying glass, puffing away like a furnace on his cigarette. The smoke stung his eyes as he took the cigarette out, peered closely, then stuck the weed back in his mouth. Cynthia, also smoking, stood next to him. She told herself she was smoking in self-defense but she was smoking because that little hit of nicotine coated her frayed nerve endings. He pointed a stubby finger at the boiler room, put down the magnifying glass, and placed his left forefinger on the incinerator room. This meant his cigarette dangled from his mouth, a pillar of smoke rising into his eyes. Coop took the cigarette out of his mouth, putting it in an ashtray. “Thanks.” He breathed deeply. “The two easiest spots to destroy evidence.” “Right but I don’t think that’s our problem.” “Oh?” His eyebrows arched upward. “I wouldn’t mind finding the damned knife.” She shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. We aren’t going to find the knife. It’s burned to a crisp or he could have taken it right back up to where those things are steamed or boiled or whatever they do.
