The body hit the marble floor with a sound like a dropped wine bottle—wet and final.
Maximilian Aurelius Blackwell III didn't flinch. He'd been mid-conversation about the appalling lack of authentic Baroque influences in modern architecture when Harrison Caldwell's face turned purple and gravity did the rest.
"Well," Max said, adjusting his cufflinks. "That's unfortunate."
The screaming started immediately. Women in gowns worth more than most people's cars stumbled backward. Men in tuxedos pulled out phones, shouting for help. The string quartet kept playing for three confused seconds before the violinist noticed.
Max knelt beside the body, careful not to crease his Tom Ford trousers.
"Don't touch him!" A woman shrieked somewhere behind him.
"I'm not touching him. I'm observing him. There's a difference." Max leaned closer, examining the foam at Caldwell's lips, the peculiar angle of his neck, the way his right hand clutched at nothing. "Fascinating."
"Someone call 911!"
"Already done," Max said without looking up. "Four minutes ago. I'd estimate… six minutes until NYPD arrives. Seven if there's traffic on Fifth."
"How did you—"
"Basic urban response time analysis. Really, it's quite elementary." He pulled out his phone, snapped three photos of the body from different angles. "The discoloration suggests a neurotoxin. Possibly synthetic. The speed of onset indicates—"
"Mr. Blackwell, step away from the deceased."
Max didn't need to turn around. He recognized that voice—perpetually annoyed, trying very hard to sound authoritative.
"Detective Chen. How prompt. Six minutes and twenty seconds. I underestimated the traffic."
Sarah Chen pushed through the crowd of Manhattan's elite, her off-the-rack blazer a stark contrast to the sea of designer labels. Two uniformed officers flanked her.
"I said step away."
Max stood, brushing invisible dust from his knees. "Of course, Detective. Though I should mention you'll want to bag the wine glass approximately three feet from the victim's right hand. The poison was administered through his drink, not the food."
Chen's jaw tightened. "And you know this how?"
"Observation. The foam pattern around his mouth, the speed of onset, the fact that he was mid-toast when he collapsed." Max gestured elegantly. "Everyone was served the same appetizers. Only Caldwell drank from that particular glass of Château Margaux—a 1996, incidentally, which is frankly insulting to serve at a charity gala of this caliber. One should at least spring for a 1990."
"Secure the scene," Chen told her officers. She turned back to Max. "You were here when it happened?"
"I was standing approximately twelve feet away, discussing the degenerative state of contemporary art with Councilman Davies." Max pulled a business card from his jacket—cream colored, tasteful thickness. "Maximilian Blackwell. Private consultant. Former NYPD Detective, though I imagine you already knew that."
Chen didn't take the card. "I know who you are."
"Wonderful. That expedites things considerably." He pocketed the card. "The widow is your primary suspect. Mrs. Vanessa Caldwell, second wife, married eight months ago. Pre-nuptial agreement limits her inheritance to three million unless Mr. Caldwell dies within the first year of marriage."
"That's—"
"Motive. Yes. She also has means—access to his private wine collection, knowledge of his allergic sensitivities, and opportunity—she selected tonight's wine list herself. I overheard her discussing it with the sommelier approximately forty minutes ago."
Chen pulled out her notepad. "Where is Mrs. Caldwell now?"
"Third alcove to your left, being comforted by the Mayor. Interesting, that. Given that the Mayor was supposed to be in Albany this evening according to his public schedule."
"You're saying the Mayor is involved?"
"I'm saying the Mayor has an alibi that puts him at this gala at the precise moment of Mr. Caldwell's death, despite having no documented reason to be here. Draw your own conclusions, Detective. I find people get defensive when I do their thinking for them."
A muscle twitched in Chen's cheek. "Officers, I need witness statements from everyone in this room. No one leaves."
"That will take hours," Max said. "Might I suggest focusing on individuals within a fifteen-foot radius of the victim? Anyone further away lacks the proximity to have executed the switch."
"The switch?"
Max sighed, the sound of a professor disappointed by a slow student. "The wine glasses, Detective. Someone switched Caldwell's glass with a poisoned duplicate. The real question is when. I'd hypothesize during the cocktail hour, but the ambient lighting was insufficient for me to observe the full trajectory of—"
"Mr. Blackwell." Chen's voice could have frozen vodka. "This is a police investigation. Not a consulting opportunity."
"Oh, I'm aware. I'm simply correcting your approach before you waste valuable time." He glanced at his watch—a Patek Philippe that cost more than Chen's annual salary. "Though I suppose procedural protocol is more important than efficiency."
"What I need is for you to give a statement and stay out of my way."
"I've just given you multiple statements. The widow did it. With exotic poison. In the ballroom. Really, it's quite obvious."
"Nothing is obvious until we investigate."
"To you, perhaps."
Chen stepped closer, her eyes hard. "Listen carefully, Blackwell. I don't care about your reputation or your money or your perfect solve rate from when you wore a badge. This is my crime scene. You are a witness. Act like one."
Max studied her for a moment. There was something admirable about her fury—misdirected, certainly, but authentic.
"Very well, Detective. I shall endeavor to be less helpful." He started to turn away, then paused. "Though you might want to examine the bracelet."
"What bracelet?"
"Mrs. Caldwell's diamond bracelet. Caught the light at an unusual angle during the toast. She wasn't standing where everyone claims she was standing. But I'm sure you'll discover that yourself. Eventually."
He moved toward the exit, where two officers immediately blocked his path.
"No one leaves," one said.
"I heard. I was simply going to examine the wine table while you fine gentlemen process the scene." Max smiled. "Unless Detective Chen would prefer I remain completely inactive?"
Chen waved him off. "Go. But don't touch anything."
"I never do."
Max walked to the wine table, hands clasped behind his back, observing everything. The bottles were arranged chronologically by vintage. Someone had taste. The glasses were Riedel crystal. Someone had money. The spacing between place settings was exactly fourteen inches. Someone had obsessive tendencies.
His eyes caught on something—a water ring on the white tablecloth, slightly offset from where it should be.
"Detective Chen?"
She looked up from where she was crouching near the body. "What now?"
"You'll want to dust this section of the table for prints. Someone moved this glass approximately six inches to the left. Recently."
Chen straightened. "How can you possibly—"
"The water ring, Detective. It hasn't had time to dry completely. The displacement suggests someone bumped the table, or deliberately repositioned the glass. Given the precision of the rest of the setup, I'd argue the latter."
She walked over, examined the spot. Her expression didn't change, but Max caught the slight widening of her eyes.
"Bag it," she told an officer.
"See?" Max said. "Cooperation. We're practically partners."
"We're nothing."
"How hurtful."
A commotion erupted near the alcove. Vanessa Caldwell's voice rose above the murmur: "I was with the Mayor the entire evening! He'll tell you!"
The Mayor, looking extremely uncomfortable, nodded. "Mrs. Caldwell never left my sight."
Max turned to Chen with an expression of exaggerated surprise. "Well. This is awkward."
"What?"
"The widow has an alibi. With the Mayor himself." He tilted his head. "That's… unexpected."
Chen's eyes narrowed. "You said she did it."
"I said she was the primary suspect based on motive, means, and opportunity. The Mayor's testimony complicates the opportunity aspect." Max frowned—an actual, genuine frown. "I may need to revise my hypothesis."
"You may need to shut up."
"That seems unnecessary."
More officers arrived. Crime scene techs started processing the area. Vanessa Caldwell was sobbing now, mascara running in expensive rivers down her face. The Mayor was making phone calls. Society's elite stood clustered in groups, whispering, staring at the covered body.
Max pulled out his phone, reviewed his earlier photos. Something was wrong. He'd seen the switch happen. He knew he had. The bracelet evidence was solid.
Unless…
His blood went cold.
"Impossible," he whispered.
Chen appeared at his elbow. "What?"
"Nothing. A miscalculation."
"The great Maximilian Blackwell made a mistake?"
He looked at her, and for just a moment, the mask slipped. The arrogance cracked. Something vulnerable flickered across his face before he buried it.
"It appears so, Detective. How terribly human of me."
Cameras flashed outside. News vans were arriving. By morning, everyone would know: Maximilian Blackwell, the detective who never failed, the genius consultant, the man with a perfect record—had publicly, spectacularly, impossibly gotten it wrong.
"I should go," he said quietly.
"You should stay. We still need your statement."
"You have my statement. The widow did it." His smile was sharp, brittle. "Except she didn't. So clearly, I know nothing. Good evening, Detective Chen."
He walked toward the exit. This time, no one stopped him.
Behind him, Chen watched him go, something like concern crossing her face before she turned back to the body.
Max stepped into the Manhattan night, alone with two hundred witnesses to his failure.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
"Impossible? Nothing is impossible, darling. You simply weren't looking at the right game. - M"
Max stared at the message.
Then, despite everything, he smiled.