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layers of towels. I took as long a shower as the water heater would allow, and thought it unreal that Lucy, Marino and I were together in this tiny coastal cottage on a snowy New Year’s Eve.
    When I emerged from my bedroom, I found them in the kitchen drinking Italian beer and reading about making bread.
    â€œAll right,” I said to them. “That’s it. Now I take over.”
    â€œWatch out,” Lucy said.
    I shooed them out of the way and began measuring high gluten flour, yeast, a little sugar and olive oil into a large bowl. I turned the oven on low and opened a bottle of Côte Rôtie, which was for the cook to sip as she began her serious work. I would serve a Chianti with the meal.
    â€œDid you go through Eddings’ wallet?” I asked Marino as I chopped porcini mushrooms.
    â€œWho’s Eddings?” Lucy asked.
    She was sitting on a countertop, sipping Peroni. Through the windows behind her snow streaked the gathering dark. I explained more about what had happened today, and she asked no further questions, but was silent as Marino talked.
    â€œNothing jumped out,” he said. “One MasterCard, one Visa, AmEx, insurance info. Crap like that and a couple receipts. They look like restaurants, but we’ll check. You mind if I get another one of these?” He dropped an empty bottle into the trash and opened the refrigerator door. “Let’s see what else.” Glass clattered. “He wasn’t carrying much cash. Twenty-seven bucks.”
    â€œWhat about photographs?” I asked, kneading dough on a board dusted with flour.
    â€œNothing.” He shut the refrigerator. “And as you know, he wasn’t married.”
    â€œWe don’t know that he didn’t have a significant relationship with someone,” I said.
    â€œThat could be true because there sure isn’t a hell of a lot we know.” He looked at Lucy. “You know what Birdsong is?”
    â€œMy Sig’s got a Birdsong finish.” She looked over at me. “So does Aunt Kay’s Browning.”
    â€œWell, this guy Eddings had a Browning nine-mil just like what your aunt’s got and it has a desert brown Birdsong finish. Plus, his ammo’s Teflon-coated and has red lacquer on the primer. I mean you could shoot the shit through twelve phone books in the friggin’ pouring rain.”
    She was surprised. “What’s a journalist doing with something like that?”
    â€œSome people are just very enthusiastic about guns and ammo,” I said. “Although I never knew Eddings was. He never mentioned it to me—not that he necessarily would have.”
    â€œI’ve never seen KTW in Richmond at all,” Marino said, referring to the brand name of the Teflon-coated cartridges. “Legal or otherwise.”
    â€œCould he have gotten it at a gun show?” I asked.
    â€œMaybe. One thing’s for sure. This guy probably went to a lot of them. I ain’t told you about his apartment yet.”
    I covered the dough with a damp towel and put the bowl in the oven on the lowest setting.
    â€œI won’t give you the whole tour,” he went on. “Just the important parts, starting with the room where he’s apparently been reloading his own ammo. Now where he’s been shooting all these rounds, who knows. But he’s got plenty of guns to choose from, including several other handguns, an AK-47, an MP5 and an M16. Not exactly what you use for varmint hunting. Plus, he subscribed to a number of survivalist magazines, including Soldier of Fortune, U.S. Cavalry Magazine, and Brigade Quartermaster. Finally”—Marino took another swallow of beer—“we found some videotapes on how to be a sniper. You know, special forces training and shit like that.”
    I folded eggs and Parmesan reggiano with ricotta. “Any hint as to what he may have been involved in?” I asked as the mystery of the dead man deepened