Greg Verzano said for the tenth time. He flopped sideways on his chair, exhausted and frustrated. He was a smallish, wiry guy in jeans and a New York Giants jersey, a Yankees baseball cap backward on his head. Twitchy. Nervous. He was the kind of guy who wanted everyone to be light and happy, but this was not a light and happy situation. Kovac sat across the table from him, stone-faced, unamused, arms crossed over his chest. “How’d your fingerprints get in that office? Telekinesis?” Verzano groaned and slumped forward, grabbing his head with his hands. Mr. Drama. “We saw the stuff through the windows, and we had to go inside anyway to fix the cupboard door in the kitchen. What was it gonna hurt to go look? How many times do you get to see a samurai sword in real life? So I touched it. So what? I didn’t steal it.” “So, Mrs. Chamberlain was killed with that sword, Einstein,” Kovac lied. The sword Sondra Chamberlain had been killed with had yielded no usable fingerprints. “And your prints are on it.
