POOL OF LIES

By

J.M.Zambrano

Smashwords Edition

Pool of Lies

Copyright 2010 by Jean Marie Zambrano

Cover Design by Kit Frazier

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other books by J.M.Zambrano

The Trophy Hunter

Wheat Ridge, Colorado

February

Deidre Bayfield Lassiter sat in a straight-backed chair, eyes closed, body rigid, her long black hair cascading over her nakedness. JJ’s words were dull thuds against the wall she had constructed between her consciousness and her captor. He stood behind her, his hands resting on the ropes that bound her emaciated wrists to the chair arms, his sour breath caressing her cheek as he spoke.

“Here's the deal, Dee, when I cut you loose, you’ll take the phone and talk. Make sure he gets it this time.”

She had already done this once. Something had gone wrong. The desired outcome had not materialized. The events were hazy. Had it been yesterday or last week?

“Do you understand, or do we need another lesson? There's always little brother and his jumper cables.” JJ prodded the nape of her neck with a thick forefinger. He was a short, stocky man, built like a Rottweiler. When standing, Deidre towered over him at five-ten. She squeezed her eyes tighter to block out the vision of him, but his image, like his lessons, had seared her brain.

She made herself nod as she whispered, “Got it,” then felt JJ cut the bonds that held her wrists.

“Take it now.” His voice slapped her rudely. She felt his knife in the sparse flesh on the back of her hand--a little blood-letting, a sample of things to come if Sam screwed up again. Deidre opened her eyes to the sight of a cell phone being thrust at her face. Slowly she moved her hands, needing both to steady the phone. JJ had already punched in the number. It was ringing.

“Bayfield Enterprises, Sam Garvin speaking,” a recording announced in the elderly twang of her trustee and family accountant. “Leave a message.” No frills. Not even the promise of a return call.

JJ prodded her in the leg with the toe of his boot, his small dark eyes flashing intently.

“It’s me, Sam. Deidre.” It seemed a long time since she’d spoken aloud. Maybe a week. The sound hurt her more than the pin-prick rush of blood back into her hands. “I need some money. Please don’t call the cops this time. It didn’t do any--” JJ abruptly cut the connection.

“He’ll call back on your cell phone.”

Deidre nodded, looking around as if for the first time. Memory oozed sluggishly. They were in the Aztec Motel on Forty-fourth where JJ had taken her after her release from the Lakewood Police. After her first call for money, Sam had called the cops, and they’d picked her up on a welfare check, snatched her from that big boat of a Lincoln Town Car she’d just inherited. Expired plates. Vehicle possibly stolen. So said the cops as they’d focused on her, separating her from JJ. Meantime JJ had just faded into the background, distancing himself from the scene. She’d watched him from the back of the squad car, a nebulous figure in black making tracks down an alley, seemingly invisible to the cops. But her deliverance had somehow backfired, and he had her again, like she knew he would. It was true when he said the cops couldn’t touch him.

“Are you hungry?” JJ asked pleasantly, in the voice he had used when first meeting her.

Deidre shook her head.

“Not even for candy?” Nose candy. Too slow. She smoked rock now. It didn’t last. Nothing did. Maybe a shot--a downer to make her sleep a long time. Maybe she didn’t even care if he dug her grave with that backhoe he had parked behind his machine shop on Forty-second. She closed her eyes and imagined cool, damp earth falling on her.

“You’re free to go now.” His voice came from across the room. She hadn’t heard him move. The feel of his breath was still on her neck.

“I’m unlocking the door. Your clothes are on the bed. So is your cell phone.”

She heard the door open and close, then JJ’s cowboy boots deliberately loud to her ear in the tiled hallway outside the room. Yet, she didn’t move.

The words you're free to go were part of her conditioning. She remembered what had happened before when she’d taken him up on that offer, surprised that the memory still triggered pain in that deep place where she thought there should be no feeling left.

Vaguely aware of someone looking at her from across the room, she opened her eyes and saw the eviscerated face of a dark-haired woman with eyes pale as ice, a woman with a lot of mileage--more than thirty-five years could account for. Flaws in the mirror made pockmarks on her face.

Deidre made one sluggish gesture toward her mirror image, then slumped back down in the chair, burrowing deep within herself. Being plowed under by a backhoe didn’t seem so bad after all. Then, from the bed, her cell phone rang.

Longmont, Colorado

Rae grabbed Danny’s call on the third ring. Seeing his name in the caller ID box didn’t do any wonders for her mood. “Rachel Esposito here,” she hammered out the three words. Staccato. Didn’t he know what day this was?

“Hi, Rae. It’s me.”

“I can see that, Danny.” She snorted impatiently, reminding herself that she’d been around horses too long.

“I need your help.” His tone danced a hair away from panic.

She vowed to have no mercy. “It’s April fifteenth.”

“I know, but something’s happened. It’s bad.”

When did he ever call when it was something good? “Yeah, yeah. Uncle’s on your tail again and you need three years’ tax returns.”

“You may be right. I move a lot and mail doesn’t always find me. But that’s not it.” He paused a second. Rae could imagine him taking a drag on a Marlboro. Dumb-ass kid. Didn’t he know what happened to the Marlboro Man?

“My wife died,” he squeezed out just as she was about to hang up on him.

“Jolene is dead?” she gasped as guilt seized her.

“Jolene and I divorced three years ago,” he replied. “I remarried. My wife Deidre is dead.”

“The last I heard from you was when we batch-filed three years’ returns for you, to keep you out of jail,” she blurted.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

That was supposed to have been her line, but she remembered that he’d never fully paid that last bill. “You’re always sorry,” she growled. His silence finally pushed the words out of her. “I’m sorry about your wife. Now, what is it you want from me?”

“Deidre drowned in her hot tub,” he replied.

That wasn’t what she’d asked. Rae began nervously tapping her desk with a pencil. But now she was too curious to hang up.

“I’m the personal representative of her estate and there’s a bunch of shit going down.”

Shit following Danny Lassiter was not new. Rae kept her silence, accelerating the pencil tapping that she knew Danny couldn’t help but hear.

“It’s quite a large estate,” he continued. “Deidre was a trust fund brat, too.”

“Birds of a feather get flocked and plucked.” Rae’s lopsided humor sprang from her surroundings. She was the third generation on the small Longmont farm from which she ran her accounting office.

Danny’s silence told her he was looking for meaning in something that had none. Rae could churn out an adage that bore little resemblance to its prototype.

“Uh, Rae? I’m dealing with a lot of hostility here.”

“I thought I had it under control.”

“Not you. My wife’s family. She left a nineteen-year-old and a fifteen-year-old. Then there’s the half-sister that makes Cinderella’s look like Mother Teresa.”

“Cinderella had two stepsisters,” Rae corrected. She eyed the pile of client files beside her, noting that her computer screen had taken a time-out.

“Rae, gimme a break. I need you. I’m in deep shit and I have a meeting next Monday with a very hostile lawyer. I need somebody on my side with unquestionable moral and professional integrity.”

“Have you tried Arthur Anderson?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind. Cheap shot.” She turned quiet as she perceived that she was being sucked in once again.

“I’ve got your retainer covered. And I’ll soon be able to pay the back stuff,” he continued as if reading her mind.

“Where’s the meeting? Who and what’s involved?” He’d sunk the hook. Almost.

“Cherry Creek. Rosencraft, Stern and Eisley on Steele Street. There’s the estate tax return and really messed-up accounting to straighten out. Dee had a bunch of real estate. I can fill you in on the way. I’m in Lakewood.”

“We could meet there,” she said, “at Rosencraft and Whatsis.”

“I thought maybe you could pick me up,” he stammered.

“What about your attorney? Can’t you ride with him?”

“He’s already there,” Danny replied. “I was hoping you could pick me up. I don’t have transportation just now.”

“You mean you don’t have a driver’s license. Why doesn’t this surprise me?” Why are you doing this, she asked herself. You have other clients. Ones who pay on time and are not in perpetual crisis.

“Dee didn’t leave a will,” he changed the subject, was always good at that. “There’s some pretty hairy stuff. Like the real estate I mentioned? Well, most of it’s been turned into crack houses.”

“What?” Rae stopped tapping her pencil, felt it snap between her fingers. “I thought you’d learned something in the last ten years. You told me you were clean after Josh came along. When are you going to grow up?”

“I am clean. I got custody of Josh. We’d been living in Pagosa Springs when Deidre died. We were separated. I was trying to get her into rehab.”

She heard the shudder of suppressed tears in Danny’s voice, then felt a great sadness replace her anger. “Didn’t your marriage to Jolene teach you anything?”

“Like the lemmings, it’s hard to break the death wish.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I try not to. Can I give you directions to...where I’m staying?”

Rae heard a sharp rap on her office door, then glanced at her watch. Her next client was due.

“I’ll have to get back to you, Danny.”

“Do you want my number?”

“I’ve got your number,” she replied crisply, just before hanging up. Let him wonder if she just meant caller ID.

It was 10:00 p.m. Rae’s last client had just left. She was nearly brain-dead, bored out of her skull from rote tax preparation. With animals yet to feed, she left the first-floor office in her house and walked out the back gate toward the barns.

A lilac hedge separated her formal garden from the farm area, and she looked forward to the scent those near-bursting buds would soon bring. She hoped a spring snow wouldn’t freeze the life out of her precious purple blooms.

What to do about Danny Lassiter? The sensible thing, the CPA thing, or the Rae thing?

On the other hand, Danny never brought her dull stuff. Embezzlements. Cooked books, albeit on the small scale, the family scale. Catastrophic calamities befell him, which resulted in his failure to file his tax returns. Reasonable cause was what Rae was able to sell the IRS. These were the things Danny had brought her in the past. Juicy!

Her relish immediately filled her with self-disgust. Danny’s troubles had been real. Rae wouldn’t have wished them on her worst enemy. And the thief she’d helped him catch? It had been Danny’s own father.

In the barn Rae found hungry mouths to feed. Horses on pasture that was still sparse in mid-April needed their evening supplements of hay and grain. They’d come in on their own a couple of hours earlier expecting to be fed. Now they stomped impatiently and munched on their stall doors.

The three fat barn cats shoved each other aside for the privilege of rubbing against her leg.

“Go catch mice!”

A mouse ran brazenly across the barn aisle, while the cats continued rubbing her legs as she doled out feed to the horses. Spoiled. Rotten spoiled, every one of them, like Danny Lassiter. But she knew that wasn’t entirely true in Danny's case.

After finishing in the horse barn, Rae walked past the loafing shed where two graying Black Angus steers languished, to the chicken house. The cats--a brindle tabby, a tortoise shell and a black--tagged along.

“Off limits.” She closed the henhouse door in the cats' faces, then slipped inside to secure the inner door so the local coyotes and foxes didn't dine on prime pullet that night. The cats trailed Rae back to the house where there were messages from both her kids on the answering machine, saying they hoped she’d survived the fifteenth.

Her house was an empty nest. As she cleaned the coffee pot, Rae thought of how Danny had tried to keep his brood together. She remembered Danny’s first wife, Jolene. A skinny, blond street kid with chewed nails and dollar signs in her eyes, who thought she’d lucked out when she’d caught herself a rich boy. Naive, that was Danny. Who knew if Josh was even his? Rae would cut her tongue out before suggesting this to anybody.

It was too late to call her son back in Florida, but in California, it was an hour earlier. Rae punched in her daughter’s number and Tori answered on the third ring.

“Hi, Mom.”

Rae heard the younger of her two grandsons crying in the background. “Is this a bad time to call?”

“No. Jeff's got things under control,” replied her daughter.

“Hey, Tori, you’ll never guess who I heard from today. Remember Danny Lassiter?”

“How could I forget? How’s he doing? Josh is how old? Must be a teenager by now.” Tori had babysat Josh back when and had adored the child.

“Turned fifteen this year.”

“Wow. Well, tell them I said hi.”

Rae was glad Tori didn’t follow up on how’s he doing.

“How’re you? And my guys?”

“We’re great. What I called you about was Michael starting his classes for first communion.”

Rae gasped. How could time race like that? “But he’s only six.”

“Seven in May. It’ll take a year. Next April we want you out here. No excuses.”

“I don’t know...” Rae felt a tightening in her chest.

“Listen, Mom, we forgive you for missing the christenings. They were babies and won’t remember. Michael will remember your not being there for his first communion.”

Words were stuck in Rae’s throat. Whoever said time stood still wasn’t in her world. Memories flowed swiftly. Tori leaving for college, falling in love out there at UCLA. Instant marriage--well, it seemed like it. Oops, a baby--nine pound “preemie”--well, at least they were in the right order: marriage, then baby.

On the other end of the line Tori sounded patient. “Mom?” she ventured sweetly.

“I’m mulling.”

“Mom!” Not so patient now. “Daddy’s been gone twelve years.”

“Thirteen this May.”

“When’re you going to stop counting?”

“Don’t go there, Tori.”

“Yes, I will go there. You need to stop counting and get on with it. At least, go through the motions for Michael’s sake. It won’t kill you to go to church this once.”

“You sound like Grandma Bertolli.”

“I’m giving you a whole year to get it together, Mom. I’m serious. This is big.”

“I’ll think about it. Can we change the subject?”

Rae could hear Tori sigh deeply before her reply. “Fair enough,” she said in a tired voice. “What’s Danny bringing you this time?”

“Estate problems. His wife died.” Rae didn’t explain that it was his second wife.

“I’m sorry,” replied Tori. “But she had some...uh...health problems...”

“She was a drug addict,” Rae snapped in a voice she hadn’t intended for her daughter.

“Oh, but...I’m still sorry...for Danny and Josh.”

“I have reservations about taking this one on.”

“You’ll do the right thing. Sleep on it.”

“Are we still on the subject of Danny? Don’t answer that, I already know.”

“Love you, Mom. Get some sleep.”

“Kiss the boys for me. All three of them.”

Rae pressed end, then stared at the receiver in her hand, swallowed, trying to get rid of the anger that was lodged in her throat like a hair ball. That Danny might be allowing himself the luxury of grieving over his short-lived marriage to a crack-head--another one, yet--annoyed her. Focus there, she told herself. You’ve got a year to deal with the other.

*****

Danny had been referred to Rae by Sandy Robinson, a lawyer they both knew. With his baby-face, longish brown hair and eyes the color of nutmeg, Danny hadn't looked his twenty-two years. More like eighteen max, Rae thought. And this Danny boy had a three-year-old in tow. His son, Josh. Rae had found toys for the little one and a cold drink for Danny.

“Mr. Robinson said you do fraud audits,” he'd begun.

“That's right.” Sandy had already given her some background. Rich kid with a trust fund that was being drained by a reprobate father.

“It's my dad I want you to audit,” he continued. “Or my trust fund, I mean. Dad's my trustee.”

He looked uncomfortable, shifting the soft drink can from hand to hand, eyes following Josh as he played on the floor. Danny wore a wedding band. Rae thought it strange he'd brought the child with him. He must have read her mind.

“My wife's sick. We couldn't get a sitter on such short notice.”

She'd learned later that Jolene had been taken to detox that morning.

“Did your dad also set up the trust for you?”

“No. My mom did. She died five years ago.”

Then they'd heard a whine, like something's last gasp, and their heads had turned toward Josh to find he'd become enamored of Rae's power strip and had just turned off her computer. Danny grabbed him up, a stricken look on his face.

“Not to worry,” Rae assured. “I wasn't in anything. It was just on. Here, give him to me.”

It had felt good to hold a little one again, now that her kids had grown so big. While Josh sat on her lap, handling everything on the desk, drawing all over her desk protector with a magic marker, Danny had finished his story.

When Rae had sorted it all out, she discovered that Danny's father had mortgaged all the real estate in the trust and spent the money on who knows what. After she documented evidence of the misappropriation, Danny was reluctant to prosecute his dad. Sandy had presided over an arbitration hearing for the purpose of getting dead-beat Dad to promise restitution without a court order. An agreement had been reached, but the old man had promptly gone out and filed bankruptcy before signing it. In time, the funds had flowed again, but at a slow trickle.

What's he gotten himself into now? Rae wondered. No way was her curiosity going to let loose of this one. She hit the talk button and punched in Danny's number, hoping she'd wake him up.

Earlier that year, Kevin Cantrell had stood at his mother’s grave and felt no grief. He’d watched clods of icy dirt fall on her coffin on a February morning and managed not to smile.

JJ had been right. They didn’t need Dee anymore. “Dee” was how Kevin thought of her--not “Mom.” She’d given them the leverage they needed. Once JJ had shown Kevin how far Dee would go for drugs, any feelings he’d had for her went right down the crapper. He’d seen the logic in what JJ proposed.

Now, weeks had passed and there was no sign of his mentor at the machine shop on Forty-second. The little house in back was quiet. No cars parked anywhere around. JJ’s backhoe was rusting. Thanks to Dee’s nosy neighbor, he didn't get to help JJ use it that night. Kevin had been bummed when he'd gotten JJ's text: plans changed. But he knew he didn’t dare go near the house or shop. Wait was the name of the game. That part of the plan didn't change.

Text messages. JJ was smart. At first Kevin had worried about leaving a record that the cops could follow. Not ur prblm JJ had texted back when he’d brought this up. Someday when they were old and rich, maybe JJ’d tell him what his lucky charm was that kept him cop-proof. Nosy naybr stay lo was the rest of JJ’s text message on Dee’s last night on earth, an hour or so after Kevin had let him know she was home alone. Only Kevin didn’t know for sure it was her last till Sam came and got him from the Golden house and broke the news. He’d put on a fair show of grief considering he’d gone to sleep wasted. After another week, he texted: When? The answer had been when I say. And he’d kept his distance from JJ.

But Kevin’s stash was gone and he really needed JJ or another source. He’d hoped for some more direction, but the time had come to get things started. On his own, if need be. Time to go see Auntie Morgan and show her the leverage Dee had given them.

He was supposed to be staying with his aunt and uncle, but he’d managed to keep pretty clear of them. The less said, the better. Fewer chances to fuck up and say something they could use against him.

After hitching a ride to Simms Avenue, he walked the rest of the way. It was late morning and quiet at the house by the lake. His little sister would be in school, Uncle Nate was away on business and the maid had the day off. He’d made it his business to know these things. Maybe he didn’t need JJ any more than he needed Dee. Kevin was rich now, and if the assholes guarding his money thought they were going to dole it out in little piss-poor dabs, they were in for a big surprise. First thing he’d do would be to get him some wheels.

Kevin used his key on the front door. What’s to hide? This was his official residence, wasn’t it? He’d been staying in that seedy one-bedroom by the train tracks, at the edge of Golden. Now that Danny had a cleaning crew over there and a builder making estimates, Kevin knew his Golden days were numbered. He snickered at the realization that his real golden days were almost at his fingertips.

The hallway to her bedroom was dark, and he almost missed the door to her room. Damn, fucking depressing house. People like her and Dee, they deserved their migraines. No light in their houses. No light in their lives.

Kevin knocked, then threw open the door without waiting for a response. He was surprised to find her at her desk, fully dressed, like maybe she was getting ready to go someplace. The tiny little window was open, and a pitiful stream of sunlight crawled across the walls.

Auntie Morgan’s pale blond hair looked like it had been to the blood bank. Her overripe body twisted in the chair as she turned toward him. She wasn’t fat, really. Just a lot of her was boobs. He watched her face cloud up at the sight of him.

“Don’t you knock first?”

“I did knock.” He knew what she meant. He didn’t wait for permission to enter. He didn’t need her damn permission. “I’ve got a little surprise for you. After I tell you what it is, we’re going to Gramp’s office and Sam is gonna write me a check.”

“What’re you talking about?”

Her voice was dismissive, but he’d show her. Like he showed the bitch principal in his senior year. Sugar in her gas tank. No sugar in Auntie’s gas tank. That Jag deserved better.

“I’m talking about the little present Mom gave me before she died.” Dee was still Mom in front of others.

“What present?” Morgan got up and stared at him out of her cow’s eyes. Thought she could make him feel worthless. “What’re you mumbling about, Kevin? Speak up.”

Like he was some shit-ass kid, some fly she could swat.

“She knew everything. Mom found out and she told me...Auntie.” He drew out the word, twisted it, made it mocking, so she’d have no doubt. “Auntie.”

Now he had her attention. Hands on her hips, she leaned toward him. “Told you what?”

“That you’re not my auntie--Auntie.” Still nothing was happening to her pissed expression, so he told her: “You’re my grandma.”

Bitch looked more like she wanted to laugh than anything. This was not supposed to happen. She just stared at him, a little sneer pulling on those silicone lips of hers.

So he dumped it all on her. “You got yourself knocked up and had a kid at sixteen. Your folks passed Mom off as their change-of-life kid. Your baby sister was really your baby bastard.”

“You want money for that revelation, Kevin?” Now she did--actually--laugh at him.

It would be so sweet to strangle her--but he needed her to sign checks. Discretionary distributions. Oh, yeah, he’d spent enough time picking Sam’s brain to know he needed Auntie Granny.

Fucking bitch turned her back on him. “Nobody’s left alive who’d care about my indiscretion.”

“How about Uncle Nate? Can I start calling him >Grandpa’? Is that cool with you?”

“I really don’t care what you call Nate.”

Time for the last resort. The sure thing. The one that wouldn’t fly if a bank replaced Granny as his trustee. This one needed a heart in a person to work. Maybe Auntie Granny Morgan had one. Maybe not.

“Big talk, Granny. But what about Beth?”

He knew he’d found the right button when she turned back and he saw fear slither into her eyes.

“What about Beth?”

“Don’t you know JJ’d have a blast with my little cherry sister? Just like he did with Mom?”

“How do you know about JJ?”

“You’re kidding. Right?”

For a second he thought he’d misplayed. He’d forgotten they’d set it up so even Dee had believed it was Danny who’d hooked JJ up with her. But so what if Granny knew it was him now? That could only give him power. As the truth sank into her, he felt her change toward him, bend to his will.

“I assume you want some kind of an income stream.” Her voice was quiet, hardly more than a whisper. But her eyes were monstrous black with pupil where dread had crept in and settled down to stay.

“More like a river. Yeah, a roaring river. Say a hundred thou to start it flowing.” His head swelled with his new power.

“That’s quite a sum.” She was stalling, needed another goose.

“If you even think of going to the cops, Beth will get the same as Mom. Get my drift? JJ and me, we got each other’s asses covered. Do yourself a favor and trust me on this one.”

That got her moving. She grabbed herself a jacket and one of those big, fancy leather handbags of hers, and off they went toward the garage. Walking behind her, Kevin wanted to jump up and click his heels.

They entered the garage from the house. Morgan hesitated beside the driver's side door of her white Jag. Kevin watched her pull on those gloves of hers. A pair for every outfit she owned. So the sun wouldn’t put freckles on her hands. Like somebody really cared, at her age.

“You drive, Kevin. My headache’s coming back,” she said, moving over to the passenger door.

Good, bitch. I hope it kills you. But not just yet.

Morgan pressed the garage door opener as Kevin slid into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and roared backward up the long driveway, getting a real charge from the pained look on her face.

As they turned onto Simms, she grabbed his arm. “My prescription. I need you to stop at the pharmacy. The Rite Way at the next intersection. I’ve already called it in.”

“I know where it is. Not a problem.” He parked in the strip mall lot in front of Rite Way.

“Will you please go in and get it?” She hunched over and put her hands over her mouth, like she might be getting ready to puke. “I don’t know if I can do this. You may have to take me back home.” Her muffled voice slipped between her fingers.

“Oh, I think you’re up to it.” He was out of the car before she could barf on him, but as he looked back, he glimpsed a cell phone in her open handbag. So what if she called the old geek? Who gives a flying fuck? He’d used the last of his stash before leaving the house in Golden, and was stepping high, fearing nothing.

She was late. Rae Esposito, who never got lost and never was late, was at least one of the above. Danny wondered if she was getting even for the money he owed her. As he paced in front of the house, he looked at his wrist, which used to carry a Rolex. He must get a watch, a practical generic watch to tell time by.

Deidre’s house, the one they’d shared during their brief marriage, sat on a little rise of ground above Graystone Lake in the choice Peardale section. But it was an ugly house. Enormous, low and squat, it glared at him like a beady-eyed ogre out of its tiny windows, almost as if it knew what he’d planned for its fate. A huge commercial dumpster blocked any view of the lake and also the road down which, he hoped, Rae would soon be coming.

A dove-gray Mercedes SUV rounded the dumpster and entered the circular drive of Dee’s house. Under different circumstances, he would have been ashamed to have Rae see this monstrosity his wife had inherited from her mother.

“What is this? A mausoleum?” Rae asked through the open window of her car. She didn’t bother to turn off the ignition. Rae wore a watch. She was looking at it as she flicked the lock button of the passenger side of the SUV. “Get in. We’re late,” she continued before he could muster a response.

He looked at her, small and neat behind the wheel of the big vehicle. She seemed a bit less neat than he remembered. Rae was wearing jeans, a cotton shirt and scuffed cowboy boots. Her short dark hair curled damply around her face and she had a faint smell of alfalfa about her.

Rae headed out of the neighborhood, south toward US 40. “When did you grow the mustache?” she asked, glancing sideways at him.

“About a year ago.”

“You’re thin,” she said, not mentioning the fact that his hair, which used to be a kind of brownish-blond, had turned mostly white since last they’d seen each other. Danny strained to see even one white hair on her head.

“We’re not going to make it by nine,” she said, her brow furrowing as she searched for a hole in the traffic mass that flowed like cold molasses toward Denver.

“I’ll call ahead,” he offered. “Can I borrow your cell?”

She handed it to him without comment. He punched in the number for Rosencraft, Stern and Eisley and informed the receptionist of their problem.

“Is there a reason your house looks like a windowless jail?” she asked after he returned the phone to her.

“Yes, there is, as a matter of fact. My wife has...had migraines. So did her mother. Light was their enemy.” He knew his defensive bristling was irrational, yet he couldn’t keep from lashing out at Rae. “Is there a reason you’re late and look like--”

Rae’s eyes, now green, now khaki, stopped him with a sideways jab.

“I know. Your alarm didn’t go off,” he finished lamely.

“I’ve been up all night with Andy. He colicked.”

That said it all. He remembered Andy was her Paso Fino stud, Sol Andaluz. “He’s still alive?” Danny blurted. “How long do horses live?”

“Not long enough.”

“You need to grab Speer South,” he interjected as they almost missed their exit. He’d forgotten how Rae despised downtown Denver traffic. He wondered if she’d become more familiar with the one-way, diagonally laid out streets.

“So fill me in,” she said as she headed the SUV down Speer. It was stop-and-go traffic. Danny thought he might even have time to finish the essentials before they got to Gil’s.

“Okay, here’s the encapsulated version. Dee was Deidre Bayfield Cantrell Porter Lassiter.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“I was her third husband. Bayfield wasn’t her father’s name. It was her grandfather’s. He required his heirs to assume his surname or forfeit their inheritances.”

“No ego problem there, for sure.”

“Whatever. He’s where the money came from. Jerome Bayfield died last year and Dee came into a bunch, as did her sister Morgan and both Dee’s kids. Morgan is childless.”

“Cut to the chase,” said Rae as Speer merged into First.

Off to the north side was the beautiful old neighborhood of stately homes where Danny grew up. He made a half-hearted attempt to stifle a wallow in the past.

“No, no!” he shouted as Rae missed the merge and appeared to be heading off course. Her disharmony with downtown Denver’s street layout didn’t slow Rae’s driving. Danny wondered how her SUV remained so pristine. Not a scratch.

Screech. Rae was on First, going southeast. Danny’s grip on the door handle relaxed, as he continued to fill her in.

“Dee inherited a bunch of real estate from her mom. She and Morgan were the only sibs. The house where you picked me up? Dee grew up there and we lived in it until I split. It was trashed when they found her. The other properties are worse.”

“Crack houses, you said.”

“Yeah. I told you on the phone. Not a pretty picture. Auntie Morgan got the kids lawyered up and wants to fire sell everything.”

“But you don’t?”

“I think we’d all benefit from restoring the properties.”

Rae nodded. “How’d you get to be P/R?” she asked.

“That’s the weird part. Nobody else seemed to want the job. Turn here. Left.”

“It’s a one-way street.”

“You remembered! No, it’s the next turn. That’s Steele.”

Rae managed to squeeze out a Beemer and make the turn. “You taking your statutory one-half?” she asked, referring to that part of Colorado law that conferred rights on spouses of intestate decedents.

He knew very well what she was talking about. “Hell, yes. Her kids became millionaires when Dee died--their great-grandpa’s trusts. They don’t care about Dee’s estate.”

“Even with a fire sale, you’d get something,” said Rae as she pulled into the parking lot of the ten-story building that housed Rosencraft, Stern and Eisley.

“I’m not sure I would. That’s where you come in. It looks like Dee hasn’t filed her taxes in a while.”

“She was as bad as you,” Rae growled she pulled into one of the vacant spots for clients of RS & E. “Didn’t you counsel her based on your past experience?”

“I didn’t know she wasn’t filing. She said she wanted to keep her stuff separate and not file jointly with me. I told her early on about my history of procrastination.”

“And have you kept current?”

“How could you think I’d go to somebody else?”

“I should be so lucky.”

They got out of the car and headed for the entrance. The building was off-white cement and gray glass. “High rent district,” commented Rae as they climbed a flight of steps flanked by circular planters filled with blooming marigolds and petunias to get to the first floor lobby.

“I guess they can afford it. Gil bills out at four hundred an hour.”

“Pretty standard for Denver.” Rae pushed into the lobby, and Danny followed closely, so as not to get smacked by the door. He would have held it for her, but she beat him to it.

“Then he bills his paralegal at one-fifty for the same hours he’s billing himself at four hundred, to discuss the case.”

“How do you know this?” Rae asked as they approached the elevators. Danny reached the up arrow first and pressed it.

“It’s on his bills.”

“How do you know what’s on his bills? I thought this guy was working for the relatives. Who’s representing you?” She paused as an elevator opened before them. “You said you had a Denver attorney who was meeting us here.”

“No, I said he was already here. Gil Doucette is the attorney for the estate. I’m the P/R for the estate. I thought that meant he was my attorney, but apparently not.”

When the elevator doors began to close, Danny pried them open and punched the nine button as they got in. After a short, silent ride, they debarked on the ninth floor and entered posh offices with dark blue carpet and oak paneling. Heidi, the receptionist, eyed them suspiciously, despite the fact that Danny had been a regular in the office for at least six weeks.

“I’ll tell Gil you’re here.” Heidi disappeared into the inner sanctum.

As they stood waiting for Gil, Danny was relieved to see that Rae’s face was calm now. If she felt out of place in her boots and jeans, her expression didn’t show it. He looked down the hall for Gil, wondering if he was going to punish their tardiness by making them wait.

“Oops,” said Rae softly. As Danny looked back in her direction, he saw that a small hunk of horse shit had left her boot for the plush of the carpet.

Shortly afterward, Heidi transferred Rae and Danny to a conference room, where they sat and admired the rows of legal tomes in their floor-to-ceiling oak shelves. They declined to talk about the matter at hand in this setting as if in unspoken agreement. Danny wondered if Rae had begun to absorb his paranoia.

Finally his lawyer appeared. Gil Doucette was short, round and shiny on the top of his head, where he had started balding at an early age. Danny knew this because he and Gil went back a ways. Not as friends. Gil had dated his sister Wendy. She dumped him. Unfortunately, that memory hadn’t surfaced until after Danny had retained Gil.

Gil’s pear-shaped paralegal, Hannah Davidson, followed him into the room, and Danny introduced them to Rae.

Danny watched a pissed expression play across Rae’s face as both Gil and Hannah barely acknowledged her before taking their seats. He was sure that Gil had instructed Hannah to check out the CPA he was bringing on board. Hannah, paragon of efficiency that she was, would have briefed him on Rachel Esposito’s credentials, which were impeccable. Danny would have bet his life on that. Did the cold shoulder mean his timing was right on?

“Well,” said Gil, “I think what I have to say to you might best be said in private.” He gave Danny one of his superior glances.

“You knew Rae was coming to this meeting.” Rae’s presence was giving Danny some needed confidence. “And I want her copied in on everything from now on.”

“Everything?” Hannah was taking notes like mad and nobody had really said anything yet.

“Everything. Starting with Dee’s tax returns. Has the IRS gotten back to you?” Danny asked.

“No records of any returns for the past three years.”

“Oh, great,” muttered Rae. “Now you’ve alerted them that they may have a non-filer. Let the liens begin.”

Gil and Hannah exchanged annoyed glances.

“Fine,” said Gil. “Let Ms. Esposito tackle the returns and good luck.” He didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm. “The heirs are not happy with you, Danny.”

“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“You have not liquidated a single property.”

“They’re not ready for sale. They were all trashed.”

“They're still trashed. When are you going to do something about that? The other heirs feel that you’re dragging your feet.”

“What am I supposed to do for money?”

Gil nearly came out of his chair. “Come on, Danny. “We know--”

“Just a minute, here...Gil.” Rae interrupted. “Why are you speaking for the other heirs? Danny’s stepchildren--who represents them? Do you have any written demands Danny should be looking at?”

Gil’s complexion was fast approaching purple, while Hannah’s thin lips drew to a fine line.

“I don’t think this is an accounting matter, Ms. Esposito. Not your concern.”

“Oh, yes it is,” Danny interjected.

Gil glared at him and then at Rae, before replying, “Stan hasn’t put anything in writing. Our discussions have been...informal. But the heirs want you out. You haven't kept your promise.”

A sound escaped Rae’s lips. Like she’d choked on a rat. “And who is Stan?” she asked when she’d swallowed.

“Stan Eisley,” Danny offered. “He’s been Dee’s family’s attorney since before she was born.”

“Eisley, as in Rosencraft, Stern and Eisley?” Rae’s eyes grew large and olive green, bulging ominously. “And you’re billing for your consultations with Stan, no doubt?”

Gil looked beyond pissed as he turned to ever-helpful Hannah. “Perhaps Ms. Esposito would care for a soft drink in the employees’ lounge.”

Before Hannah could act on this, Rae was at him again. “Anybody at this table ever hear the term >conflict of interest’?”

“Ms. Esposito,” Gil spit her name out as if he was getting rid of a bad taste. “I happen to know you are not licensed to practice law. Is that what you’re attempting to do here? Give Mr. Lassiter legal advice?”

“Not in the least. I’m just expressing some words of good, old-fashioned common sense.”

Gil rose from his seat. As if on strings, Hannah followed. “Danny, I can’t work with this woman. If you don’t want to use Sam Garvin for the tax work, I can recommend someone else. But she goes or I do.”

Rae looked at Danny, not angrily, but like she was expecting more of him than he might have. Get some balls, Danny. She didn’t have to say it.

As he stood up, they were there when he needed them along with the rush that goes along with seeing a plan come together. “See you around, Gil. And I’d like to have your resignation in writing, if you don’t mind.”

In the doorway, Rae turned back. “Copies of everything in the estate files. Within ten days. Or your replacement will be all over you.”

When they hit the street, Rae asked, “Why didn’t you call Sandy Robinson in the first place?”

“I owe him money.” Danny avoided her glance. “I was too embarrassed.”

“You owe me money, too. That didn’t stop you.”

“But, you’re easy.”

“Don’t count on it,” snapped Rae. She nearly pushed him off the curb

Rae let Danny talk her into lunch at Rafferty’s, a light, airy spot on Sixteenth Street. They sat on bar stools at a round glass table by a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on the mall.

Danny fiddled with the straw in his herbal iced tea as Rae nursed iced coffee, eyed the hanging plants, and appraised the ambience.

What was he thinking when he hired Gil? Rae’s stomach was still knotted from her exchange with the estate’s attorney. Former attorney, she corrected herself. She took a deep breath, sipped coffee and asked, “Didn’t you know at the time you hired him that Gil’s firm represented your wife’s family?”

“Sure I knew, but so what? They weren’t after my hide then.” He grabbed a menu and began to study it--another avoidance technique Rae had come to know over the years.

Rae tapped her own menu with an index finger as she sought a tactful way to bring Danny back to the table, so to speak, without hauling him by the scruff of the neck. “When did it start? The hostility crap,” she asked, keeping her tone in check. Put the damn menu down and talk to me, you little shit. But Danny wasn’t little and he wasn’t a shit--not really. Her mood was just out of whack due to no sleep because of her colicky horse. Get it together, Rae.

“Things went downhill after Dee’s funeral,” Danny mumbled without looking her in the eye.

“And?” It was like trying to load a green colt into a trailer, getting him to take that first step when his feet are planted and his neck stiff as a two-by-four.

Before Rae could prod Danny again their waiter approached. “Hey, Danny, long time. Where you been?”

Rae watched Danny paint on a grin and answer brightly, if non-responsively, that he was glad to be back in Denver.

As she eyed the menu for the first time, Rae felt her blood pressure rise a notch. Was Danny prepared for the price of ambience?

“I’ll give you folks a couple of minutes more,” said the waiter as he tactfully retreated.

“The food’s great, Rae,” said Danny, coming out of his funk.

“It’d better be. Question is, can you afford it?”

“Not really. But Dee’s estate can. Admin costs get paid off the top. Even before Uncle.”

“You’re sure a quick study,” said Rae, lightening her tone.

“Gil gave me the crash course, along with his first billing. There wasn’t any cash to be found. No bank accounts. No brokerage accounts. As illiquid as it gets.”

“You’ll have to pull cash out of the real estate,” offered Rae.

“It’s in the works. Or will be now that we’ve gotten rid of Gil.”

Gotten rid of Gil? Rae had the uncomfortable feeling that she’d just discovered her true purpose at the meeting. “I’m not hungry,” she said, eyeing her iced coffee with distaste. It, too, had been overpriced in her opinion.

“Don’t worry,” said Danny. “I’ve still got some plastic left.” He slapped a VISA card down on the table to prove it.

Finally she relented and let Danny talk her into ordering an appetizer--calamari, while he chose a Reuben sandwich.

After their waiter had left for the second time, Rae asked, “What happened after the funeral to set your in-laws off?”

Danny’s brow furrowed as he appeared to dredge the depths of his memory.

Come on. It hasn’t been that long.

“It was at the reception after the service. Josh and I were talking to Beth, my stepdaughter. She’d been staying with her Aunt Morgan since we got back in town. Josh and I just wanted her back with us, like before.”

“When your wife died, her daughter was living with you and Josh?”

He nodded. “Dee was in no shape to take care of herself, let alone a kid.”

“Uh-huh. So you left Dee...alone.”

Rae watched anger shoot into Danny’s eyes. And guilt? “What was I supposed to do? That was my leverage. Get into rehab and we’ll come back.” He gave Rae a pleading look. “What would you have done?”

Rae shook her head. “God’s truth, I have no idea. I can’t imagine...” She paused as another idea hit her. “When you say you wanted Beth back with you and Josh--that would be where?”

“In our home, of course.”

“That...place where I picked you up this morning?”

“Well, yeah. I know it’s ugly, but that doesn’t explain why Morgan just went ballistic, grabbed Beth and took off. People stared at me like I was some kind of perve. Beth had been my daughter for three years. Her mother’s death didn’t change that.”

As the words tumbled out in increasing volume, Rae saw Danny’s eyes well up. She put a hand on his arm, “Danny, that was the house her mother died in. How do you think that would make Beth feel?”

He shrugged as if it had never crossed his mind. “But it had been her home. And it would probably be temporary, until I can liquidate it.”

“Your sister-in-law may have considered this insensitive on your part. I can’t say I wouldn’t have reacted the same.”

“Morgan threw hot coffee at me, made a horrific scene. People looked at me like I was a pariah. Wouldn’t you say that was a bit of an overreaction...on Morgan’s part?”

“Depends.” Rae shrugged, then cocked her head. “Didn’t your wife have a son, too?” she asked as the waiter returned with their order.

“Kevin’s nineteen. A legal adult who does as he fucking pleases,” replied Danny after the waiter had left. “We hardly ever saw him.”

“Sounds like a real winner.” Rae paused, fork in midair. “My God, Danny, where was your brain? Marrying into a mess like that. What was the attraction?”

Under Danny’s gaze, Rae picked at the sautéed squid, instantly regretting her outburst.

Finally Danny replied in a small voice, “We made each other laugh.”

She’d always thought herself possessed of a healthy sense of humor, but...”Laugh?”

“I know. Doesn’t exactly fit the picture. Granted, the humor was usually on the dark side.”

“I can imagine.”

“It kept us going. Let us forget sometimes. About the load of baggage we were both carrying.” Then he smiled wistfully as he added, “And the sex was--”

Rae cut him off with a raised hand. “Danny, that’s more information than I want, if you don’t mind.”

Rae guessed that embarrassment overcame him as Danny began to wolf down his Reuben. As the moment passed, he looked up at her and asked, “How’s your calamari?”

Like rubber. “God’s truth? Not like Grandma’s.”

She caught the hurt feelings as Danny’s eyes burrowed back into the remains of his sandwich. “I’m sorry, Danny. It’s not the food. This’s a great place. I’m still so ticked at those attorneys. Anything I eat right now is going to taste like...rubber bands.”

As she chewed...and chewed, Rae found herself agreeing with Danny. The sister-in-law had overreacted. What wasn’t Danny telling her? Was it maybe because he didn’t know all the answers either?

“What’s with the hurry to get rid of all the properties?” asked Rae after swallowing the last of her misnamed appetizer and biting into a new angle. “If everybody but you is so well-heeled, why rush?”

“Beats me. Maybe that’s where they’ve buried the family skeletons.”

“Let’s get the digging started.”

Rae fished around in her handbag and came up with her cell phone, which she handed across the table to Danny. “Call Sandy.”

The civilian clerk at the information window of the Wheat Ridge Police Department was adamant. “I can’t give you that, Mr. Farris. You’re not a party in interest.”

“Why would I be a suspect? According to you people, there’s been no crime.”

“Suspect?” The clerk hesitated. “Oh, you’ve got it confused with person of interest. Party in interest is someone entitled to the information by law.”

From her cubicle a few feet away, Sergeant Emily Wehr could hear the argument escalating. The clerk could handle the situation, Wehr was sure of that.

“That should apply to me,” snapped the man.

“Not according to CRS 24-72-304.” The clerk definitely knew her job.

“I’m Mrs. Lassiter’s brother-in-law.”

That name got Wehr’s full attention. She moved outside the cubicle and looked beyond the clerk, at the man on the other side of the window.

His face was livid. “She was my wife’s sister, for God’s sake.”

Wehr heard the impatience in the clerk’s voice. “Have your wife come in and fill out a form. Then I’ll see what I can do.”

Bad idea, but the clerk had no way of knowing. Wehr stepped forward. “What’s the problem?”

He was a peacock of a man. Fiftyish, fitting a tad snugly into a fifteen hundred dollar suit. That he showed up at Wheat Ridge P.D. dressed as if for a board meeting pissed Wehr off to start, never mind the rest of it. His hair, a mix of gray and blond, was cut fashionably. Some Cherry Creek barber, no doubt.

“Sergeant Wehr,” said the man, looking at the name tag on her blouse, “I’m Nathan Farris. I’ve requested copies of reports concerning my sister-in-law, Deidre Lassiter. She died recently.”

“I know.” Wheat Ridge wasn’t that big.

“Your department checked on her safety last January. I think you call it a welfare check. You see, there was a man--”

“I know about the incident.” Wehr had done the interview. The adjoining municipalities of Wheat Ridge and Lakewood had played hot potato with this one, neither wanting jurisdiction. Wehr referred to the incident, an informed choice of words, since the report no longer existed.

“My wife’s under a doctor’s care. She can’t fill out any paperwork in the near future. Can’t you make an exception and let me have a copy of your report?” The man smiled

ingratiatingly, showing a lot of freshly whitened teeth.

His hands on the counter top, clear polish on manicured nails, turned Wehr’s stomach. “No exceptions. All the information you need can be obtained from the Coroner’s Office.”

It was nearly noon. The sign, visible through the window, read “Closed from Noon to Two P.M.” Wehr slid the window shut, turned her back and walked away.

“What was that all about?” the clerk said when the man had gone.

“Don’t ask.” Wehr returned to her desk. Weeks ago, when the other man had come looking for the Lassiter reports--the geeky old guy with glasses--it had already been too late. The hand-written reports had been scooped up and carried off by a detective she knew who was on loan to the DEA. All because of the references those reports contained to a certain James Joseph Camacho, known on the street as JJ. But Wehr had already transferred the contents to her computer.

“Delete the file.” Her boss’s terse instructions had brought her up short.

Wehr had ten years in with the Department. She intended to retire from this job. “Yes, sir.” Sometimes it was best not to ask why. But her boss must have seen the question in her eyes.

“Sergeant, are you familiar with CRS 24-72-305-5?”

“Something to do with disclosure being contrary to public interest?”

“Don’t sweat it, Wehr. Crack whore got what she deserved.”

Cold, Wehr thought. This had been a human being--a woman with kids, but Wehr had looked the other way, then deleted. Now the Lassiter report didn’t even exist on the computer.

She couldn’t help but wonder about Lakewood. Could Wheat Ridge’s neighboring city be so easily persuaded to make Deidre Lassiter’s tormenter disappear? What might happen if there was an inquiry? Who’d be left holding the bag of blame?

As soon as she’d pressed the delete key, Wehr realized that her eagerness to obey orders and not make waves might cost her. With that thought in mind, Wehr had decided to keep something as an insurance policy for herself--her taped interview of Deidre Lassiter.

Nathan Farris drove slowly away from the Wheat Ridge Police Department, sifting through the past, looking for clues to explain the enigma that had reared its ugly head the day before and was now rapidly devouring him. What was so damned important about Dee’s police interview?

The incident that was making Nate crazy had occurred the day he’d returned a day early from a trip to New Mexico. He’d checked out a potential investment in a shopping center there on behalf of Bayfield Enterprises.

His employment by his wife’s late grandfather had been one of the perks that went with his marriage to Morgan. Or maybe it was the other way around. As Jerome Bayfield had aged, the team of Nate Farris and Sam Garvin had become so effective that nobody even missed a beat when the old man died last year.

Nate had gone straight to the office upon his return from this routine business trip. The deal was a no-go. The center, a loser. A feeling of depression weighed on him as he parked in front of the Bayfield Commons building. It was common, all right. A nothing building. One story, nineteen fifties, across from a strip mall whose largest sign boasted Adult Books. Jerome Bayfield had been a tight-fisted old fart. There would soon be some long-needed changes made. Dump the old fire-trap and move to Denver. Cherry Creek, maybe.

He entered the building, noting the secretary’s absence. It was lunch time. Time to dump the old secretary as well. Trade her in on a couple of younger models. Not models. Versions. Virgins? He’d snickered at his own mental meanderings, then froze like a bird dog at the sound of his wife’s voice coming from Sam’s office.

“We have to find out what she told Wheat Ridge.”

“I already tried.” Sam’s voice. “They told me I’m not a party in interest.”

Nate held his breath. She who? Interest in what? A suspect?

“We can’t take any chances on that police report showing up before we know what’s in it.” Morgan’s voice.

Police report? Of course. The welfare check. Nate knew about Dee’s calls to Sam for money and Sam’s calls to the cops. The cops had grabbed Dee to check on her safety. Not just once, but twice. Then she’d turned up dead.

“Do you think there’s a chance Beth heard it all?” Sam’s voice. Heard what?

Sam's voice again. “She’ll have to be told eventually.”

A board creaked under Nate’s shifting weight. The voices stopped abruptly, like a switch had been thrown.

He paused to gather his wits before opening the door. Sam was alone in the office, his hand on the phone, surprise playing across his gaunt face.

“I think we should pass on the center.” He dropped his briefcase on the floor beside Sam’s desk and tried to act normal. “I have pictures and financials, if you want to have a look.”

“No need. I trust your judgment.”

Nate was aware of a faint odor of perfume, the scent Morgan wore when her migraines were in remission. “I thought I heard Morgan’s voice.”

“You did,” Sam replied. “On the speaker phone.”

“What did she want?”

“Needed her prescription refilled. She thought you wouldn’t be back till late.”

“She usually has the pharmacy deliver.” Nate kept his voice congenial.

“Apparently not today.”

“I’ll go pick it up.”

He’d left Sam hunched over some paper work, gone back through the front door, then raced around the building. The exit at the rear of Sam’s office opened onto an alley. Of course, the alley was empty of vehicles. But Morgan's voice hadn't sounded as if it came from a speaker phone.

His mind conjured up myriad scenarios, none of which included infidelity. His beautiful Morgan with a nerdy pencil pusher, old enough to be her father? What, then? Cover up some fiscal fiasco? Embezzlement from the estate? Who was there to embezzle from? Dee’s kids? Morgan’s own niece and nephew?

As he drove toward the pharmacy, his mind contorted. Why would Sam have Morgan on a speaker phone when they had been discussing something so confidential that Sam needed to lie about it?

Had he really detected Morgan’s perfume in the room, or could it have been an olfactory hallucination triggered by his thought of her?

Another idea quickly changed his destination from the pharmacy to home.

When he entered the long driveway, he turned off the engine and coasted toward the three-car garage, touched the opener and drew up beside Morgan’s white Jaguar. High maintenance, like Morgan.

Her bedroom was on the other side of the house. A wedding present from Jerome Bayfield, the house had been custom-designed to buffer the pain of Morgan’s chronic migraines. A sprawling one-story contemporary, built of taupe colored stone, trimmed in slate, it was a larger, more saturnine version of its sister house across the lake--the house Jerome built for his daughter Elisabeth, the family home where Morgan and Deidre grew up. The house in which Deidre died.

Even if Morgan had recently returned, the structure and the layout of the house made it unlikely that she would see or hear him. Morgan had been groggy, full of pain medication since a few days after Dee’s death. Her hereditary migraines that had abated with the onset of menopause had returned with a fury. Nate couldn’t imagine her driving anywhere.

As he exited his vehicle, he became more convinced that his senses were hexing him. Then he touched the hood of Morgan’s car and felt its warmth spread through his fingers on that cool April afternoon.

Inside the house, silence allowed suspicions to pummel his brain with questions. He found himself sneaking down the hall, his own breath sounding like an ocean in his ears.

He eased quietly into Morgan’s bedroom and looked down at his sleeping wife. His eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom that was relieved only by a few stray beams of light that managed to sneak between the blinds that covered the small, high window.

At fifty-two, Morgan was still beautiful. Her shoulder-length platinum hair fanned across the oversized pillow. One immaculately manicured hand rested on the lavender coverlet.

The room pressed down upon him with more than the weight of darkness. It was well-ventilated, yet he felt a shortness of breath. Part of him was relieved that he no longer shared this room with Morgan. Since Dee’s death, Morgan’s health had spiraled downward, and Nate had taken to sleeping in a guest room so as not to disturb her. For a migraine sufferer, the slightest sound was a stab to the temple. He hoped this would pass, but the doctors had given little encouragement. Migraine was an insidious ailment.

As he watched her face, Morgan opened her eyes. Soft coffee brown, lashes to match, in contrast with her pale hair. She smiled weakly at him, then reached for his hand. “Back early?” she whispered.

He seated himself carefully on the bed beside her. “How are you feeling?”

As he bent to kiss her, she turned away. “The meds finally kicked in. I slept.”

He remembered the warm car hood. “Sam said you needed your prescription refilled.”

Morgan shook her head slowly. “Kevin took care of it.”

“Kevin is here?”

“Was. I let him drive my car to the pharmacy. Never again.”

“Where’d he go? I’d like a word with him.”

“When I wouldn’t let him use my car for his date tonight, he slammed out of here in a temper fit.”

“Kevin has a girlfriend?”

“I really didn’t ask the sex.” Morgan turned away frowning. “Nate, I don’t want him back here. He’ll have to make other living arrangements.”

“But he’s hardly ever here.”

Morgan gripped his hand fiercely. Her nails dug into his flesh. “I want the locks changed. He’s not to have a key to this house.”

“Take it easy. I’ll see about it tomorrow, if that’s still what you want.”

“No. Today. I want a locksmith out here now!” She threw back the bedcovers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Do I have to do this myself or will you?” Her strident tone chilled his feelings. Then his eyes tripped over the knee-high stocking marks visible on her legs, where haste had swept aside her nightgown.

*****

Now, on the following day, that bitch cop at Wheat Ridge had closed the window on him, making him even more determined to know what Morgan and Sam were hiding. Then he remembered and almost ran a red light. There were two reports. When Dee was held by that slime-bag drug dealer, Sam had first called Lakewood P.D. to check up on her. Those cops had rescued her only to have her run right back to her drug source. How many times had he told Morgan that Dee was a lost cause? A crack-head who let men use her.

There was a report sitting somewhere in the files of Lakewood P.D. in addition to the one from the night she died. The first welfare check. With a little luck, he’d soon have copies of both reports. Now, just what the hell was that code section the clerk had quoted to him? He’d written it down. Better not ask the estate lawyers. The internet should have the text of CRS 24-72-304. Colorado Revised Statutes. He’d check it out, then hit Lakewood P.D. with a clearer idea of what he could and could not demand of them.

Sandy Robinson’s Boulder office was on the fifth floor of an early nineteen hundreds building on the Pearl Street Mall. Danny watched Rae feed the parking meter, and then they headed for Sandy’s building under a gray afternoon sky that really wanted to rain. Over the Flatirons, virga hung in gauzy tatters of moisture that would never reach the ground.

“How was he on the phone?” Rae asked.

Danny was surprised that she hadn’t already talked with Sandy. “Pretty decent, considering.”

“Considering?”

They passed Café Francais, and the smell of freshly-brewed coffee pulled at Danny, but Rae was pacing off rapidly toward their destination, now just a short block away.

“I still owe him for my divorce. Jolene wiped out what was left of my trust fund. We lost our house. Our medical policy only covered one rehab confinement for Jolene. It didn't help. The bills still had to be paid. No guarantees from hospitals.”

As they paused at the building’s side door, Rae asked “Did Jolene even try? She’s got to help herself.”

“Sure. She helped herself to my credit, which is ruined. Forged my signature and wrote a ton of bad checks.”

Rae frowned. “You paid our lunch tab with a credit card the other day.”

“It’s the business card. The LLC that holds Dee’s real estate.”

They entered the building and paused beside an ancient elevator. Rae looked at the rickety old elevator, then at the stairs. “Let’s walk up.”

Danny led the way, with the feeling Rae hadn’t been in this building before. Sandy had moved his office here just about the time Danny had divorced Jolene.

He observed that Rae was definitely moving more slowly than usually suited her. They cleared the second floor and continued upward. Then she stopped and pulled at his sleeve.

“What were you thinking when you married Deidre? You repeated your mistake with Jolene.”

Tell me about it, thought Danny. Over and over. “I think we’ve been down this road, Rae. Believe me, it won't happen again.” He was relieved that she let the matter drop.

They continued past floors three and four, made the final turn and headed for Sandy’s office suite.

“Does he know I’m coming with you?”

“Of course.” Danny’s steps slowed and he wondered what he’d wondered way back when they’d all worked together on his dad’s embezzlement. Was there anything between these two besides business? Sandy was married and Danny thought that would’ve cut anything off at the pass for Rae. Maybe he’d just idealized her. Maybe she’d been human after all.

They reached Sandy’s reception area. His office was not as fancy as RS and E’s, but definitely a class act. Sandford Robinson and Associates.

A middle aged, utilitarian secretary, new to Danny, sat at an antique desk. As Danny approached her and gave their names, he glimpsed Rae eye-balling the place. He was sure now she hadn’t been here before.

The secretary buzzed Sandy, and he quickly joined them. A big man who worked out and kept his weight at bay, his thatch of white hair tended to be on the long side, even for Boulder. His hooded eagle’s eyes found Rae before they found Danny, and he wrapped her in a bear hug. Danny watched her stiffen as she nearly disappeared in Sandy’s arms. He planted a chaste kiss on her cheek, and then turned to shake Danny’s hand.

“Danny, I’m sorry for your loss.”

Danny looked at Rae again. Her face was more composed than Sandy’s as he led them toward his office.

“How about some coffee?”

“Thanks,” Danny replied. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Sandy smiled, perhaps remembering Danny’s old coffee craving. “How do you take yours, Danny?”

Danny raised an eyebrow, prompting Sandy to instant recall: “Oh, with sugar, hold the cream.”

He didn’t ask Rae. Danny guessed Sandy remembered that she took hers black.

Sandy nodded toward several boxes on the floor under the windows. “Gil Doucette had these couriered over yesterday.”

“I’m sure I’ll get a bill. Probably by the pound.”

“I’ve gone through most of it and had copies made of things Rae will need.” Sandy indicated a smaller stack of papers on the credenza.

“Did you come across any tax returns?” Rae asked.

Sandy shook his head. “You’ll probably want to start by talking to Sam Garvin. Gil did mention that Deidre got a large income distribution from the Bayfield estate. So her estate may owe a whopping tax for last year.”

“Does it look to you like Gil and the relatives had Danny in some kind of squeeze play?” Rae sounded more like herself.

“The back and forth billings, plus all the conferences with the Bayfield people would point in that direction. Gil was barely civil on the phone. You can count on these copies having been made very slowly.”

They all laughed nervously, then Sandy continued, “I’m trying to set up a meeting with Stan Eisley. He’s advising the kids' aunt to petition the court for your removal.”

“Why doesn’t this surprise me? You know, don’t you, that my appointment as Personal Representative was just designed to generate more legal bills during their objections to what I did. Whatever action I took, it was going to be wrong.”

“It’s the step-kids’ money, too. Why would they do that?” asked Rae.

“These are two very rich kids being manipulated by their mega-bucks aunt, Deidre’s sister,” Sandy offered.

Danny was glad to hear that Sandy had already been digging around the Bayfield Estate. A lesser soul might have waited for a retainer. But, then, Danny already owed him a bunch. He probably wanted to see if there was any prospect of getting paid at all.

“The kids don’t need anything from Deidre’s estate and they apparently don’t want Danny to see any of it, either,” continued Sandy. “They’d rather give it away. Why is that, Danny?”

“They didn’t used to hate me. We had even called ourselves a blended family for a while,” replied Danny. But he realized a while had probably been only an eye-blink. Probably when he and Dee were high.

“Maybe they think if I hadn’t done the tough love thing, their mother would still be alive.” That was enough truth, Danny decided.

Rae got up and walked to the window, shaking her head. The secretary knocked before entering with their coffees. Danny drank in the rich aroma of French roast, and hoped the interruption had derailed Sandy’s line of questioning.

Rae returned to her chair beside Danny and took a sip of the steaming beverage. “You didn’t make her take drugs.”

Danny wrestled with how much to tell. What degree of rationalization would avoid the saturation point? No, he didn’t stick needles in Dee’s arms. He didn’t introduce crack into her life, but an omission was the same as a lie to Rae. He realized Sandy was onto him when he looked up and got burned by Sandy’s raptor eyes.

“There was a lot of stuff going down in Dee’s house.” Danny verbally sidestepped, avoiding Sandy’s eyes, then crashing into Rae’s. She was looking at him with something festering in her glance.

The truth was stuck in his throat. Other words slipped by. “Kevin, Dee’s son. I spent about fifteen thou on sending him to rehab in Arizona. And I’m pretty sure he’s using again.”

“You tried to help. Their hating you doesn’t make sense.” He could see that Rae wasn’t buying his story, although it was true--just not the whole truth.

Danny stared into his coffee cup. He couldn’t look at either of them. “The only ones in that house not using were my son and my stepdaughter.” He was whispering, but it sounded like a roar in his head.

Rae moved so quickly Danny didn’t see it coming. Her hand, like a shot, fingers burning his face, raised a welt where the wedding ring she wore collided with his flesh. She didn’t say a word as she slammed out of Sandy’s office.

Sandy stared at him like he was waiting for something. Danny tried to wait him out.

Finally, Sandy asked, “Are you still using?”

“No way. I’d be dead if I were. I want to live. I want to finish raising my son. I don’t want him to be burying me.” Danny stopped and snared a Kleenex from the box on Sandy’s desk. After he dabbed at his eyes and the sweat on his brow, he was able to look Sandy in the eye.

“I didn’t want my wife to die. I really thought I was doing the right thing.”

“By hooking her up with a drug dealer?”

He stared at Sandy. Where did that come from?

“JJ Camacho?”

“Who?”

“I got that name from Gil. He got it from your wife’s family. I didn’t want to discuss this in front of Rae. They hate you because they claim you hooked Deidre up with a monster who not only supplied her drugs but extorted money from her.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Who did you buy drugs from?”

“Whoever had them.”

“Is it possible you knew this JJ person?”

“I hope not. I hope to God not.” He clutched his temples and rambled on. “Crack heads don’t have great memories. Dead brain cells y’ know.” Noticing Sandy’s expression of disgust, Danny exerted the needed effort to produce real tears.

“Straighten up. The first thing you’re going to do is go down to the Jeffco Courthouse and update your letters of administration and get about a dozen certified copies.”

Danny nodded solemnly. At least Sandy was giving him advice. That meant he wasn’t withdrawing as his counsel.

“Then you and Rae are going to the Wheat Ridge and Lakewood Police Departments where you'll get their reports on Deidre. Read them. See if anything jogs your memory. We need to find out what really happened to your wife.”

“Rae? Rae hates me. Why would she go along?”

As proof, he held up the Kleenex he’d used on his face. It was streaked with blood from the wound Rae had inflicted.

“That little scratch? If she didn’t care about you, she never would’ve lost it like that. You really don’t know her that well, do you?”

“I guess not, but what do we need the police reports for? Dee's death was an accident.”

“You really don't know?”

“Know what?”

“Your wife's family thinks she was murdered by the drug dealer they believe you hooked her up with.”

Things seemed suddenly darker--literally. He looked out the window to see the first salvo of rain hit Boulder.

Then Sandy asked, “What have you done with the money, Danny?”

“Money?”

“Yes, money. There are bills to be paid including mine and Rae's. Among the documents Gil sent over were title reports on your wife's real estate.”

“I can explain.”

“They want you out as P/R. Tell me something I can use to deflect that.”

Rae drove away from Sandy’s office through pelting early May rain. On the Diagonal Highway, she headed northeast, a white-knuckled runaway from her own demons.

My God. I’ve just hit a client in the face. He could…but he won’t…Damn you, Danny Lassiter. How could you end up a crack-head?

Her visibility was impaired, but notching up the wiper speed didn’t help. Reined-in tears slipped their bits and dashed down her face, carrying away all traces of her makeup.

Rae pulled off the highway in Niwot, drove down a dirt road that ran past a small lake where red-winged blackbirds staked their spring claims amidst the skeletons of last year’s cattails. There she parked and let the tide of emotion carry her back thirteen years to that day when the sun went black and the world--as she knew it--ended.

*****

Anthony Esposito. Anthony--never “Tony.” Rae called him her Four-H man. Handsome, healthy, hunk, husband. Her husband. In the privacy of her heart, she substituted “horny” for “healthy.” He was both, but there were some things she didn’t need to say aloud.

Anthony was a Denver cop. Rae had just inherited her grandmother’s farm in Longmont. They made big plans to finish raising the kids on Grandma’s farm. Real Four-H. The works. Anthony would take early retirement in about ten years and they’d be full-time farmers. The kids, aged ten and twelve, were ecstatic. The world was so sweet it hurt her teeth.

Then on the second of May, in the middle of a spring snow storm, Anthony responded to a domestic violence call on Marion Street, at one of those fine old Victorian houses that had been converted to apartments.

A man named Victor Markov was high on something. Rae didn’t remember his substance of choice--just his wild eyes reflecting emotions askew. When she saw his picture on the evening news, she imagined how Anthony must have felt looking into those wanton eyes.

A woman and a young boy of about five had been in the apartment with Markov--his wife and son, whom he had determined were not worthy to go on living.

Anthony had talked the man out of the apartment, onto the street where he stood between Markov and the apartment building. Markov had seemed about to hand over his pistol to Anthony. As a precaution, a swat team hovered on the adjacent roof. Rae had read the report a dozen times. Everything seemed to be under control. Anthony wore a bullet-proof Kevlar vest--just in case.

Then the stupid woman--Mrs. Markov--came barreling out of the building, yelling God knows what, preceded by the little boy, and Markov had turned the gun on his family. But somehow, it was Anthony whose blood first stained the snow. Defective vest. Who knew? The manufacturer paid a price. It seemed there were other widows created by those vests, but there was no way to place a value. Not with money. Not even Markov’s life could make a difference.

Rae had to see it. The place where Anthony fell. See his blood turning brown on the snow, the sight burning across her brain, like frames from a bad movie. Rewind, replay. Her brain kept doing this. Time after time. Blood on the snow. And the woman’s screams, replayed on the evening news, high on whatever the man was on.

Witnesses said Anthony threw himself in front of the woman and child, both of whom escaped unharmed. Rae didn’t want to believe this. She didn’t want a dead hero husband. Why didn’t he just shoot the son-of-a-bitch?

Within a fraction of a second the swat team on the adjacent roof fired, turning Markov into a sieve. But that fraction of a second was all it took...to be too late...for Anthony.

In the days that followed, Rae moved outside her body, retracing Anthony’s every step, undoing the done deed. He was in the locker room and missed the initial call. A traffic jam prevented him from reaching Marion Street in time. Markov killed his wife and child, then turned the pistol on himself. Anything but what was. Rae followed Anthony doggedly into the snow in front of the Markovs’ apartment. No, no. Let him shoot her. Let him shoot me!

But Anthony hadn’t listened. It made no difference that the media made him a hero. To Rae, he was a deserter--until time slapped her alongside the head and sent self-pity flying from her heart.

Nate found Morgan sleeping in her darkened bedroom when he returned home from the Lakewood Police Department. The new pain meds her doctor had prescribed were turning her into a zombie. She was always either asleep or in pain.

He had Lakewood’s report now, but it had a bunch of holes in it--blacked-out names. Not only Dee’s, but apparently the person she accused of doing unspeakable things to her.

He’d found the Colorado Revised Statutes on the internet and perused the relevant sections. Law enforcement agency reports came under a separate section from other documents subject to public disclosure. Now he understood why some of the content might not be deemed public information. This would explain why Deidre’s name had been blacked out. But what would explain the obliteration of her assailant’s name?

As he’d read the report, he’d felt a curious detachment. Then his brain focused on how he could use this information to pry the truth out of Morgan. How would this truth impact their marriage? More importantly, how would his prying impact both his marriage and his continued employment at Bayfield Enterprises? Nathan Farris had not been mentioned in Jerome Bayfield’s will.

“Uncle Nate,” Beth’s voice broke his thought pattern. He hadn't heard her enter the room.

“Shhhh.” He put a finger to his lips. Morgan stirred, a frown creasing her brow. Why were teenagers always so loud?

“Uncle Nate,” whispered Beth, and he realized she had not been loud, had merely spoken in a normal voice. “I need to go to the mall. Can I have some money? Please.”

Morgan spoke without opening her eyes. “Beth? Why aren’t you in school?”

A long sigh escaped Beth’s lips. “It’s after school, Aunt Morgan. I’m supposed to meet Amy at the mall, only I need some money.”

As he watched Morgan slowly open her eyes, Nate wondered how long she’d been awake.

“Nathan, get my purse from the dresser, please.” Morgan’s voice sagged, but she managed a weak smile in Beth’s direction.

A stab of resentment burned his gut. Instead of reaching for Morgan’s purse, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills.

“Not too much,” said Morgan.

He peeled off a twenty and handed it to Beth. “Home for dinner?”

“After the mall we’ll probably eat at Scooters and just hang. I won’t be late.” She hugged him, then went over to the bed and gently kissed Morgan on the cheek. He saw Morgan whisper something in Beth’s ear and Beth’s quick nod. Girl talk?

A sweet kid, he thought. A lot of sadness still lurked in her blue eyes. With her pert little upturned nose, she barely looked her age, especially since she’d stopped wearing makeup--as if her face was in mourning. Amazing that she came from Deidre.

“Thanks, Uncle Nate,” Beth said as she walked out of the room. That must’ve been what the whisper was about. Morgan was big on manners.

No bounce in Beth's step, though. The pall of her mother’s death seemed to weigh heavily on her, though they hadn’t been close. He noticed that her hair was different--pulled back severely. When had that happened? He remembered that it had been a jangle of blond curls at Deidre’s funeral.

“Not late means by eight.” Morgan’s voice was stronger now.

“Eight?” Beth whined from the hallway. “You can’t be serious.”

“And call when you’re ready to come home. I don’t want you on a bus after dark.”

At least she’s going with her friends again, he thought, not moping in her room.

When Beth had left, Nate sat on the bed and took Morgan’s hand in his. “How do you feel?”

“The same. Meds just take the edge off--if I’m lucky.” Morgan struggled to sit up in bed.

Nate propped pillows behind her. “Maybe we should change doctors.” He watched the muscles in Morgan’s jaw tighten.

“He’s doing all he can,” she said.

He rubbed her arm while he fed her one bit of news from the Lakewood Police Report. “I learned something today. Dee didn’t drown. She died of cocaine toxicity.”

She didn’t ask how he came by this information, just shook her head. “They killed her. I don’t care what the report says.”

“They? That JJ person and...Danny?”

She seemed to shrivel before his eyes, her facial muscles sagged. Even the skin under her jaw drooped, like all the life was going out of her. Then she grabbed him with strength that surprised him and held on while appearing to wrestle with what she had to say.

Nate waited, patting Morgan’s back, having no idea what he could have said to elicit such a response. They had openly discussed Danny’s possible involvement in Dee’s death. What had changed?

Finally Morgan’s grip on Nate’s arm subsided. “I should have told you the day it happened.”

“Told me what?”

“It wasn’t Danny. Oh, I still have no use for him, but any involvement he may have had in Deidre’s death was probably marginal at most.”

“What are you talking about?” Nate looked attentively into his wife’s eyes, but his brain was already racing toward an answer. They had not seen Kevin since Morgan’s tantrum over changing the locks only days ago.

“You thought I was just being difficult. About the locks.”

“I got the locksmith out, didn’t I?”

“Kevin threatened me. He and JJ Camacho are in cahoots. Kevin all but admitted they killed Deidre.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You’d have called the police.”

“Damn right.” Nate reached for the phone on Morgan’s night stand.

“No. That’s why I didn’t tell you. They’ve threatened to hurt Beth.”

He stopped in disbelief. “You just let her go to the mall.”

“What can I do? I can’t keep her locked in the house.”

He reached again for the phone, but Morgan moved it out of his reach. “No. The police can’t pick them both up at once. Kevin said he and JJ are making a point of not being in contact except by cell phone. If one of them gets picked up, the other will grab Beth. We’ve got to think of another way to protect her.”

“I presume they want money. Like with Dee?”

“Sam has already given Kevin a check.”

“Then Sam knows?”

She nodded. “I told him not to tell you. I knew what you’d do. Bringing in the police was what got Deidre killed.”

“They blacked out so many of the names that I can’t tell if Kevin’s mentioned in the Lakewood Police Report. I still don’t have Wheat Ridge’s, but there’s no reason to think they’re going after him. It would have happened by now. Was that what you were worried about? That he’d think you turned him in?”

Morgan stared at him, her expression pulling the rest of it out of him.

He stood up and put a little distance between himself and her bed. “I was there at the office when you were talking to Sam. On the phone.”

“I’m so glad you understand,” she said. “No more secrets between us.”

But he didn’t understand as he stood in the chill of her smile. He’d hoped to draw her out without asking directly. Why should Morgan care about Kevin being mentioned in the police reports? He’d just thrown that out to elicit the true explanation.

Maybe he didn’t really want to know. Her dark, lash-fringed eyes reminded him of a pair of spiders, and he felt caught in something more intricate than he’d imagined.

“I’d better go check on Beth.” The room was smothering him again. “She can't have gotten far.”

“She’s all right.”

“How can you be so sure? We have to find a way to keep her close to home without scaring her to death.”

“She’s meeting Josh Lassiter. They won’t touch her while she’s with him. They don’t want a witness and they certainly don’t need another hostage.”

“She said she was meeting Amy.”

“You know nothing about young girls.” Morgan’s voice sounded amused.

“But how do you--”

“Use your imagination.”

“You listened to her phone conversation?”

Her superior smile answered his question.

“And you’re okay with that? Her being with Josh?”

“At least neither of them is on drugs.”

Averting his face, Nate eased out of Morgan’s room, not wanting her to read his expression. He moved slowly, with the feeling that if he ran, something would grab him. Irrational. He shook his head to clear his thoughts as he walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, then realized how pain-free Morgan had appeared...for several minutes, at least. Another realization brought him up short. Morgan hadn’t asked to see the report. Obviously, she already had a copy.

As for JJ and Kevin not needing another hostage, what a bunch of bull! Wasn’t Danny Lassiter a trust fund kid himself? Wouldn’t that make Danny’s son a good second hostage for the price of one?

Danny remembered the way to Rae’s house, where she still kept her office. Sandy had taken care of his driver’s license problems that stemmed from his lack of insurance and found a carrier willing to take him on. He’d even found a cheap, old Ford pickup for Danny to drive until better times caught up with him.

Sandy had already spoken to Rae and given Danny the go-ahead to call her. When he did, she seemed distant, but agreed to go with him to the various agencies that had information about Deidre.

At the top of a hill, Rae’s white Victorian farm house glistened in the morning sun. Danny remembered it had been a shade of blue when last he’d seen it. A meadowlark called from a fence post, then flew off in a puff of yellow and brown as he drove past fields enclosed in electric fencing. He'd never forget the zap he'd gotten when chasing after Josh across that pasture during one of those early visits.

Horses grazed in a pasture to the west of the long dirt drive. Rae’s Paso Finos. He noticed Andy, Rae’s stud, with his mares, not looking the worse for his recent colic.

Farther down the road, near a loafing shed, he saw two bony black cows and remembered there had been cattle in Rae's pasture the first time he’d been there. And Josh had wanted to pet all the animals.

This reminded him that his son hadn’t come home the night before. Not that he needed reminding. Driving one-handed, he punched in the number of Josh's new cell phone. He and Josh now had connecting phones--a family plan. And Danny had a new watch--a Timex.

Still no answer from Josh, except the generic voicemail. This wasn’t like his son. Danny had long ago decided that Josh must have mutated away from his parents’ errant ways. But he had to get that stuff out of his head for as long as it took to get this business done with Rae.

He pulled up in front of Rae's house and parked, leaving the engine idling.

Josh had shared with him that he was meeting Beth at the mall last night, and Danny had considered the possibility that they didn’t think of each other as brother and sister. Beth was under age…so was Josh. Danny remembered himself at age fifteen. Raging hormones. Add to that the drug scene even more prevalent today, and he was scared shitless for the kids. In his bid to clean up their home life, what if he'd acted too late?

“Are you going to sit there in that truck all day or what?”

Rae stood at his passenger side window. She wore clean jeans, a tan shirt, and her boots were polished. She was ready for business, but he still had a bunch of garbage swirling around in his head.

Danny turned off the ignition and started to get out of the truck as Rae opened the passenger door to get in.

“Unless you need to use the bathroom, I think we’re ready to go.”

Rae carried a small, worn attaché case that she deposited on the floor as she settled into the passenger seat.

“Just give me a minute.” He wondered how much to tell her before they got to Lakewood P.D. Maybe he’d just ad lib on the fly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her looking at the place on the side of his face where she’d hit him.

“There’s hardly a mark. I’m glad of that.” Her hand wavered, as if to touch the spot, then she retracted it.

She hadn’t articulated an apology, but he felt one. “I know what day it was,” he said.

“What?”

“I know. Sandy told me.” It had been the anniversary of her husband’s murder by a meth-head.

“Let’s get the show on the road.”

Fine. Danny didn’t want to talk about it either, and he sure didn’t want to tell her about Josh. Rae would freak and insist he call the cops. If only Josh called soon, it wouldn’t be an issue.

He turned the truck around and headed back down the drive.

“I see you still have a couple of cows left,” he said by way of filling the conversational void.

Rae snickered. “Those are steers. Black Angus.”

“They look like cows to me.”

“Check out the udders.”

They passed close to the beasts, and he saw what she meant. “Ah, they’re males. I thought boy cows were bulls.”

“Take another look at the plumbing.”

Danny slowed down and squinted at one of the critters. “Steers are neutered males?”

“You’re a quick study.”

They hit a depression in the dirt road, and the truck bounced. “But what use are neutered males?”

“You buy steers, fatten them up and sell them for meat. You know, like the Black Angus Steak House?”

He knew Rae wasn’t stingy with food, but these creatures were gaunt, and he could see white hairs on their muzzles.

“It looks like you have a long way to go with these guys. You just get them?”

“You’re kidding. Right?”

They rolled onto the paved road and headed toward the Ute Highway while Rae continued, “Jake and Augie were here the first time you came with Josh. Remember I let him pet them?”

Confusion. “How long does it take to fatten them up?”

“They were fat. When they were young.” Her voice faded, leaving his question unanswered.

Oh, right. How could he have missed it? The old gray Angus steers that never made it to slaughter.

“What about all those chickens you had?”

They were coming up on I-25 by now.

“Some of them still lay eggs. Don’t miss your turn, city boy.”

Rae felt an apprehension settle upon her as Danny turned onto Allison Boulevard at her direction. She knew the police environment was bound to trigger old memories even though Anthony had never worked for Lakewood P.D. As Danny parked the truck on the east side of the building, she realized she was going to have her hands full keeping her head on straight. At least long enough to help Danny deal with what lay ahead for him.

The building, which housed other Lakewood municipal offices as well, was as unfamiliar to her as it was to Danny. But she’d checked out the directions on Google after calculating the likelihood that Danny would have done this versus counting on her to show him the way.

Rae swallowed several times as she bent over her briefcase to hide her face from Danny’s view. Get a grip, Rae. As she heard Danny’s door clank shut, she heaved herself from the truck and joined Danny, who was giving her a puzzled eye.

Tulips and daffodils made their last stand along the walk leading to the entrance. A crew of gardeners setting out annuals stood aside for them to pass.

Inside the angular, concrete building, Rae handed her business card to the desk clerk. The woman broke into a smile of recognition upon seeing her name. This gave Rae prickles down her spine. Her first time cashing in on the special status accorded police widows by those in law enforcement also, at some level, embarrassed her.

“Be right back,” said the clerk. “Detective Sanchez is expecting you.”

As the clerk retreated, a soft ripple of voices surged through the department’s cluster of cubicles. The murmur of daily routine resumed as Rae’s husband’s former partner opened the outer door, stepped through it and embraced her.

“Rae!”

“Veronica.”

Taller than she and, Rae guessed, maybe a few years younger, Veronica hadn’t changed much. At least in Rae’s memory of her. She still moved with an athletic ease, a black-maned lioness whose mane showed no trace of gray.

“It’s been too long. Come in.”

Danny appeared to be hanging back. Rae pushed him ahead of her through the door. They wended their way past the cubicles to a sparsely-furnished interrogation room.

Rae did the introductions. Veronica extended a smooth brown hand, her grip so firm that Rae saw Danny wince.

“Sorry for your loss, Mr. Lassiter.”

They took seats around a metal table that was topped by a large stack of papers. Veronica handed Rae and Danny her business cards, then addressed Rae: “After your call I pulled everything I could find and had it copied. Some of this duplicates what I already faxed you.”

Veronica removed two sets of documents from the pile and handed one set to Danny, the other to Rae.

“Have you told him?” Veronica asked.

Rae shook her head. She felt a shudder pass through her body. “Not yet.”

“I think you need to.” Veronica spoke with quiet authority.

“Danny,” Rae’s voice had a crack in it, “Veronica is with the sex crimes unit.”

“Sex crimes?” Danny’s expression was blank. His eyes seemed to avoid the paperwork in front of him.

Rae nodded discreetly toward Veronica. Better you than me.

“Danny,” Veronica began, discarding formality, “do you know anything about Stockholm Syndrome?”

“Something to do with lack of light during the long nights in Sweden?” His tone wasn’t flippant, and he hadn’t cracked a smile, but Rae could feel Veronica’s disapproval.

“I’ll try an example,” continued Veronica smoothly. “Do you remember the Patty Hearst incident?”

“Can’t say that I do. I hadn’t been born yet.”

Rae cringed. What’s he thinking? She watched Veronica once again smooth over her annoyance.

“Of course. Do you remember hearing about the Patty Hearst story?”

“The little rich girl who was kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army?” His tone carried a nervous edge. “A little before my time, but yeah. I’ve heard about it. What’s it got to do with anything here?” He thumped the stack of police reports.

“The point will be apparent when you read the reports. Patty Hearst bonded with her captors after being raped and tortured by them.”

“What does this have to do with my wife?”

“Your wife was picked up for a welfare check at the request of Sam Garvin. You know him, of course.”

“Sure I know him. Sam holds the family purse strings.”

“Your wife called Mr. Garvin and requested money in exchange for her life. We picked her up on the pretext of arresting her. There was an unidentified man with her, but he fled the scene. She was brought here to ensure her safety. Her statement names an individual she knew as JJ Camacho. She accuses him of holding her prisoner and repeatedly raping her.”

Rae reached for Danny’s arm. He’d turned so pale, and his eyes didn’t seem to be focusing on anything. His arm, through a cotton, long sleeved shirt, felt clammy to her touch.

When at last he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Why didn’t somebody tell me before?”

“If you’ll read the report, you’ll see that your wife named you as the person who set up her contact with JJ Camacho.”

Danny’s jaw sagged as he looked from Veronica to Rae. Then he seemed to draw within himself as he collapsed upon the pile of documents, his face buried in his arms. His shoulders moved spasmodically, as if he were consumed by silent grief.

When he raised his head and spoke, he had apparently composed himself. “I had no clue when I left her. Not a fucking clue. Would I have stayed in Pagosa Springs? Would I have counted on tough love? No fucking way! My wife is being raped and I’m telling her to get in rehab?”

“Well,” Rae said, “now we know for sure where all the relatives’ hostility came from.”

Danny began to peruse the reports. “This says Camacho told her I sent him. Nowhere does it say I introduced them. I have no idea who this person is. Why wasn’t he arrested?”

“If you’ll read on, you’ll see that all of the alleged acts were committed in Wheat Ridge. Unfortunately, it was a jurisdictional thing.”

“And Wheat Ridge dropped the ball?” Danny asked, still flipping pages. “This scumbag raped my wife and somebody dropped the ball?”

“Looks like,” muttered Rae.

“We offered her protective custody, but she got really nervous. When we drove her home, she insisted on getting out and walking the last couple of blocks.”

“I don’t understand why Wheat Ridge didn’t go after this JJ. Why wasn’t there any follow-up?” Rae asked.

“After we talked, I called the sergeant over at Wheat Ridge that interviewed Mrs. Lassiter. A couple of days after our welfare check, Wheat Ridge got a call from Sam Garvin. Same story. Only this time Wheat Ridge picked her up at the Aztec Motel. She was alone and the motel records showed only her name on the check-in—Dee Bayfield. That’s how she registered.”

Veronica’s glance zoomed in on Danny as she continued, “Sergeant Wehr said that your wife refused to sign a complaint.”

“Did you get a copy of their report?” Rae asked.

“Funny thing. I asked, but Wehr was evasive. Something about a freeze on it.”

“Metro Unit?” Rae asked. She remembered enough from Anthony’s years of service to know that when channels didn’t channel anymore, Denver’s drug force that partnered with the DEA was bound to be behind it.

Veronica’s jaw clamped down on what she was about to say as she gave Rae a wary look.

“What about the missing car?” asked Rae, eager to change the subject, wishing she hadn’t tried to show off her knowledge.

“The night she died, a witness saw Mrs. Lassiter’s car leave the residence. He couldn’t see who was driving. All he could make out was two people in the car. He called the police because of a disturbance he heard earlier. It’s all there in the report from that night.”

“What car?” asked Danny. “She totaled her SUV. That’s what started the mess with the insurance.”

“She apparently inherited a Lincoln Town Car from her grandfather,” offered Rae.

“When our people arrived at the scene, there was no vehicle on the premises. The sister and Sam Garvin showed up.”

“Showed up?” echoed Danny.

“We called Mr. Garvin because he had made the initial contact requesting the welfare check.”

“My brother-in-law wasn’t there?”

“Not according to the report. Our officer reported that Mr. Garvin said that Mrs. Lassiter had owned a black Lincoln Town Car recently inherited from her grandfather. My guess is other priorities took their attention from the car. No theft report was ever filed.”

“Danny should file one now.” Rae was thinking ahead. “Follow the car to JJ Camacho.”

“Right. Here’s my current court appointment as Dee’s P/R. I’ll sign a complaint.”

Rae was amazed at Danny’s unexpected preparedness. He seemed to be recovering from his shock and assuming some initiative for a change.

“We need the VIN and license.” Veronica got on her computer and pushed some keys.

Rae was quiet while Veronica and Danny finished the paperwork for the theft report. Then she asked, “Why isn’t this being investigated as a homicide?”

“You don’t have the coroner’s report yet, do you?”

They didn’t.

“The coroner determined that she died as a result of cocaine toxicity. You’ll see that on page five of our report.”

“Danny, didn’t you say they told you she drowned?” asked Rae.

Danny shrugged. “I got the call. They said she was found dead in her hot tub.” He shrugged. “I guess I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

Rae frowned as she watched Danny pause to light up a Marlboro on the steps of the Lakewood Municipal Complex.

“I’m working on quitting.”

“Did I say a word?”

“I know what you’re thinking. I don’t smoke in front of Josh…or Beth.”

“Uh-huh. Like they can’t smell you.”

“At least it’s not pot.” He took one more drag, then ground out the cigarette under his heel without looking in Rae’s direction.

“May as well skip Wheat Ridge for now,” Rae said. “If Veronica can’t get anything out of them, we sure can’t.”

As they got into the truck, Danny asked, “What was it about Metro Unit that froze Veronica up?”

“I can’t talk about it. I’d be closing a door on a friendship, as well as an information source.”

“I’m your client. Don’t I come first?”

He was turned in the seat, facing her. All she could think of was the effort it took not to give him a matching welt on the other side of his spoiled brat face.

“Stupid question,” said Danny, no doubt picking up on her anger. “I’m sorry, that was crass.”

Rae shrugged. “There’s stuff you can’t know. But I can share this with you. Veronica will do everything she can to help us. She was my husband’s partner.”

“I thought he was Denver P.D.”

“He was. Veronica was there—I mean there on the spot—when Anthony was killed. Right after that, she left law enforcement for about a year. Then she signed on with Lakewood, and her career’s gone really well. She’s in a position to know things. She’ll share what she can, but she can’t risk her job.”

“Right. Besides, she wouldn’t be much help if she got fired.”

Rae turned her face toward the passenger window, took a deep breath and counted silently to ten. “Keep going south,” she said coldly. “Pick up Six. We’re going to the Jeffco Coroner’s office.”

Danny drove slowly, sticking to the right lane. Rae wondered if he had the stomach to view the grim details of Dee’s autopsy report. As she glanced sideways at him, he appeared short of breath, was breathing choppily. He really should kick the nicotine habit.

“Why would JJ kill Deidre when she was his cash source?” she asked after his breathing appeared to return to normal.

“Good point. Dee’s little estate is peanuts. Morgan and the kids get her share of Grandpa's now that she’s gone.”

“Then it seems like JJ Camacho would be the loser with your wife dead, any way you cut it.”

“How would he have known? He's ripping off a rich lady. I doubt he's the type to have a background in estate law.”

“Point well taken,” said Rae. “But now he's got nobody to rip off.”

“Do I turn here?”

“Yep.”

Danny pulled into the Jefferson County Civic Center, a complex of eggshell-colored cement buildings neatly nestled just off Sixth Avenue in Golden. He parked near a directory where Rae quickly located the building that housed the coroner’s office and paced off in that direction with Danny close behind.

The one-story building that housed the coroner’s office sat a bit apart from the cluster of larger structures. She felt Danny lagging farther behind her as they approached the entrance. “Let’s just get this over with,” she said, making her voice kinder that it had been. She was turning into a shrew, and pretty soon, if this didn’t stop, she wouldn’t be able to stand herself.

He followed her like a robot into the building. She observed his chest heaving in those short, shallow breaths he’d bee taking in the truck. When the reception desk loomed in front of them, he let her do the talking. Then they both followed a young woman to an office where they were to meet with a deputy coroner.

Soon a thin, middle-aged woman in a white lab coat joined them and introduced herself as Dr. Roland. Rae completed the introduction for herself and Danny, who barely nodded and kept his hands in his pockets. Rae wondered if it was to keep them from shaking. Her judgment of him softened further as recalled her own state of mind following the loss of Anthony. And Danny bore the burden of guilt just dumped on him for having abandoned his wife to a rapist. No wonder his chest was heaving.

Dr. Roland was ready for them with a slender sheaf of papers. “The autopsy findings are that death resulted from anoxic encephalopathy related to a seizure consistent with cocaine toxicity.” She read the words from the top paper.

Rae watched Danny's apathy transform into antagonism. “That’s it? That’s it, and you decide it was an accident?” His words were inappropriately hostile. The doctor blinked behind heavy glasses and stepped back a full two paces.

“That is correct,” she said through thin lips that barely moved.

“That conclusion assumes Mrs. Lassiter injected herself with cocaine?” Rae strove for a neutral tone. No use of two hot-heads going off at the woman, who was only doing her job.

“There has been no evidence presented to indicate otherwise.”

Rae could see Danny’s comment coming, complete with expletives that would get them tossed out on their butts. As she bent toward the doctor, as if trying to read the report, she stepped down hard on Danny’s foot. Turning back into his howl of protest, she mouthed the words, Shut up!

Rae turned back to the doctor and asked, “Could you give us a little more detail on how you arrived at that conclusion?”

The deputy coroner pursed her soda cracker lips and glared at Rae, reminding her of a malevolent owl. “The report speaks for itself.”

“Excuse me,” said Rae, “but two separate law enforcement jurisdictions have complaints on file from the deceased regarding threats to her life.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.” The woman’s sharp little nose twitched slightly, transforming her from owl to rabbit. “All our office has to go by is the physical evidence. This was a long-term cocaine user--”

“She,” interrupted Rae, “his wife.” Rae indicated Danny. Neutrality of tone had flown the coop. “This is how you describe a thing, not a person. Show a little respect.”

She saw Danny wince. No, Danny, I’m not going to hit her.

Owl blinked once. “I’ve made you a copy of our entire report.” She stepped away from Rae and handed Danny a manila folder. He took it but didn’t open it—just held it as if it might explode. As he turned toward the door through which they’d entered, Owl said “Sorry for your loss, Mr. Lassiter.”

Rae took Danny’s arm and steered him out of the building. She could hear him fuming under his breath. “Sorry for you loss,” he mimicked, his voice a notch higher than normal. “Why do they keep saying that? I mean, they don’t fucking know me. Didn’t know Dee. Sorry?” Rae watched him take in deep gulps of cool, fresh air.

“Danny…” Rae hooked an arm in his, moving toward the truck. “It’s what people say when they don’t know what to say.”

They were at the truck. Rae watched Danny fumble for the keys, then drop the autopsy report. She snatched up the folder and relieved Danny of the keys. His hands were trembling, and he still couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs.

“I’ll drive,” said Rae. He didn’t argue.

They got into the truck. Rae fiddled with the unfamiliar gearshift, taking an extra minute or so to get them on their way. She chose another return route—north on Highway 93, toward Boulder, past the site of the decontaminated Rocky Flats Nuclear Plant that had been converted into a wildlife refuge.

As she drove, Rae thought that the desolation of those windswept foothills on the west side of the highway must match Danny’s mood. She wondered if he could ever clean up his toxic memories.

When she no longer detected the sounds of his labored breath, Rae ventured a look at him. “You okay now?”

“Thanks for…back there.”

“What?”

“For acknowledging that my wife was a person. A lot of people seem to have forgotten that fact.”

Danny never ceased to amaze her. From pissant to reasonably profound in the space of thirty minutes or less. “Well, shame on them.”

A mile or so down the road, her glance caught him looking at her. She’d put on sunglasses back at the Jeffco complex, so she knew he couldn’t see her eyes.

“When does the pain go away?” he asked. “How long does it take to let it go? How long did it take you?”

Rae shook her head. “That’s what my daughter wants to know. Truth be told, I’m still a work in progress.”

Rae parked in front of Bayfield Commons, a low L-shaped building on Forty-fourth Avenue. Her first thought was that this was an unlikely setting for a millionaire’s office.

Unprosperous. The surrounding buildings were equally shabby. A street person of indeterminate sex browsed a trash canister across the street. She checked the address again against her written notes. This was the place. Talk about keeping a low profile!

She was glad that Sandy had been able to set up the appointment so quickly. Usually fearless, Rae had balked at the prospect of meeting hostility from Danny’s in-laws. She’d been relieved when Sandy had taken on the task and reported it a piece of cake.

At 9:00 a.m., the day promised increasing warmth. The faint odor of garbage wafted toward her from a Westside Disposal vehicle that emerged from an alley behind the building.

A sign above the main entrance read Bayfield Enterprises. Rae peered through the glass in the door. Seeing no one, she tried it, found it unlocked and entered a small, dingy reception area with an asphalt tile floor. The desk, centered in a small work station to the right of the entry, was unoccupied.

Rae shut the door hard, and called into the semi-darkness, “Mr.Garvin?”

No answer. As her eyes began to adjust to the dimness, she glanced around the room, looking for something which might reflect a personality, drawing a blank. The room smelled of musty old papers.

“Mr. Garvin?” Louder this time. Then the sound of a door closing somewhere in the back part of the building.

Rae cracked a Venetian blind—the old-fashioned, metal kind—by the entry door. That was when she first noticed the faded picture that hung on the wall. A hawk-faced older man, flanked by a youngish woman and a light-haired teen-age girl, his arms encircling each like snares. The Bayfield clan, no doubt. But who was the dark-haired young man standing slightly apart from the threesome? Not bad looking, thought Rae. Even in the poor light, she could make out dimples and a widow’s peak. The women, too, were attractive, but looked as if they were in the clutches of some carnivorous old bird.

A sound of movement from the next room pulled her attention from the picture, then fluorescent ceiling lights illuminated the area.

“Mrs. Esposito?” His voice crackled like dry twigs. Rae turned to see a thin, bent man emerge from a door at the south end of the reception area. “I’m Sam Garvin.” He offered a bony hand which she shook tentatively, afraid it might break.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” As she handed him her business card, Rae processed his use of “Mrs.” rather than the more usual “Ms.” in this setting, concluding that perhaps Sam Garvin knew a lot more about her than she might have wished.

“Our secretary is out ill today. Please excuse the dark office. I just got here.”

“No problem.” She looked him over, trying to make her glance unobtrusive. He was taller than his slumped posture made him appear at first. Square-jawed, hollow-cheeked. Colorless eyes followed her from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Sparse dark hairs topped his head, in contrast to the gray fringe above his ears. Rae judged Sam Garvin to be in his seventies.

“I have the conference room set up for you,” he said.

Sam preceded her down a narrow hall that had several doors along the way. Midway down the hall, he opened one of them and led her into a reasonably lighted conference room which contained oak furniture that had probably been around for a while—not shabby but having seen a good deal of use.

Rae took the seat he offered, then removed pen and writing pad from her attaché case.

“I have some questions I’d like to go over with you, if that’s okay.”

Sam took a seat opposite her. “Fire away.” A faint, lopsided grin creased his countenance. “Our records are at your disposal.”

“Thank you.” Rae measured her tone, editing out the surprise she felt at detecting no hostility in the man’s demeanor.

“I guess the first order of business is locating Mrs. Lassiter’s tax returns. Can you help me out?”

“I prepared them up until she married Danny. Then she said she would be using her husband’s tax person.”

“That would be me, but I never met the lady or saw any of her financial records.”

Rae bent down and retrieved a couple of documents from her case.

“This is a current certified copy of Mr. Lassiter’s appointment as personal representative, and here's a notarized statement authorizes me to receive her financial information.”

Sam accepted the papers, but appeared to give them only a cursory read. “Much of the information I have, principally concerning her grandfather’s estate, is of public record or could be obtained from the IRS.”

“We both know how long it takes to get anything from the IRS. I’d like to put a figure on the tax liability as soon as possible, as it looks like she hasn’t filed for at least three years.”

“I’ve already made copies of Dee’s old returns and the estate’s K-1s for the past two years.” Sam pushed a manila folder on the table toward Rae.

She was unable to contain a gasp as she took in the numbers on the K-1s. “Mrs. Lassiter’s estate is illiquid. Where did all this money go? I mean, granted Mrs. Lassiter took drugs, but no way could she have spent all that on her habit.”

Sam’s expression remained unchanged, unrevealing. “Ask JJ Camacho.”

“Why aren’t the police asking him?”

Sam shrugged. “I presume that no one has filed a complaint. Shouldn’t Danny Lassiter, as Dee’s personal representative, be filing such a complaint? He put up quite a fight for that appointment. It’s time he did something to earn it.”

So much for nice old man.

“Inasmuch as Mr. Lassiter only learned about this person last week, I have to ask what the other family members and their attack-dog lawyers were doing sitting on this knowledge.” Not smart—the simmering anger in her voice. She needed Sam on her side. At least for now.

To her surprise he replied, “My thought exactly, Mrs. Esposito.”

Then her cell phone rang and she instinctively grabbed it. As she was about to let it go to voicemail, she glanced down and saw Danny's name. “Excuse me, I need to take this.”

“Rae,” Danny’s stressed voice, like a rubber band about to snap, “my contractor called. He went into the Golden house this morning to start the job--” Background noise muffled his next words.

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“I’m at the Sheriff’s station in Golden. They’re talking to him now. I’m next.”

When the phone on the conference table rang, she was relieved at the distraction this afforded. Sam would be too occupied to sift meaning from her end of the conversation with Danny.

“They say I’m not a suspect,” Danny continued.

“Call Sandy.” Whatever it was, it sounded like Danny needed a lawyer more than an accountant.

“He’s in court. I just wanted somebody else to know where I was, in case I get--” Then he was gone.

Through her confusion, Rae was aware of Sam’s voice droning on the other conversation. “I see. I see. Have you notified Mr. and Mrs. Farris?”

She had the eerie feeling that the two calls shared a common subject matter. But Sam’s brooding face showed no overt change of expression as he hung up the receiver.

“We’ll have to reschedule,” he said. “Something terrible has happened. Dee’s son Kevin has died.”

The renovation crew of one had arrived at the Golden house right on schedule. Danny had left several messages on Kevin’s cell phone to let him know in advance, but he’d never returned the calls.

Then the call from Pat Keech: “Danny,” Pat gagged and Danny could hear the vomit in his voice, “you got a problem. There’s a dead body in the house and if you go by the stench, he’s been ripening for quite a spell.”

“Call nine-one-one.” Common sense on his side for a change, Danny determined instantly that there was no way he was going into that house before the law got there.

“I done that first. They’re on their way.”

Then panic grabbed Danny’s heart in a hammer lock. He was afraid to ask Pat for a description of the deceased. Logically, it would be Kevin or one of his drug buddies. But Josh had not yet made contact, and Danny still hadn’t told anybody his son was missing. Head in the sand again or maybe up his ass. There had always been animosity between Josh and Kevin, usually over Kevin’s disrespectful treatment of Beth. But if the little turd had harmed Josh, he would…would what? He was too late to do anything.

He made the twenty-five minute drive to Golden in forty, telling himself it was the old truck’s fault. There was a Jeffco Sheriff’s car in the driveway, and two deputies were talking to Pat as Danny parked. Somehow he couldn’t make his legs move to get out of the truck.

Just for the hell of it, he punched in Josh’s number on his cell for the umpteen thousandth time and—there was a God! His son answered.

“Dad?”

He sounded far away, scared, but alive. Danny felt real tears on his face and joy at the prospect of Kevin rotting away, no longer a problem.

The reception sucked. He could hear Josh fading in and out. Just sounds, but his son’s voice didn’t need words.

Some words finally came through. “I’m with Beth.”

“Where?”

Josh didn’t answer. Bad reception or he didn’t want to tell.

“Mr. Lassiter?” A lean, young deputy was at Danny’s window. His freckled face had some of those premature worry lines that come early to fair skinned folk.

“We need you to come inside and make an identification as soon as the crime scene people are finished.”

Then he noticed the second county vehicle parked across the street. His legs moved freely now. He got out of the truck and started toward Pat, but the kid deputy blocked his way.

“Mr. Keech is going to meet us at the station to give his statement.”

Pat got into his truck without looking in Danny’s direction. As he turned back toward the house, Danny caught the glint of something shiny in his grizzled beard.

“When did you last see your stepson Kevin Cantrell? He lived here, right?” The kid was in his face, a pen and notepad at the ready.

Not recently. Danny shuffled through his recollections of Kevin, none of them pleasant. “Would you believe, not since his mother’s funeral?”

“And that was when?”

“February.”

“This year?”

“Yes.”

Danny heard voices coming from the front of the house as the crime scene crew exited carrying plastic bags.

The second deputy, chubby and seasoned, motioned to them from the front door. As Kid Cop and Danny approached, Seasoned offered them disposable masks. Kid popped his on, but Danny waved away the offer. How bad could it be? Josh was alive. Kevin was inconsequential.

Inside, the house looked worse than he remembered when he’d let Pat in to do his estimate. Danny’s eyes raced ahead of his nose as he saw what must be Kevin, except something had been eating on his face. Probably rats. The place was littered with garbage, beer cans and…Danny felt his breakfast lurch into reverse as his sense of smell kicked in with a vengeance.

“It’s him,” he choked out just before he puked all over Kid Cop, who stood between him and the front door.

*****

They needed Danny’s statement. Routine, said the older cop. For obvious reasons, Danny no longer thought of him as “seasoned.” Any term associated with food or eating was definitely off limits for whatever length of time it took to get the damn smell out of his head. He wondered how smells could echo long after you leave their source.

The route to the Jefferson County complex was fresh in his mind from his recent trip to the coroner’s office with Rae. Two days had passed, but everything from that day was still pressing uncomfortably on his psyche.

Danny cleaned up as best he could in the public restroom before presenting himself at the desk and giving his name. Through a glass partition he could see Pat walking into a room with a couple of plain clothes guys.

“Have a seat, Mr. Lassiter.” A pleasant-faced woman deputy in Jeffco olive drab motioned him toward a chair. She looked like someone’s mother.

Danny remembered that Dee had been someone's mother. His last memory of her had been after she’d been all prettied up for the funeral. She’d looked like a wax doll. But Kevin was death in the raw. If he didn’t get some air, he was going to be sick again.

“Where are you going?” Mother Cop was on his case.

“Just out for a smoke.”

She nodded as if she understood. He went out front and called Rae. Danny knew she didn’t bill for these short calls, but Sandy did. The reception was almost as bad as it’d been with Josh, and he noticed that the battery was mostly dead. He’d forgotten to charge it. Then he smoked, but it didn’t take the smell of death away.

As he started back into the building, a gold Lexus pulled into the parking area. Danny recognized his brother-in-law’s car before he saw Nate in the driver’s seat. Beside him, the woman behind a pair of Serengetis looked like Morgan, though her hair was covered by a yellow scarf.

Should he wait and hold the door to the building open for them? Attempt conversation? Morgan’s body language, as she came toward him like a drill sergeant, killed that idea. Danny didn’t have to see her eyes to know what was in them. He let go of the door, but not quick enough. Morgan caught it on the fly. She and Nate bore down upon him like the furies until they all stopped at Mother Cop’s desk

“Nice to see you’re up and about, Morgan,” Danny blurted. Morgan shook her head as if she were trying to rid her ear of a buzzing insect. Nate’s face wore a surprised expression. Perhaps his words had been somewhat inappropriate and his smile, too bright, but he’d tried to be civil, hadn’t he?

Opportunely, two plain clothes men stepped from the inner sanctum where Pat had gone and guided Danny and his in-laws toward separate interrogation rooms.

“Take a seat, Mr. Lassiter.”

Danny assumed this must be good cop. Then bad cop entered and he was a she. At least, that was Danny’s first impression. They didn’t introduce themselves or each other. Just got down to business.

“When did you last see your stepson Kevin Cantrell?”

“About twenty minutes ago.”

The cops exchanged eye-rolls.

“I’ll rephrase,” said Good Cop. “When did you last see Kevin Cantrell alive?”

“At his mother’s funeral. End of February.”

“But he was staying in one of his mother’s houses. One you’d been having work done on. You never ran into him there?” Bad Cop had a silver filling in an eye-tooth that flashed when she spoke.

“The work was supposed to begin today. Kevin had a key to the house, but I understood his residence was with his aunt and uncle.”

“Where’s your son, Mr. Lassiter? Where’s Josh?” It was Good Cop, but he wasn’t looking so good to Danny any more.

“With Beth, my stepdaughter.” Dumb-ass words jumped out of his mouth again. Truth, but where would it lead? Nowhere good. Two kids missing. One kid dead. He’d never before even considered the possibility of Josh harming Kevin.

“Are you aware that your stepdaughter Beth Porter is missing?”

“Missing?” Why would the kids run? Unless, unless…Oh, Christ, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not according to his perfect plan. A plop. His head coming out of the sand?

“Mr. Lassiter?”

The two cops stood over him. He looked up at them from the floor. The plop was him falling. Danny’s lips formed words. I want to call my lawyer. No sounds came from his mouth.

“Mr. Lassiter?”

Their faces bent near his. He tried to reach for his cell phone. His arm wouldn’t cooperate.

From a sudden distance. Their voices. Fading.

“Get an ambulance!”

Danny didn’t see a white light or a long tunnel. No sense of well-being. Peace and tranquility danced beyond his reach as he saw in the glow of a yellow light…his son…chestnut eyes in a thin face, like turning back the clock and looking in a mirror.

Josh’s image came and went like waves on a beach, his expression troubled. Danny had no sense of his own body or where they were. Surely not in heaven.

“Dad…”

Josh’s lips trembled, and Danny could see him forming words but they rolled off his brain. His son looked so tall now, bending over him. Was that a stubble of downy beard on his chin?

“Dad…”

A crinkled film separated them. Josh’s image faded. Danny couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak, and there was so much he had to tell his son. How sorry he was for all the times he hadn’t been there. Present in body, maybe, but not really there. Sorry for all the joints he’d smoked in front of him. Sorry for the lines of coke he’d done with Josh in the next room. Maybe not in the next room. He and Dee hadn’t really cared at the time what they dumped on their kids. Their addictions that they’d called love only turned out to be sex and drugs. He thought he’d fixed things, couldn’t remember how, but now a sense of too late weighed down his chest.

“Dad, I’m sorry.”

Danny felt Josh’s hand on his arm. Saw tears run down his son’s cheeks. With effort, he moved the words up from his heart and heard himself speak: “Josh.”

Finding movement now possible, he grabbed Josh’s hand and held on, afraid he’d turn into a wisp of smoke…but he didn’t.

His senses returning, Danny toured the room with his eyes, took in the machines with their crisp blipping, traced the IV tube back to his own arm, let the footsteps in the hallway and hum of voices penetrate his awareness. And he kept hold of his son’s hand.

It was no surprise really. Danny knew what long-term cocaine use could do to somebody’s heart. It just didn’t seem that it had been long-term for him. He felt Josh’s hand squirming under his and realized he held his son in what could only be described as a life grip. Josh was real only so long as Danny could feel him.

“Dad, I really have to find a restroom. I’ve had four cups of coffee.”

Danny couldn’t let go. He was physically incapable of releasing Josh.

“I’ll be right back.” He felt his son pry open his desperate fingers. “It’s that or pee my pants.”

“No problem.” His words came out whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

*****

“I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Josh’s change of clothes seemed to indicate it was later than just a trip to the restroom. But Danny still didn’t have the time-space thing down pat. He was sitting up in bed now. Playing with a dish of Jell-o on a tray. He thought it was maybe a day later. Later than he’d have liked it to be—but not too late.

“Sam sent us to his sister’s in South Dakota. He said we’d be safe there.” Josh’s guileless brown eyes implied it was a logical course of action.

“Sam Garvin sent you to South Dakota?” Danny pushed away the tray. Jello wasn’t exactly his cup of tea. Nor was tea, for that matter.

“We never meant to worry you.” Beth speaking. He hadn’t realized she was there. It was his first sight of Beth since Dee’s funeral when Morgan had whisked her away for good with a temporary custody order. Beth’s face still had that pinched look she’d had at Morgan’s the day after Dee’s body had been found.

“Does your aunt know you’re here?” Danny asked.

Beth nodded. “She knows it wasn’t you.”

“What…wasn’t me?”

“You didn’t send the drug dealer after Mom.”

“It was Kevin,” Josh said. “I’m sorry he’s dead…but I’m not, really. Know what I mean?”

Danny recognized the conflict in his eyes…too well.

“When…” Danny began hesitantly, worried about the time line. “When did you go…”

“Dad. It was before Kevin died.”

The hurt in Josh’s eyes told Danny that his son had read his mind. Then, in a window of lucidity, a flashback of Kevin’s body looking dead longer than the three days Josh had been gone.

Beth got up and went over to Josh’s side. “They called us and told us it was okay to come back. Kevin was dead and couldn’t hurt us. He and that drug dealer killed Mom. My own brother.” Beth’s tone was wooden and her eyes strangely dry as her glance touched Danny briefly.

Danny nodded absently. Something else gnawed at him…the last recollection…or one of them…just before he’d passed out in the interrogation room. “If I’m not mistaken, Beth, somebody told the cops you were missing.”

The kids exchanged glances, Josh replying before Beth. “Sam didn’t tell Morgan. Not until after Kevin was dead.”

“Huh?”

“That didn’t come out right. I meant after they found out Kevin was dead.”

Okay. That made sense. The kids probably didn’t know how long Kevin had been dead. That was good.

“Couldn’t you have let me know you were safe?”

“Sam said nobody could know. He didn’t even tell Aunt Morgan or Uncle Nate. That way nobody could be forced to tell Kevin or that JJ guy where we were.” More expression in her voice now, and her earnest manner convinced Danny that she bought the logic of it. She even made eye-contact with him for a couple of seconds.

“But Sam knew.”

“Sam said they’d never hurt him ‘cause he signs the checks,” Beth said.

“Interesting logic,” Danny said. The kids looked insulted. He gathered that they held Sam in high esteem. If Sam says so, it must be true. Okay.

“Beth,” Danny asked quietly, “why didn’t you just phone Josh and tell him you couldn’t make the mall that night? Why would Sam fly the both of you out of town?”

“It was Greyhound.”

“Huh?”

“We didn’t fly. We went by bus.”

Were they evading his question? Who gave a rat’s ass how they got there? Why did they both have to go? It was almost as if Sam had been thoughtful enough to supply them both with an alibi. Now, if only Kevin’s time of death…

An efficient-looking Asian-American nurse entered the room. Time to check his vitals. He wanted some answers first. The blips on his screen were speeding up. The nurse, Miss Ko, started to usher the kids out. “No, I’m not through--”

“For now you are,” said Miss Ko.

The kids wasted no time in finding the door.

“No, wait,” Danny started out of the bed, dragging the IV on its wheels.

The kids paused in the doorway while Miss Ko did her best to restrain him. She didn’t need to be very strong. He flopped back on the bed like a beached bass.

“Later,” said Josh as he started down the hall. Beth gave him a little wave and smile.

Danny managed a half-assed wave back, noting the looks they gave each other as they passed from his view. So familiar. He’d been there. Please don’t let them turn out like Dee and me. He wasn’t sure who he was asking. Prayer hadn’t been a part of his daily experience in a very long time.

“Veronica Sanchez on line one, Sergeant.” The clerk’s words landed the blow Emily Wehr had been dodging for a week following her initial conversation with Sanchez. Seven calls on her direct line. Now Sanchez had used the main line and Susie, unaware of the situation, had just made call number eight the one that nailed her.

“Hey, Detective Sanchez, sorry about the telephone tag.” Wehr’s tone aimed for conciliatory but came out uptight.

“Telephone tag implies calls returned.”

Wehr tried to hang a face on the crisp, in-your-face reply, but she’d never met Veronica Sanchez though their respective jurisdictions were adjacent and relatively small.

“Right. Sorry about that. What can I do for you?”

“There’s been a development in the Deidre Lassiter case, so we’ve reopened it. Mrs. Lassiter’s son is dead. Based on statements from family members, we’re thinking JJ Camacho looks good for this.”

Wehr instinctively lowered her voice. “I can’t help you there.”

“Sure you can. I know your Metro guy’s had Camacho’s machine shop staked out. I’ve driven by, myself, and seen him in his Crown Vic sucking on a Big Gulp.”

Wehr felt her resentment level rise. Anger shoved to the fore by guilt. But it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t want to know what she knew. Honest to God. Fold and run.

Instead she asked, “Isn’t that a tad out of your territory, Detective?”

“Come off it, Wehr. There’s a dead woman who claimed she was raped, tortured and held for ransom. She was so Stockholmed that she wouldn’t even accept our help when we offered it. Now her kid is dead, too. The kid implicated Camacho to his aunt a day or so before he died. I don’t care whose snitch Camacho is, you can’t just make him disappear—along with the vic’s car.”

Wehr, facing the wall of her cubicle, squirmed in her chair, then turned to see who, if anyone, might be observing her conversation. The aisle was bare. A hum of voices from the outer office signaled business as usual.

“I wish I could help you. As far as I can tell, they’ve lost him. Why do you think Navarro has the machine shop under surveillance? Would he still be there if Metro had the scumbag stashed someplace?”

“Might, if it suited their purpose.”

Wehr swallowed hard before continuing, “Word is, he may have jumped the border into Mexico. In case they're wrong, Navarro's still keeping an eye on the shop.”

“We're pretty sure Camacho's still around,” Veronica said.

“How so?”

“We have the dead kid's cell phone. There are texts on it from Camacho as recent as last week. They trace to a tower not five miles from Golden.”

What could Wehr say? That she suspected Navarro was a lying bastard? So she changed the subject. “I heard the kid was a crack-head like his mom.”

“Why else would he hang with Camacho?”

“So, he OD’d, too?”

“Tox screen’s not back yet.”

Wehr heard a stirring behind her and turned to see a specter in her doorway—Reggie Navarro. She hadn’t seen him face-to-face in weeks. His assignment to Metro had pretty much kept him out of the office. Never in the best of moods, he now looked like a bear with a burr up his ass.

“Something’s come up,” said Wehr into the phone. “Can I call you back?”

“Right. Like you returned my other ten calls.” Crisp was fast turning to scorched.

The computer in Wehr’s brain cranked out a response before she’d actually processed the reasons behind her words: “Well, okay. Then give me your cell number.”

“Ooh-kay.” And Sanchez gave it to her in a curious tone of voice, ending with, “I won’t hold my breath, Sergeant.”

Wehr hung up the phone and put on a cop face. “Hey, Reg, you back with us?”

Reggie Navarro shook his head, along with his three or four chins, and settled into the side chair in her little cubicle. Fat cops can’t run, she thought as Reg’s bulk engulfed the small chair. But she knew this to be untrue in Reggie’s case. Like a big brown bear, Reggie Navarro could move at a pace that took her breath away. She knew this from working with him. And, like with a bear coming out of hibernation, you didn’t cross him.

“I heard Veronica Sanchez’s been nosing around about the Lassiter thing.”

“It’s her case,” replied Wehr. “Lassiter died in Lakewood.”

“But the kid bought it in Golden. County jurisdiction.”

“She wants Camacho.” You didn’t lie to Reggie.

“Don’t we all.”

“No shit? You really don’t have him?”

Reggie leaned on her desk, his weight sending paperwork tumbling, which he didn’t attempt to pick up. “Would we be on his shop twenty-four seven if we had him? Metro has guys on all his known associates.”

She maintained eye contact. The papers on the floor could wait. “Maybe the guys you’re trying to put away got wind of things. Took JJ out. Makes sense.”

“Except for one thing. DEA has one of their own on the inside, and he says it didn’t happen.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, Reg.”

“I got the idea that maybe I should have a look at that tape again.”

“Tape?” Fear coursed down her spine sending up the hairs on the back of her neck.

“You remember. The Lassiter broad. Your taped interview. You know. The tell-all.”

A man with a purpose, this Reggie Navarro. A woman and her kid dead. But they had been expendable in Reggie’s big picture. She sat there, silent, looking him straight in the eye, hoping her fear didn’t show. Maybe keeping the tape had been a bad idea.

“Commander Marsh said to lose everything.”

Reggie cuffed himself in the head with the base of his large paw. “Geez. The tape, too? Do you have to be so efficient?”

She tried not to blink. “He said ‘everything’.”

“I got the idea maybe I missed something. Something that would gimme some ideas. Maybe the broad paid JJ off and somehow he got out of the country. But she’s dead and that don’t make no sense.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t.”

“All’s I know is that without JJ, our case is toast.”

“You can’t win ‘em all, Reg.”

“Wanna bet?” He heaved his bulk out of the chair, hoisted his sagging pants, and lumbered toward the door. “See ya around, kid.”

She exhaled slowly as the door closed behind him.

The tape was fast becoming an albatross around her neck. It was supposed to save her ass, in case IAB came poking around. What to do? Nothing to do.

Then she jumped as Reggie’s voice spun her around in the swivel chair. She’d heard his departing steps outside her cubicle, his mumbled greetings to other staff members. But his return had been silent as a ghost’s.

“Hey, Wehr, I almost forgot to ask. Who else seen that tape?”

“Uh, nobody, I guess. Nobody was interested. Crack whore. Who cares?”

“Do I detect a modicum of sarcasm, Sergeant?”

“Modicum?” She raised an eyebrow and tried to keep a smirk from stealing her expression. A modicum of intellect? Swallow those words, fast.

“Soundin’ pretty frisky, Emily.” Reggie laughed, as if he’d read her mind and shared her humor at his expense. “What about Commander Marsh?”

“What about him?” The thought that she’d never discussed the tape with her commander gnawed at her. It was customary to tape interviews of this type. Especially the offer of help extended to the victim. And in Deidre Lassiter’s case, the record of her declining help was important.

Make it disappear he said of the police report. Would her commander have said this if he’d seen the tape? Initially she’d thought yes. What if she’d been wrong? She’d assumed the suppression of the Lassiter file had been a group effort, including Commander Marsh. Apparently not entirely. Something was askew.

“Did Marsh view the tape?”

“I assume so. Ask him.”

“I will.” He was gone again.

What a thought. If she and Reg were the only ones, maybe Commander Marsh didn’t even know about the tape. Maybe she, Emily Wehr, was also expendable.

At the conclusion of her shift, Wehr changed into her civilian clothes and hung up her holstered gun in the locker beside her uniform. This had been her routine for as long as she could remember. Since she wasn’t required to pack off duty, why take her weapon home? It wasn’t an appendage to her ego, like with some of the guys.

As she exited the locker room, she observed Reggie and Commander Marsh at the end of the hall, heads together in conversation. She watched the men’s body language underscore the tension in their conversation. Then the two of them looked up and caught her eyeing them.

Although there was no overt malice in either man’s expression, she suddenly felt naked without the little friend in her shoulder holster, that was in her locker, not doing her a damn bit of good.

“I really appreciate your letting me tag along,” Rae said.

“I have an ulterior motive,” replied Veronica Sanchez from behind the wheel of an unmarked Lakewood Police vehicle. “I want to pick your brain. Just bear with me while I make a quick stop.” She pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall on Simms Avenue.

“What’s this about?”

“Tracking Kevin’s activity on the day he died. He supposedly made a prescription run for his aunt just before picking up a check at Bayfield Enterprises.”

Veronica pulled the black Ford sedan into a parking space in front of a Rite Way drug center. “Mr. Farris seems a little fuzzy about the details of Kevin’s extortion bit.”

“I thought the threat was made to Mrs. Farris,” said Rae.

“That’s the problem,” replied Veronica. “We can’t interview Mrs. Farris until her doctor clears it. Her migraines have become a royal pain in the ass for us.”

“What about the niece…Beth?”

“The family attorney has requested that we not stress her out right now.”

“That would be Stan Eisley?”

“You know him?”

“Not really. I’ve met one of his associates.” Rae had an unpleasant flashback of her brief meeting with Gil Doucette. “Do you know yet what killed the boy?”

“We're waiting for the tox screen results.”

“You must have some idea,” Rae said, her curiosity unappeased.

The women exited the car and approached the Rite Way. “It’s an open homicide, Rae. I can’t discuss the details.”

Veronica paused in the doorway, her eyes searching out the prescription counter. “I want you to go with me when I revisit Sam Garvin. He claims Kevin picked up the check he cut for him about noon, then split. Nathan Farris confirms that his wife was home in bed, sedated, on the afternoon of that day. Farris claims he heard a phone conversation between his wife and Garvin at around mid-day.”

“Convenient.” Rae, dressed in low-key slacks and jacket, followed in Veronica’s tracks. She noticed that Veronica still tended to wear flamboyant colors, even on the job—but jeans? Never. Rae wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. Veronica could end up in deep shit for having a civilian in her vehicle. Rae assumed she must have gotten clearance due to their overlapping interests in the case. What did she mean…pick her brain?

Now, the women stood at the prescription window, Veronica in the lead, Rae, uncomfortable, hanging back as if she were the next customer in line.

Veronica flashed her I.D. “Can you tell me who was on duty April 25th?”

The tall, gray-haired man consulted a calendar on his desk. “A Friday. I was. How can I help you?” He didn’t smile.

“Did you fill a prescription for a Morgan Farris on that date?”

Rae watched the man’s Adam’s apple bob. “I don’t think I can answer that,” he replied. “The HIPAA law. Patient privacy, you know.”

Veronica retained her cool confidence. “Actually, I don’t care about Mrs. Farris’s prescription. I’m just trying to trace the activities of her nephew. Did a young man pick up a prescription for Mrs. Farris on April 25th?”

“Bayfield-Farris.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mrs. Farris uses a hyphenated name. Bayfield-Farris.”

“Fine. Did a young man pick up her prescription?”

“Not exactly.” The pharmacist twisted in his white smock, his long neck reminding Rae of a turkey.

Veronica bore down upon him with her dark eyes. “What do you mean by ‘not exactly’?”

“Isn’t this against the privacy rules?”

Veronica smiled, but her eyes were hard as pieces of coal. “I don’t want to intrude on Mrs. Bayfield-Farris’s medical privacy. I just want to know if her nephew, Kevin Cantrell was here. He was nineteen. About five-ten. Brown hair.”

“Was?”

“He’s dead. I’m investigating a possible homicide. Now will you help me?”

“Oh, my. I thought you were going to say Mrs. Bayfield-Farris was dead.”

“Why is that?”

“B..because…” the man stuttered, “I had to go to the car to get her signature. A Class Two substance can’t be released to a third party--” He brought himself up short, apparently panicking that he’d revealed too much already. “Oh, this law. It’s so difficult to know what one can and can’t--”

Veronica interrupted the pharmacist’s mental juggling. “So you went to the car and then what?”

“She…Mrs. Bayfield-Farris was slumped over in the passenger seat. I wanted to call nine-one-one.”

“Then what happened?”

The man shook his head. “I knew this was going to be trouble.”

“Did she sign for the prescription?”

“She sat up and signed the form. The boy said he was taking her home.”

“Thanks for your help,” said Veronica. “Can you give me one of your cards in case we have some more questions?”

He pulled a card from a holder on his desk and exchanged it for one of Veronica’s.

“Please call me if you think of anything else,” added Veronica.

*****

“What’s a Class Two substance?” asked Rae when she and Veronica were back in the car.

“A controlled substance. Legal, but strong stuff. Now let me ask you one. Why do you suppose she uses her grandfather’s surname?” Veronica headed out of the Rite Way parking lot.

“Grandpa Bayfield was an egotistical son-of-a-bitch who threatened to disinherit his daughter and granddaughters if they didn’t take his name.”

“Your source of that tidbit?”

“Danny.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Not too bad. He’ll probably go home in a day or two.” Rae hoped the heart attack was a wake-up call for Danny, but she wasn’t about to share this with Veronica.

“He doesn’t get anything from the Bayfield Estate, right?”

“I can’t discuss that with you, Veronica. But you can look it up. The probate is of public record.”

“Rae! I put my butt on the line so we could help each other here. Don’t give me that confidentiality crap.”

“You just did that. Not ten minutes ago.”

Veronica pulled abruptly over to the edge of the strip mall parking lot and turned off the ignition. “We don’t think Danny’s involved. Okay? We do believe money is the motive here. It would help to know that Danny doesn’t stand to profit from the deaths of his wife and stepson. It would allow us to shift our focus. Quicker, maybe, if we didn’t have to reinvent the wheel. In other words, what you already know may save legwork on our part and maybe help your client.”

Rae deliberated. “I know where you’re coming from, but I’ll have to tell Danny what I’m doing. Let’s just say that if I were you, I’d start with the Bayfield financial records. Sam says he gave the kid a check, then never saw him again? I’d ask to see the cancelled check.”

“That’s why we’re going back to Bayfield Enterprises. You’ve met Sam Garvin, right?”

“You know I have.”

“How about the secretary?”

“What secretary?”

“The one that sits at the front desk. Fredricka. She told me Sam Garvin gave her the afternoon off on April 25th, so she never saw Kevin.”

“There was nobody in the office but Sam Garvin when I was there. What about in Golden? Didn’t anybody see anything?”

“The house sits on the edge of a field. There aren’t any close neighbors. We’ve canvassed the area and come up with a big, fat zero.”

“Thank you for sharing,” Rae said, trying to keep sarcasm to a minimum. “So, why am I here?”

Veronica started up the engine and headed out of the parking lot, turning right onto Simms. Rae waited for an answer to her question.

“I told you the real reason you’re here is for me to pick your brain. I know my strengths and they don't lie in the area of financial matters. Who would you recommend to do an audit of Bayfield Enterprises…that is, if I can convince my boss and the D.A. that we have probable cause.”

“Me.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“But there’s a problem--” Rae was cut short by a beep from Veronica’s cell.

Veronica grabbed the call. Rae listened, but couldn’t tell anything from the one-word responses from Veronica.

The conversation over, Veronica reversed directions and seemed to be headed back to her office.

“Change of plans?”

“Kevin’s tox screen is in.”

“And?”

“Positive for cocaine and meperidine.”

“Meperidine?”

“A synthetic narcotic.”

“So he died of a drug overdose like his mom?”

“I need to see that report. Are you serious about doing some work for us?”

“Better believe it.”

Jeffco deputy sheriffs had been questioning Danny for a week. In his hospital room. He couldn’t seem to keep from answering their questions with questions.

“When was the last time you saw or spoke with Kevin Cantrell?” This one was a sawed-off peewee in plain clothes, with a head of retreating blondish fuzz. Gus Collins. He had an Adam’s apple that bobbled up and down when he spoke.

“You guys must not exchange notes,” Danny lobbed back.

“I’ll read you a couple of your answers: ‘Not since my wife’s funeral.’ Then there was ‘Oh, yeah, now that you mention it, Pat Keech and I ran into him once doing the renovation estimate.’ This was after you were told Mr. Keech had remembered seeing the boy.”

He crossed a stubby leg and fiddled with his sock, pulling it up in his boot. “Thought your memory might be improving. Word is you’re set to go home today.”

“Who told you that?” Danny asked pleasantly, sitting there on the bed in his street clothes, an overnight bag at his feet.

Sarcastic son-of-a-bitch. Danny could almost hear the words rattling at the back of the cop’s throat. But the guy just nodded and ground his teeth into a mean grin.

“When did you say Kevin died?”

“I didn’t. When do you think he died?” asked Grumpy.

They both turned toward the doorway as Rae entered, followed by Sandy. Danny’s transient memory checked in long enough to remind him that Sandy had given him explicit instructions on his last visit: Do not answer any questions. Refer them to me.

Oops.

Behind Rae and Sandy there was someone else in the doorway. The hot-looking Latina from Lakewood P.D. Veronica. No memory problem there. Maybe, after he’d fully recuperated, he should explore the option of older women.

Veronica gave Grumpy the high sign. Just a quick frown and tilt of her head told Danny she was not pleased with what she saw.

“Hey guys. I think we’re short a couple of chairs, but Deputy Colon here was just leaving.” Danny hoped his assessment wasn’t overly optimistic.

“Collins,” replied Grumpy-Gus. He offered his business card to Sandy.

Sandy followed suit with his own card. “Any questions you have for Mr. Lassiter should be directed to me.”

“Not necessary,” Veronica interrupted, grabbing both cards. “Deputy Collins, we need to talk. Now.”

Danny had the feeling that, hopefully, he was now off the hook.

“Your paper work is waiting at the front desk,” said Sandy after the two cops had departed.

Danny put his wobbly legs in gear and reached for his bag, but Sandy beat him to it. The three headed out the door, down the long corridor.

“Why isn't Josh here?” Danny asked as they neared the elevator.

“Not so fast, Mr. Lassiter.”

He recognized the voice of Miss Ko as she hurried toward him with an empty wheelchair.

“Sit,” she commanded.

“That’s not one I know. Play dead, maybe. I’ve had some practice with that one.”

Rae and Sandy stifled giggles.

“Sit in the chair, Mr. Lassiter. I have to wheel you out. It’s regulations.”

He looked at Miss Ko, all one hundred pounds of her and knew she could friggin’ well put him in that chair if she chose. She was healthy, fit, and her eyes held a purposeful glint.

“Get in the damn chair, Danny,” said Rae, still throttling laughter.

He settled in, and they rode down the one floor in silence. After his processing, Miss Ko wheeled him through automatic doors into the sunlight. Seemed like a pleasant hospital, if you had to be in one. Locust trees brightened a Tru-green lawn and pansies nodded in the gentle May breeze. Things Danny hadn’t noticed when he’d been taken through the emergency entrance. He took a deep breath, choked on somebody’s exhaust, and asked again, “Where’s Josh?”

“Home waiting for you,” Rae said as she held the door of Sandy’s BMW while Sandy put his night case in the trunk.

Miss Ko was retreating with the wheelchair without even a goodbye.

“What, no kiss?” Danny called after her.

As the automatic doors parted for Miss Ko’s re-entry, she turned back toward him and waved. Or she gave him the finger. The sun was in his eyes, so he couldn’t be sure.

*****

Danny never thought he’d be glad to see the beady-eyed ogre of a house. Compared with

any number of scenarios that might have awaited him, it looked pretty damn good. The dumpster had been moved to where it wasn’t the first thing you saw. Somebody had been working on the overgrowth of privet hedge-gone-to-jungle. He could actually see the flagstone siding—the beast’s hide.

“Somebody’s been busy,” he remarked.

“Josh and your contractor,” offered Sandy.

Danny climbed the five steps to the front porch slowly, pausing for breath after each. Rae and Sandy adjusted their pace to his.

At the third step he noticed the remains of half-choked rose bushes peeking out of a cleared space beside the steps. Pieces of a broken bird bath lay bare to the afternoon sun. Somebody’s garden had smothered and died here. The thought cut off his breath more than the gradual climb: he and Deidre had lived in this house together for three years. He’d never noticed what was under the debris. For a brief moment, he felt a twinge of regret. It passed as he realized the extent of the improvement his efforts had wrought.

When they walked through the front door, Danny could actually see a room, not just boxes of junk that had to wait for the next dumpster load.

“Josh,” he called.

“We’re in the kitchen, Dad.”

Sandy turned on the recessed lighting, necessary even in daylight because of the dearth of windows, and placed his briefcase on the dining room table. Rae deposited Danny’s night case in a corner, then took a seat across from Sandy.

Danny was in no mood to get down to the nitty-gritty legal stuff until he’d hugged his son. Sandy’s meter was just going to have to keep running at three-fifty an hour.

In the kitchen Josh and Beth were cooking. Well—not actually cooking. They were cutting up unfamiliar food articles: vegetables.

Danny put an arm around each kid and hugged.

“Dad, you look really…better. Pale, but not as bad as the first day. That was scary.”

“I hope you’re hungry,” added Beth. “We’ve got all kinds of goodies from the health food store. We’re making sure you’re gonna eat right.”

“I’m not a rabbit.” Danny looked at all the green stuff. Not all of it was green. Tofu patties. Some of it looked vaguely familiar. Like out of his childhood. Before his first fast food fix. Not sure he could survive healthy living, he scanned the counter top, looking for the carton of Marlboros he’d left there. Gone. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what the kids had done with it.

Josh didn’t lose his good humor, but he was firm. “I have a list from the doctor. Foods you’re not supposed to have. Your cholesterol is out of sight.”

Danny tried to smile. The kids had obviously gone to a lot of trouble. He wondered who had paid for the spread, as well as the large basket of fruit he noticed on the counter top.

Beth must have followed his glance. “That’s from Aunt Morgan and Uncle Nate.”

He gulped, choking back the urge to say something totally inappropriate. Like about the apples. He could see apples peeking out of green cellophane. Damned if he was about to touch one of ‘em.

“It’s a peace offering,” Josh said.

Danny forced a smile while his mind rolled around the words apples from assholes. No need to dump his vitriol on the kids.

“I have to meet with Sandy and Rae now. We’ll have salad after. Okay?”

He could hear the kids whispering as he walked into the next room and closed the French doors.

Sandy and Rae had their heads together, and Sandy already had a legal pad full of notes as Danny sat down at the long, ornately carved mahogany table that had been in Deidre’s family for generations.

Beneath the table was an oriental rug—also an heirloom—that had been cleaned and sanitized, but still showed the stains of human puke and shit. Before he and Dee separated, he had been one of the contributing parties. The stains were now so faint that Rae and Sandy probably didn’t notice them. But he knew where they were—each and every one.

“Lakewood P.D. has reopened Deidre’s case,” began Sandy. “Rae’s friend Veronica has been assigned to both Deidre’s death and Kevin’s.”

“If anybody can get justice for your wife, it’s Veronica,” added Rae.

He was supposed to say something enthusiastic. “It won’t bring Dee back,” was all he could muster. “You guys want some salad?” He watched looks pass between Rae and Sandy that said his was not the expected response.

“Maybe another time.” Sandy looked at the kitchen door. “Is that your stepdaughter in there with Josh?”

He’d forgotten that neither Sandy nor Rae had met Beth. “Sorry, my manners…” He moved toward the door meaning to bring the kids out.

Sandy stopped him with a gesture. “No. It’s just that she looks pretty chipper.”

“I…guess she’s coping the best she can.”

“Stan Eisley is deflecting any interrogation of Beth because of her fragile emotional state. She just doesn’t look that fragile. Do you know if she had much contact with Kevin?”

Danny exhaled in a whoosh. “They barely spoke when Dee was alive. I doubt that her death changed that. Kevin’s been a loser ever since I’ve known him. And Beth is a sweetheart who doesn’t deserve any of this crap in her life.”

“I think questioning her is just a formality,” said Rae. “Are there any financial considerations we should be aware of?”

“Maybe Morgan doesn’t want to share Grandpa’s estate. Maybe she brought in JJ to do the dirty work.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Rae. “I just want to be sure there aren’t any surprises down the road—like a million-dollar insurance policy on Deidre’s life.”

“If there’s a policy of any size out there somewhere on Dee, I assure you that no one will be more surprised than I. And you can bet your ass that I wouldn’t be the beneficiary.”

“Good,” said Sandy. “No motivation, and as far as we know, they don’t have anything to tie you to Kevin’s death.”

“My prints must be all over that house.”

“You had reason to be at the house. It would be suspicious if your prints weren’t there. Now, Rae wants to ask you something.”

Until now, Rae had appeared unusually subdued. Now she looked like a racehorse at the starting gate. “There may be a need to change our strategy,” she began as if weighing each word. “Your observation about a possible money motive for the two deaths has to be followed up. Also, we need to know exactly what sums, if any, JJ Camacho got from Deidre, or anyone else for that matter.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“I’ll cut to the core. Veronica has asked me to help her with these two cases.”

“Great.”

“Well, I thought so. You may not agree.” Rae looked over at Sandy, then back at him. “Lakewood P.D. has offered me a contract for my services. I’d be doing forensic accounting for them on a per case basis.”

“Fantastic.”

“You hired me to work on your wife’s estate. There could be a conflict of interest.”

“I see…I think. Kind of like Gil’s firm representing the Bayfield family at the same time he was supposed to represent me.”

“Not exactly. My code of ethics as a CPA is different from the code for lawyers. I’m not supposed to be an advocate. Not for you or anyone. I’m supposed to be objective. The problem is that this work is going to overlap. Who’s going to pay for it? How am I to divide my hours?”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. At least you’ll get paid by the city.” Danny meant it to pass for humor, but neither Rae nor Sandy even cracked a smile.

“I don’t doubt that you’ll pay me. It’s only a matter of time before the properties are made whole and sold. Bottom line is that I need to resign as the estate accountant if I accept Veronica’s offer.”

Danny looked at Sandy for comment.

“I can’t advise Rae in this matter. I’m your attorney.”

“Who’s going to finish the work on Dee’s estate?”

“And the good news,” Rae smiled reassuringly, “is that I’m done with the three personal tax returns, and Sandy is willing to take over completion of the 706 for the estate, if you’re willing.”

“I think I can live with that.”

“The bad news is that there’s a big chunk of personal income tax due for last year because of the payout from the grandfather’s estate. You’ll need to conserve estate assets. No more expensive lunches for your professional help.” Here she smiled. “I’ll try and get penalties waived because of the circumstances.”

Danny smiled back His knees, under the table, trembled slightly. Nothing his recent heart attack couldn’t account for.

“Do you have any problem with my sharing financial information I got from you with Veronica?”

“Why would I?” Danny shrugged.

“Whether or not I accept the city’s offer, somebody is going in to audit the Bayfield financial records,” continued Rae. “A judge has already signed the order.”

“Does this order include Dee’s personal records?” Danny asked.

“Of course,” said Rae. “Her records are part of the big picture.”

“There’s something I forgot to mention,” said Danny as casually as he could manage. “The loan on the house funded.”

He watched Sandy's eyes avoid Rae's. Her need to know had just been minimized.

“This house?” asked Rae.

“Yeah. I needed cash to pay Pat Keech.” When his words drew an angry look from Rae and a raised eyebrow from Sandy, he quickly added, “And to pay you guys. About time, don’t you think?”

Sandy’s displeasure was palpable, but Danny knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that he'd elaborate on it in front of Rae.

“Shouldn't it have gone into the estate account?” Rae's question was inevitable.

“The title company made the check out to me as the managing member of the LLC that held Dee’s properties. I was going to make a transfer to the estate’s account, but a funny thing happened to me at the sheriff’s station.” His attempt at humor fell flat.

“Why don’t you just give us our checks now?” Rae, ever practical. “Save postage.”

“Can’t do that. My bank put a hold on the funds. I think it’s up, but I have to make sure.”

“No harm, no foul. We’ll make the disbursement to Rae from the estate account.” Sandy shook his silver mane, as if to rid himself of the aggravation he so obviously felt.

Danny smiled, tight-lipped. That could be a problem, he thought.

At the end of her shift on the second day after her conversation with Reggie Navarro, the Lassiter tape was still burning a hole in Emily Wehr’s brain.

She’d replayed it at home, and some new ideas jumped out at her. She remembered Reggie, behind the one-way glass, watching her interview of the Lassiter woman. It hadn’t seemed weird at the time, considering Camacho was his snitch, but… Should she confide in Commander Marsh, in case he really didn’t know what he was burying?

A quick flashback to Reggie and the commander in a closed conversation did in that idea.

Wehr’s routine had changed. Now her Glock went home with her in its holster, covered by a linen jacket.

It was still plenty light outside at 8:00 p.m. when she arrived home. Not much traffic to battle at that hour. She lived in a pleasant apartment in a two-story fourplex on Youngfield. It wasn’t a secured building, but she had installed dead bolts on both doors and locks on the windows when she’d first moved in five years ago.

It was like any other night until she entered the kitchen and found the lid of the trash canister slightly open. She’d never properly assembled it and you had to put it back just so. And just so was how she always left it. Neat to a fault, her mother had said of her with pride. Obsessively picky was how her ex-boyfriend had put it.

The edge on her nerves sharpened as she walked into her bedroom and noted the plaid bedspread. Not rumpled exactly. More like dented, as if someone had sat on it, then tried to straighten it out again. The hairs on her arms rose, not from the air conditioning, but from the thin gap she observed between the bottom of the bedroom window and the sill. The window was unlocked.

In one swift movement, she drew her gun and swept the room, holding the weapon firmly with both hands. She had never shot anything but targets at qualification. As she kicked open a closet door, the steadiness of her hands surprised her. After locking the window, a methodical efficiency took over as she searched each room of the small apartment.

Nothing was missing. TV, stereo, VCR, even the diamond pendant her parents had given her for college graduation—all present and accounted for. But all had been touched in ways only her eyes could see.

When she was satisfied that the intruder was no longer there, she holstered the Glock and returned to the bathroom. Wehr was still breathing rapidly as she opened the doors of the small marble-topped vanity. She had to kneel down to reach the Tampax box at the very back of the storage space. To her immense relief, the Lassiter tape was still inside the box.

*****

It was not quite dark at 9:30 when Wehr turned off her laptop after printing out some items of interest: law enforcement openings in other jurisdictions. She needed more than a transfer. Goodbye, Colorado. She eyed one of the printouts with special interest. Hello, Nebraska. How far would she need to go? What could she do to ensure she wasn’t followed? And, really, if somebody wanted to find her and had the right connections, there was no place that was far enough.

There was not a doubt in her mind that the intruder had been Reggie Navarro. She’d been correct in her assessment of him—a macho asshole who’d rather stick his hand in a pile of shit than in a Tampax box. Even so, it shocked her to think he’d actually violate her privacy like that. It was one thing to suspect and take precautions, but quite another to have her suspicions confirmed.

Moving to the kitchen, she opened the freezer and took out a burrito which she popped into the microwave. Somebody needed to see the tape. If for no other reason, to give the vic’s family the truth. Part of the truth still eluded her, but she had her own thoughts on what had sparked Reggie’s sudden interest in resurrecting that tape. Maybe he’d worked undercover so long that the lines were blurred. It happened. Maybe Reggie wasn’t beyond a little blackmail.

That thought dispatched what remained of her appetite. She pushed aside the burrito, washed away the taste with a Diet Coke, then turned down the air conditioning.

How to detach from the damn tape without destroying it? Veronica Sanchez. She wanted it, though she didn’t know it existed. Wehr reached for the landline phone on the kitchen wall, then had another thought. If Reggie had the balls to break into her apartment, bugging her phone wouldn’t give him a second thought. A public phone in a public place was what she needed right then.

The evening was turning cool. She put on her linen jacket, now wilted from the drive home, and grabbed her laptop. Nobody needed to see those job sites she’d just visited. Unnecessary precautions. Maybe. Wehr locked the front door after her and walked out to her car.

As she slowly drove away, she observed a dark gray Crown Victoria pull out from the curb and follow her. A red light stopped her at the intersection of Youngfield and Ward Road. The Crown Vic lagged behind, but one glance at the bulky silhouette of the driver said it all. Fuck you, Reggie.

As she drove, she felt her options narrowing. Reggie was driving his unmarked WRPD vehicle, meaning either he was on duty or had completely crossed the line.

If Reggie was on duty, did this mean she was being set up to take the fall for deleting the Lassiter file? If push came to shove, who would confirm her orders to make it disappear? For sure not Commander Marsh, one year away from retirement. What had they thought? That because Mrs. Lassiter had been a messed-up crack head it was okay to cover up her assault? End justified the means? But, what if somebody outside their little department thought differently? Who would be sacrificed?

And Reggie was still on her ass. Not really. A couple of cars back. She turned right, down Colfax Avenue. The traffic was light. He had to really work at staying with her and not appearing to do so.

Wehr replayed the day of Deidre Lassiter’s interview. Reggie had already been tapped by Metro, probably because he could give them JJ.

She remembered how he’d just popped into the station when two other Wheat Ridge guys had brought in Mrs. Lassiter. As she watched Reggie get stuck at a light, she asked herself how come he plopped himself down behind the one-way glass to watch her take the vic’s statement? Reggie had known about the welfare check and came in to run interference for his boy, JJ Camacho.

But with JJ gone, why not leave it alone? Oh, shit. Wehr thought she knew. Where had her head been?

She pulled into the parking lot of a multiplex on Colfax and parked under a light. Within seconds Reggie’s vehicle snaked down the adjacent aisle and disappeared in shadow.

It was a weeknight. Only a trickle of people around the movie house. Fewer still at the surrounding businesses: a Wendy’s and a Conoco. Not good. Driving to a public place hadn’t been that great an idea. Her intention of going to a pay phone and calling Veronica Sanchez wasn’t an option anymore.

Juggling her cell phone in her right hand, she felt panic setting in. Call nine-one-one. And say what? This scumbag cop was after her for illegally keeping a tape of a vic’s interview?

Respect for authority had been drummed into her head from her childhood in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. Middle child in a family of five. Parents both achievers who provided well, but demanded respect. What’s wrong with that? When did respect turn to blind obedience?

No time to figure that one. The arc light above her car was barely adequate, but she made out her own scribbling enough to punch in Veronica Sanchez’s number.

The ringing seemed to go on endlessly. A voicemail was not what she needed. A person was. A witness to whatever Reggie might—

“Hey, Emily.” Reggie, out of nowhere, on the opposite side of her car from where he should have been.

You don’t run when a bear has you treed. You make yourself very large and roar. Well, maybe not roar. She rolled down her window, put the cell to her ear and motioned for Reggie to keep it down, hoping he couldn’t see her white knuckles in the artificial light.

“Yeah, right. He’s here now.” Wehr paused and took small pleasure in the look on Reggie’s face. “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”

“Who’s that?”

“You don’t want to know.” Tough it out. Don’t let him see blood. “Just what are you doing, Navarro? Following me?”

“Who’s on the phone?” His ham of a hand was on the window, resting, not going anywhere—yet.

“None of your business.”

“Wanna bet?” he said softly.

Then the idea hit her like a life raft. What would Reggie hate getting into worse than a Tampax box?

“Reg, I don’t know how you got the idea, but I’m not interested in a relationship with you. Please leave right now.”

Into the phone she said, “Reggie Navarro’s leaning on my car and I feel threatened.”

“Relationship?” The strangest expression came over his face, like he couldn’t believe she was so dumb.

Still he didn’t move. But she could feel the momentum of his gathering rage. Once more, into the phone: “Yes, I would say it constitutes stalking.”

That was when Wehr heard the voicemail on Veronica’s phone time out.

“Stalking?” He roared as Wehr started up the engine and pressed the automatic window button. “In your dreams,” shouted Reggie, backing away from her car like some part of her might touch him. “Who’d stalk you, fucking stupid cunt?”

Bless the three-day poker games back home with the aunts and the uncles and the men from the Pine Bluff fire station. Who’da thought? Now it was really time to fold and run.

*****

It had worked. Maybe. He wasn’t following. Almost certain of that. Almost. He thought he’d been pegged for a stalker not a burglar. In Reggie’s mind, she probably hadn’t noticed anything off in her apartment.

Where to go? Not home. She had three weeks vacation left, and could probably activate it by phone or on line. Emergency family leave. That was better. Her sister in Arkansas needed her. As Wehr’s brain spun an escape ladder, her cell rang. She couldn’t see the caller ID so she pressed the answer button and waited.

“Sergeant Wehr?” She recognized Veronica Sanchez’s voice.

“This is Wehr.”

“What was that you left on my voicemail?”

“What did it sound like?”

“You and Reggie Navarro having a confrontation. You called me for a reason, right?”

“I have something you can use.”

“Can you call me from a secure line?”

“You’ll hear from me when I’m in a safer place.”

“Wait a minute. What--”

Wehr pressed the end button and headed east on Interstate 70 with just the clothes on her back, her laptop, and the keys on her key ring. Oh yes, there was her wallet with IDs, a little cash, her credit card with ATM privileges and her new best friend—the Glock 9mm.

No Crown Vic in the rearview. That was good. She was just a stupid fucking cunt who got the wrong idea about Reggie’s intentions. That was okay, too.

Veronica’s home was an hour’s drive south of Longmont. Rae had never been there before. She took Wadsworth rather than I-25, as it allowed her more time to think about the full implications of taking on the job with Lakewood PD.

She’d done this sort of thing for dozens of private clients. Even a couple of union chapters and a sprinkling of non-profits. Sometimes she’d found dirt. Other times, clean as a baby’s conscience. Her designation as Certified Fraud Examiner went quietly unnoticed for the most part. The juicy stuff went to the big firms. Rae, as a sole practitioner who worked out of her residence, was too low profile to get the attention of the big companies and municipalities.

Rae didn’t advertise. Word-of-mouth brought her more clients than she could handle. But, God, it was for the most part mind-numbingly boring. Veronica hadn’t even known forensic accounting was her strongpoint, her meat, until they’d gotten into money motives, finances and the den of snakes that made up the Bayfield family of fortune keepers.

The assignment dangled like a Black Angus steak; Rae couldn’t wait to get her teeth into the meat of it. She made a quick mental apology to her aging critters, Jake and Augie, for the insensitive comparison.

But it wasn’t just the Bayfield books. It was answers that hung like questions. Veronica was becoming more forthcoming about the case. As a means of drawing her in, Rae guessed. Kevin was apparently a rotten apple, but who was there to confirm Morgan’s story about his implication in his mother’s death? James Joseph Camacho had tortured and raped Deidre Lassiter. Veronica had finally confirmed that JJ was a snitch in a drug sting for Metro. So, how could they have lost him? The drug case in which he was a key player seemed totally unrelated to the deaths of either Deidre or Kevin. The financial records of Bayfield Enterprises might have an interesting story to tell. Or they might yield nothing.

Rae was eager to get started. She and Veronica had lunched together in the old days, following Anthony’s death. Some dinners, too. Veronica, along with other of Anthony’s fellow officers and their spouses had been steadfast in their support of Rae and her kids.

By the end of a year or so, contacts with Anthony’s world had dried up like cheat grass in summer heat. Rekindling her friendship with Veronica felt good.

Veronica’s directions had been easy to follow. Hers was an older split-level that backed up to farmland. A neatly kept house with brick siding in a neighborhood with good schools. Veronica had a twelve-year-old son whom Rae had never met.

As she parked her Mercedes behind a white Camry, Rae saw Veronica on the front porch. Beside her was a tall, skinny kid. Veronica’s son Justin.

A memory flashed as Rae walked toward the pair: Veronica’s exodus from Metro had coincided with her pregnancy, as well as the trauma of witnessing Anthony’s death. All she’d ever told Rae was that the relationship with Justin’s father hadn’t worked out.

“Rae,” Veronica called warmly as she approached, but there was no customary welcoming embrace. Instead, Veronica’s right arm was planted steadfastly around her son’s shoulders.

Already the boy stood nearly as tall as his mother. Brown-skinned, a bit lighter than Veronica, his dark hair was closely cropped, giving center stage to riveting hazel eyes.

Oh, my God. Anthony’s eyes.

Rae’s vision drowned in a sea of red. Time stood on tiptoe as Anthony’s face filled the red blur. The gun shots. Over and over again. Into Anthony’s body. Only this time it wasn’t Markov holding the weapon. It was Rae.

Damn you. Damn you, Anthony Esposito.

It was over in an instant. Her vision returned. She could read in Veronica’s expression that she knew. But the boy? She couldn’t tell. He just stood there looking at her out of those eyes. What was it about his expression? Apprehension? Yes, Veronica must have told him. How could she do that? What did she say to him? Justin, your dad’s widow is coming to dinner?

“How could you do this to your son?” The words jumped out of her mouth like horses. The words tore at her throat like the hooves were shredding it.

She didn’t realize she’d moved until she felt Veronica’s hand on her arm—cool, as if it had no blood in it.

“Rae, please.”

Rae jerked her arm away. Her hand became a fist drawn back. No! The effort not to hit Veronica set the blood pounding in her temples. Not in front of the boy. It wasn’t his fault.

She heard him mumble something to his mom. The wet-eyed look that passed between mother and son made Rae wish she could cry, too. But her eyes were so dry she couldn’t even blink and get rid of the sight of the two of them.

“Yes, it’s okay. Go on over to Bobby’s. We may not eat till late,” she heard Veronica tell him.

Then he was gone. Justin. Did he know he had a brother and a sister? And two nephews? Did he have a picture of Anthony in his room?

“It’s not what you think,” said Veronica.

“I’m sure,” said Rae, “that it was an immaculate conception.”

“You’re closer than you think. If it’d been…what you’re thinking…would I have invited you over here to explain? With my son present? Justin is my life.”

“Be careful what you call your life. It may not be what it seems.” Rae twisted the words into Veronica like knives.

“I know you think you have every reason to hate me, but--”

“Please! You’re not worth my hate.”

Rae looked away from Veronica, but everywhere she looked, there was Anthony. Naked.

“I knew it might pose a problem, but I never thought it would turn so ugly,” said Veronica. “I had to find out before you signed the contract with our office. It would have been much worse if we were in the middle of the case and you found out by accident. I thought this way I’d have a chance to explain.”

“What explanation could there possibly be,” said Rae. Though posed as a question, she left no room for an answer as she stared Veronica down.

Veronica, with every hair in place, oh, she was a cool one now that the boy was safely somewhere else. Probably hadn’t even broken a sweat. Rae felt her own heat rise up, the red tide of impending menopause combined with rage shooting up her neck. Sweat bled through her ecru silk blouse. Yes, she’d even dressed up for the occasion of this dinner meeting. And she knew if she looked under either arm, she’d see humongous dark brown rings staining the new blouse.

“There was no affair,” said Veronica.

“Oh, please. Tell me another.”

“He loved you. Only you. Will you just let me explain what happened?”

“No,” said Rae. The image of naked Anthony with Veronica wouldn’t let her be. She bolted for her car.

Once inside, Rae’s hands trembled so badly that she couldn’t get the keys into the ignition. Don’t drive like this, said a little voice in her head.

She sat back and took deep breaths. She looked at the house. No sign of Veronica. She willed herself calm, started the car and backed carefully down the driveway instead of nicking the Camry or driving through Veronica’s front door.

By the time she reached the street, she knew she could manage the drive home. Automatic pilot. A mode she had used often in the weeks and months following Anthony’s death.

When she got home from Veronica’s, Rae sat in the kitchen, dry-eyed, remembering, wondering when it had happened.

The age of the boy made that obvious. But, it wasn’t the act, but the when that precipitated the act that eluded her.

She ground coffee beans in her electric grinder. The dark Italian roast she used had been her grandmother’s mainstay. Somehow, Rae’s brew never achieved that bitter-sweet, almost syrupy taste and texture of Grandma’s.

Had it been Rae’s preoccupation with passing the CPA exam? The whir of the grinder rang in her ears. Grandma had ground her beans by hand.

Out of context, bits and pieces of the past returned. The whir of numbers, computations and accounting rules buzzed in her head. Six weeks of intense Becker CPA Review had left her a bundle of raw nerves.

Anthony and the kids tiptoed around her during that time. No one asked “How was your day?” They already knew that the sound of asking would set her off, and she’d fly out the back door into the postage stamp sized yard. Their first house in a Denver suburb had been really tiny, hardly room to breathe. No room to dream.

Rae spooned three scoops of ground coffee into the basket of her Krupps, poured in water and flipped the on switch.

Then she remembered the balm of Anthony’s humor. One night after a particularly grueling Becker session, as she lay in bed with her back to Anthony, she felt his hand on her shoulder. Her muscles had tightened involuntarily as she’d pulled away from his touch.

“Hey, you,” he’d said, “I just want to feel your nose.”

She’d scrounched down further into her self-imposed, info-loaded dungeon, but Anthony wouldn’t give up. He’d turned her toward him, felt her nose with the back of his hand and then declared, “Cold and moist. Yep, you’re healthy.”

She’d laughed till the tears came. Looking back, it wasn’t all that funny—being reminded by your husband that you’d been acting like a bitch. But it had done the trick. Rae had relaxed and fallen asleep in Anthony’s arms.

No, that couldn’t have been the when.

Rae poured herself a mug of coffee and thought of Grandma’s intricately flowered demitasse cups that now sat with their saucers on a shelf in the dining room. She yearned for the comfort of her childhood, remembering Grandma’s anise-laced almond biscotti.

Rae made biscotti herself according to Grandma’s verbal instructions. Recipe? What’s that? A pinch of this, a spoonful of that. Teaspoon? Tablespoon? Just a plain old spoon, Rae. You tell by what it tastes like, how it feels when you stir.

Rae’s efforts had never tasted the same, though Anthony and the kids had praised them elaborately.

The when still eluded her. Why should it be important? Knowing couldn’t change things.

Rae nibbled on a store-bought biscotti dunked in fresh coffee that was too bitter.

She’d met Anthony at a Sons of Italy dance.

“Come on, Rae, humor your grandma.”

“Ma, only old people go to those dances.” Rae was nineteen.

“It won’t kill you, this once.” Even her German-American dad had joined in.

So she’d gone with Grandma and Grandpa in their old Buick station wagon. Her hair was cut short even then. No seventies sprayed, teased-to-death look for her.

They wouldn’t let her wear jeans. “Please dress like a girl, Rae. The sky won’t fall.”

The minute she’d spotted him, Rae knew they’d been set up. Black hair towering above a sea of gray heads and stooped shoulders. Maybe not all gray—but nobody there was under forty except the two of them. God, forty was old back then.

Anthony had noticed her, too, in her little black cocktail dress. She, too young to order a cocktail, tottering in her three-inch heels, had looked up into the most gorgeous pair of hazel eyes she’d ever seen.

“We’ve been conned,” said Anthony, nodding toward two sets of Italian grandparents, their heads together like conspirators.

Rae didn’t care. She was lost but not dumb-struck. “Did anybody ever tell you that you’ve got the most arresting eyes?” she’d blurted.

Anthony had cracked up, which put her off until he’d explained to her that he’d just graduated from Denver’s police academy.

*****

The sound of a rooster’s crow through the open kitchen window stirred Rae. Through the large east-facing window, a red sun peeked over the horizon, jerking her back to the now. She’d just spent the night at her kitchen table.

Not that she’d slept. But she hadn’t been awake either. Rae stirred, upsetting half a mug of cold coffee onto herself and the floor.

“Shit!”

A cat’s paw on her knee said “feed me.” Soon all three of them were yowling and rubbing around her.

“Get your own damn breakfast,” she growled even as she was taking cans of cat food out of the pantry.

Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning. One of Grandma’s many bits of wisdom.

“Good. We need the rain.” Rae answered Grandma’s memory aloud. The goose on the bird clock honked. Five o’clock. Time to feed the animals.

She stumbled out the back door like a sleepwalker, then realized she still wore her new silk blouse and dressy pants that had to be dry-cleaned. Wrinkled beyond belief. Not just the clothes. Wrinkled clear to her soul. Everything all wadded up inside her. Can’t you just throw out old dreams and start over?

The morning air was pregnant with moisture. Spider webs speckled with dew dotted the lawn. Rae slipped bare feet into her muck shoes and opened the gate to the barnyard.

The lilac hedge that separated the formal garden from the barnyard triggered something in her heart. She paused, sniffed the air, but found no scent left in the spent blooms now turning brown.

The heady scent of the lilac hedge on that first anniversary of Anthony’s death came back at her with a force that flattened her.

“Oh, God, don’t go there,” she said aloud. But it wasn’t that first anniversary. It was the eighth she didn’t want to relive.

She’d run out on a meeting with Sandy and a client. Bad timing. She’d always managed to have that day free. Eight years. Never mind that your son had just left for college and the nest was really empty. Seemed like that should be enough time to pamper yourself, Rae.

Sandy’s client had illegal income, but was trying to square up with Uncle and stay out of jail. It wasn’t a new situation for Sandy to hire her so that her work product could come under the attorney-client privilege. When the conversation drifted toward drug money, she’d bolted. Only that time, thank God, she hadn’t slugged the client in the chops. But she hadn’t thanked God. Not then nor at any time after. And she still wasn’t speaking to Him.

She’d driven home from Sandy’s office, gotten as far as the lilac hedge, parked and bawled her eyes out.

When she got out of her car, there he was, come to see if she was okay. Sandy.

She’d stumbled. Not on a rock, but on the scent of lilacs. Stumbled into Sandy’s arms where he’d held her until they both realized where that embrace was going. And she hadn’t pulled away. Married Sandy had.

He’d kissed her cheek and murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“No. My fault.”

They’d put distance between them. Quickly.

“If there’s anything I can do…”

Her eyes had told him what he could do. She’d never meant for the raw hunger of eight years to spill out.

Anything but that, his eyes answered. Aloud he said, “I just wanted to make sure you got home okay. I would have driven you.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Next time, ask me. I’m here for you.”

Sandy had left after a brotherly pat on her arm.

When she was sure he was out of earshot, she’d cried aloud. Pangs of guilt and embarrassment hit her with hard, surface blows. How could she face Sandy again? How would she be able to work with him?

They hadn’t had much contact since then. Not until Danny’s dilemma had brought them back face-to-face. And it had been a good thing. She and Sandy—friends and colleagues again. The baggage of a weak moment pitched into the manure pile.

*****

When Rae got back from feeding the livestock, the message light was blinking on her answering machine. She pressed the caller ID and saw Veronica’s name.

Her hand hovered over the erase button. Then she pressed play.

“Rae, please don’t hang up. I couldn’t sleep last night and I’ll bet you couldn’t either.”

And whose fault is that you… The memory of Sandy’s arms around her smacked Rae soundly.

Again, she drew her hand back from the erase button and listened.

“You really need to hear me out because it’s not what you think.”

What else could it be? Anthony was drugged? No way. Somebody held a gun to his head and said Screw your partner or die? Please!

End of message. Click.

How could it not be what she thought?

The house wren on the clock chirped six o’clock.

Rae put a cup of last night’s coffee in the microwave and hit the return call button on the phone.

“I’m waiting for your explanation,” Rae said when Veronica answered on the third ring.

“Over the phone?” Veronica sounded flustered.

“I’m not coming to your house again.”

Rae sipped warmed-over coffee and waited. Veronica was quiet at the other end of the line. Then Rae could hear muffled voices. Probably Justin getting ready for school.

“We really need to get this behind us. Can I come to your place?”

“You take your life in your hands if you do.” Rae nibbled again on the stale coffee that was cooling quickly, unlike her anger.

“Well, what’s it going to be? Scrap your participation in the Lassiter case now or hear me out?”

“I’ll give you directions. What time do you plan on being here?”

“Eight o’clock? Will that work for you?”

“As in morning?”

“I’m very motivated to at least have my say. You can always back out after.”

“If I don’t answer the door, try the barn.”

*****

Veronica arrived at 7:55, dressed smartly in black slacks and a camel jacket, every hair in place. Rae saw her walking up to the front door as she scurried in the back.

Rae had just time enough to remove her barn boots when the doorbell rang. A quick glance in the mirror told her she looked like she’d just rolled out of bed—except she was wearing jeans and an oversized shirt.

She braced as if for a blow as she threw open the front door. Up close, Rae could see the ravages of emotion in Veronica’s face beneath the near-perfect makeup. Tiny smudges of mascara showed at the corners of Veronica’s eyes. And there were lines in her forehead that her foundation couldn’t hide.

“Let’s go to the kitchen. I put on a fresh pot of coffee a while ago.” Rae glanced back as she led the way. Veronica followed cautiously, head held high, her dark eyes taking in details of the house. She reminded Rae of a wary horse crossing water.

“Do you have any herbal tea?” asked Veronica.

“Of course. I might have known.” Rae snatched a box of Earl Grey from the pantry and plopped it unceremoniously in front of Veronica. “It’s not herbal, but it’s all I have. I’ll boil some water.” She reached into the cupboard for a mug.

“Why not just put a cup of water in the microwave?”

“This is not going to work.” Rae slammed the mug down on the countertop, hoping to break it. The mug stubbornly resisted. Rae turned on the tap and began to fill the mug.

“Okay, okay. Let’s get it out in the open first. He was my sperm donor.”

“What?” The mug dropped a second time, the impact flinging water in all direction.

“I said he--”

“I heard what you said. No. There’s no way. Anthony would never do that. He’d never make a decision like that without asking me.”

“I see. You’d rather picture him hopping in the sack with me. You’d accept that but not what really happened.”

Veronica retrieved the dropped mug that was miraculously still intact, filled it with water and popped it in the microwave.

Rae stood shaking her head. This hadn’t even been in the realm of possibilities she’d processed.

“You think he would have asked your permission?”

“Not permission. Discussion. There would have been some discussion.”

“And what would your reaction have been?” Veronica removed her mug from the microwave and put a tea bag in to steep.

Rae seethed. “You know damn well what my reaction would’ve been.” She paused for breath. “And so did Anthony.”

“I guess not.”

Rae looked hard into Veronica’s eyes but couldn’t read what she saw there.

“We talked about getting your input. Anthony was sure that you’d want to…be involved in the baby’s life.” Veronica took a sip of tea and waited for Rae’s reaction.

“He thought I was that controlling?”

“He called it loving. I’m the one who saw it as controlling. It was going to be my baby. No way did I want you, a woman I barely knew, participating in my child’s life.”

“You told him that and he still─”

“No, no. I didn’t word it that way.”

“Just tell me why you’d want to take my husband’s sperm and make yourself a baby.”

“Because he was the finest man I knew. And I didn’t think I had that much time left.”

Rae sank into a kitchen chair and stared at Veronica for a full minute. Finally: “He was the finest man I knew, too. We have one point of agreement. But the time left part…I don’t get it.”

“My clock,” Veronica whispered.

More silence, then: “You’re how old?”

“I’m fifty-three, Rae.”

“God, you’re older than me. I figured you for younger.” The words tumbled out, leaving Rae wondering why this revelation gave her some relief. “You’re even older than Anthony…was.”

“So?”

“So, I guess your clock was ticking all right.”

“I looked for Mr. Right, kissed a bunch of frogs, but all I got were guys like Reggie Navarro and his ilk.”

“Who’s Reggie Navarro?” Rae grimaced, then tried to wash away the imagined taste of frog kisses with a gulp of black coffee.

“You don’t want to know.”

Rae sighed. “Why didn’t you just get an anonymous donor? You can look at their backgrounds…so I understand.”

“I really wouldn’t know what I was getting. With Anthony, I knew. It took a lot of persuading, let me tell you.”

Rae put up a hand in protest. “I don’t want the details. I’m handling as much as I can. Small bites, please.”

“I wasn’t even sure you’d see the resemblance. Nobody else has. We often run into people I used to work with at Metro.”

“They weren’t married to Anthony. Anyhow, what do you expect? They’re going to say, ‘Ah, I see you have a kid by Anthony Esposito’?”

“Let’s not debate it. The question is can we get beyond this?”

“Can it work?” Rae pondered aloud, then quickly cut off Veronica’s pending comment. “Don’t say anything. I’m asking myself, not you.”

Then suddenly Rae knew why Veronica had been caught off guard by her reaction to seeing Justin. A lover wouldn’t have been surprised at a wife’s recognition of even a minute resemblance to her mate. Anthony’s indelible imprint was on every facet of Rae’s body and soul. The recognition of him in the boy had been instantaneous. He’d left no such imprint on Veronica, though she obviously thought highly of him.

Now Rae knew without asking that there’d be no pictures of Anthony on Justin’s dresser—no pictures of him anywhere in Veronica’s house.

Veronica took a sip from her mug. “Cold.” She got up, placed the mug on the countertop and moved toward the door. “When you decide, give me a call. I’ll let you know if the job’s still open.” Pausing in the doorway, she added, “If you want, I can get you my medical records.”

“No. I believe you.”

From her seat at the kitchen table, Rae watched Veronica walk away. Against her will, her anger dissolved into stifled giggles. The back of Veronica’s pristine, perfect-fit black slacks was covered with pale gold cat hair from Rae’s kitchen chair pad.

“What?” Veronica turned at the faint sound.

Rae let the laughter come. “I’m sorry,” she said as she caught her breath. “It’s just that you’ve grown a pair of cat-hair chaps.”

Veronica looked over her shoulder at her backside, and then marched toward the front door.

Rae followed. “I could offer you a lint roller.”

“No, thanks.” Veronica turned and looked Rae full in the eyes. “You need to decide soon. The longer we wait, the colder the trail. Banks lose things. Documents get shredded. Hard drives get erased.”

Rae knew the answer she wanted to give Veronica. But the words wouldn’t come. Grandma’s voice rattled in her head: You got a stiff back, Rae. Better learn to bend it.

“I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as it’s humanly possible to be.”

“I’ll call you when the contract is ready.”

Veronica held out her hand. Rae gripped it firmly, noting its dry warmth.

Nate couldn’t seem to shed the uneasy feeling that had first crept into his gut the day he’d heard that sliver of conversation between Morgan and Sam.

No more secrets between them, Morgan had said when Nate had questioned her. Really? It was obvious to him that she had read the Lakewood P.D. report before he’d obtained his copy.

Back to square one. What was different about Wheat Ridge’s report? “We’ve got to find out what she told Wheat Ridge.” Morgan’s words to Sam festered away in his brain. Meanwhile, he was serving as an alibi for both Morgan and Sam. Did they need an alibi? The kicker was that the elusive villain, this Camacho person whom none of them claimed to ever have seen, was out there somewhere, but the cops didn’t seem all that concerned.

Sam’s sending Beth and Josh into hiding and not telling him or Morgan—no way did he buy the reasoning offered for this diversion. His imagination leapt ahead. Maybe neither Kevin nor Danny had been Camacho’s contact. That chilling prospect erased any desire he had for returning to share his wife’s bed. Not that he wished her migraines to continue. His suspicions could be way out in left field. Part of him hoped so. The truth was, giving up his lifestyle would be far more painful than sleeping alone.

When he'd gone back to Wheat Ridge P.D. armed with a printout of the Colorado Revised Statutes, he had demanded an interview with the station commander, an old fart with an attitude who’d told him just what he could do with CRS 24-72-304.

When sleep eluded him, Nate reread the Lakewood reports until something jumped out at him.

The machine shop on Forty-second Avenue. James Joseph Camacho’s apparent base of operation. The rented machine shop. He knew from his years of commercial real estate management that lease applications are often treasure troves of information.

*****

The Harrisons, owners of the machine shop property, lived in a nondescript one-story with white aluminum siding on Reed Street, within minutes of the Bayfield offices. It had been easy for Nate to obtain this information from property records available on the net. Edwin and Betty Jean Harrison. He chose a morning visit.

“Mrs. Harrison?”

The sharp-faced woman who answered the door eyed him coldly and nodded.

“I’m Nathan Farris of Bayfield Enterprises.” He offered the woman his business card which she accepted with tobacco-stained fingers.

“No solicitations.” The woman pointed to a sign on the chain-link fence that bordered the property.

“Oh, no,” Nate flashed his pearly-whites, “I’m not a salesman. I’m here about one of your former tenants. Mr. Camacho.”

“What about him?” Betty Jean Harrison opened the door a bit wider and took a drag on her cigarette.

“He’s applied to rent one of our buildings and given you as a reference.”

Betty Jean shook her head and frowned. “He’s still in there.”

“He is?”

“Well, he’s still paid up. Never said anything about moving.”

He had planned in advance for this scenario. “Perhaps he’s expanding.”

A snort from Betty Jean. “You got a release?”

“A what?” He knew damn well what she was after. “Oh, sure, I must have…” He shuffled around in his briefcase.

“You come back after five. My husband’s home then. You talk to him. And bring your release. We don’t want no lawsuits.” Betty Jean let the screen door sag into place and disappeared from his view.

*****

Nate’s hours at Bayfield Enterprises had been dwindling, yet Sam never let on if he noticed this. Fat chance of him not noticing. Sam, who processed every flyspeck on the wall. Nate wasn’t exactly neglecting his duties—it was just that looking for JJ Camacho seemed more important—a nasty job, but somebody had to do it.

By the time Nate had decided, over breakfast at his favorite restaurant, how to attack the problem of the release form, it was nearly ten o’clock. He’d better get to the office. He noticed Sam’s and Fredricka’s vehicles in the parking lot when he pulled in.

After picking up his phone messages from Fredricka, he retreated to his office to set about the task of creating the release form required by the Harrisons using the company’s standard form. But, what to do about Camacho’s signature? Betty Jean gave him the impression that she might be picky enough to compare it with the lease.

*****

Sam was poring over something on his desk when Nate entered without knocking. Sam looked up at him, a pained look on his usually unflappable countenance.

“Bad news?” asked Nate.

“The coroner’s report on Kevin.”

“Will they let us bury him now?”

“Morgan’s had him taken to Goode Brothers. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you,” said Sam.

“She was asleep when I left the house. I’ve been checking on─”

“Nate, you don’t have to account for your time.” Sam handed him the autopsy report. “I told Morgan I’d send this home with you.”

“What’s the gist of it?” Nate handled the papers as if the smell of death might rub off on him.

“He died of a drug overdose. Cocaine positive. Dead approximately seven days.”

“Any chance it was an accident?”

Sam gave him a look. “The report says homicide.”

Maybe the best approach was to just ask rather than stew around in his paranoia. “You ever get a copy of Wheat Ridge’s report?”

“I’ve got Stan Eisley working on it. He has an in with the Wheat Ridge police chief. It’s only a matter of time.”

He was about to ask why he’d been kept out of the loop when he heard voices in the hall and footsteps.

“Nobody up front.” A uniformed Wheat Ridge cop entered Sam’s office followed by that knock-out woman detective who’d questioned him and Sam before. Damn, but her clothes fit her well. Hispanic, thought Nate, but drop-dead gorgeous. It wouldn’t be half bad to get patted down by that.

“May I help you, Detective Sanchez?” Sam got up from his desk while Nate erased the silly grin that had crept onto his face.

“We’re here for your computers.”

Nate felt his desire rapidly receding as the woman handed Sam what was most likely a search warrant.

Sam perused the paper and then said, “Yes, this seems to be in order. Be my guest.” He gestured toward the computer hutch to the right of his desk.

Two other uniformed officers entered and boxed up Sam’s computer.

“Can they do this?” asked Nate indignantly. The woman was looking less good to him by the second. A bit too lean for his taste which ran to the full-bodied. Probably didn’t even like men.

“They just did,” replied Sam calmly. His tone almost sounded amused.

“Where are your other computers?” asked Detective Sanchez.

“There’s one in the reception area,” Sam said.

“We’ve already got that one. Any more?”

Sam shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s it.”

“How about you?” She turned to Nate.

“Just my laptop, but that’s--”

“Get it, please.”

“But there’s nothing financial on it,” he stammered. “It’s my personal computer. Not company property. I assure you there’s nothing--”

She nodded to one of the uniformed men. “Go check the other offices.”

Oh, shit, they’d see all the sites he’d visited. He knew they could do that. The porno sites. He hoped they wouldn’t tell Morgan or Sam. But, why would they? Nothing to do with the murders or the financial records. Well, even if they did, he suddenly had a ready answer. Kevin had access to the laptop when he was in the house. Dead kid can’t talk. Oh, but the dates. When had he last—

“Mr. Farris?” She was looking a hole through him, her eyes blacker than Morgan’s.

“Yes, Detective Sanchez.”

“Is there something bothering you? Your computer will be returned, probably tomorrow. Is there something you’d like to tell me before I leave?”

He composed himself, even managed a very white Nate smile. “No, Ma’am. Just that I don’t see how my computer could help you, me not being on the financial team.”

“We’ll decide that after we’ve viewed the contents. These machines will be returned as quickly as possible. Sorry to inconvenience you.”

The troops were gone as quickly as they’d come. Fredricka was still out to lunch. Nate seethed. Had she been there, he’d have had some warning and could have ditched the laptop. Gone out the back door, or… What was Sam smirking about?

“What’s the joke, Sam?”

“I’m afraid it’s on those officers.”

“What?”

Sam shrugged. “Some people just have to learn by trial and error.”

Not going to let him in on the joke? Okay, fine. Probably some dumb accountants’ humor that he wouldn’t appreciate anyway.

*****

In the privacy of his own office, Nate returned some past-due phone calls, caught up on some paper work and perused Kevin’s autopsy report.

It was a confusing document. A bunch of medical terms he didn’t understand. There was a needle mark on his neck. Cocaine—yes, there it was. The little shit had probably never stopped using. But, a needle mark on his neck? What was that about? And what the hell was meperidine? Now, if he just had his laptop…

*****

The drive back to Harrisons’ bungalow took no more than ten minutes.

Puffed up by his own cunning, he pulled the standard rent application/release form from his briefcase and gave it the once-over. He compared the signature on the form with the signature on the annual report for the machine shop that he’d pulled off the internet before his laptop got nabbed. JJC Machining Inc. James J. Camacho, President. Great front for laundering money from drugs, extortion or you name it. Man, the cops were dumb.

He really didn’t worry about forging Camacho’s signature. Come on, really. What were the odds of the creep surfacing and suing him? And it could have been worse about the computer. What if he hadn’t finished this project before going in to check on Sam? So what if they saw he’d gone to the Secretary of State’s page? If anybody had a reason to check on this Camacho creep, it was he.

Nate felt a surge of confidence as he approached a sixtyish man with a beer gut, watering the front lawn of the bungalow.

“Mr. Harrison?”

He could see Betty Jean’s outline just inside the screen door, watching them.

Ed Harrison dropped the garden hose and turned off the water. “Mr. Farris.”

“Right. I spoke with your wife earlier.”

“So she said.” Ed Harrison fished into his pocket and came up with Nate’s card. “Betty said you got a rent application from my tenant who hasn’t said nothin’ to me about movin’.”

“He didn’t tell me he was moving. Like I suggested to your wife, maybe he was expanding.” Nate walked toward the man.

Ed Harrison let out a low guffaw. “He don’t seem to be doin’ no business at all. How could he be expandin’?”

Opportunity called to him as he handed Ed the release form. “Mr. Camacho said it was okay to contact you. When did you talk to him last?”

That seemed to stop Ed in his tracks. He removed his baseball cap, scratched his thread-bare head and eyed the lease application/release form.

“Not for at least five months.” Betty Jean fired this response from behind the screen door, jerking both men’s heads around in her direction.

“You sure about that?” asked her husband.

“You’re the one said you bet he got arrested. Cop cars all over the place.”

“Oh, yeah.” This seemed to jog his memory.

“How did he pay his rent? I guess that’s the bottom line, Mr. Harrison.”

“Paid each year in advance. In January,” replied Ed Harrison hesitantly, as if he were deliberating the suggestion that his tenant, whom he hadn’t seen in over five months, might be expanding. “Truth is, I thought he run out on the lease. But what do I care? He’s paid up.”

“Ever have any problem with bounced checks, or─”

“No checks. Paid cash. Every year for the last five years. One year in advance, every year.” Ed Harrison handed the release form back to him, and Nate was pretty sure that it hadn’t been fully digested.

“Could I please ask another favor of you, Mr. Harrison?”

“What’s that?”

“Could you let me have a copy of Mr. Camacho’s application with you? To make sure that there are no inconsistencies.”

Betty Jean in the doorway again. “Lemme see that release, Mr. Farris.”

He approached the door. Betty Jean opened it a crack and snatched the paper from him. He wondered what that had been about—her claiming her husband was the one to talk to. Deviousness was apparently not a commodity that he had cornered.

“Looks like his writing all right.” Betty Jean came out onto the front porch after a few minutes. “I pulled the lease and his old application. Your office says you work there, so I guess it won’t do no harm to give you this.”

Son-of-a-bitch. He didn’t need to ask who she’d talked to. There were only two possibilities.

Betty Jean thrust some papers at him, and he was quick to take back the one he’d created.

“Thank you. Thank you both very much.” Nate retreated a bit too eagerly into his car. As he pulled away from the curb, he noted puzzled looks passing between the Harrisons.

*****

Back at his office, Nate closed the door. No Sam, no receptionist. Fredricka always left by five, but it was not unusual for Sam to be around until late. In fact, it would not be unusual for Sam to return after dinner, to put in more hours.

He read the documents supplied by the Harrisons with a sense of urgency. Camacho had leased another shop on Thirty-eighth Avenue that he also listed as his home address at the time he applied to lease the Harrisons’ property. Not unusual. Often those commercial properties had little houses in the back. Prior reference: Action Real Estate Management. That was a name he knew. The office manager, Ellie Myers, had a good set of tits on her—full-bodied, the way he liked his women. He’d often imagined that Ellie might be a source of action, but had never really gone down that road. Now he was glad. There was enough friendly business contact with Ellie that she might open up to him. He laughed at his own double entendre as his eyes roamed farther down the page.

Notify in emergency. Another spic name with an address and phone number. Hmm. Why not? After punching in the code for block caller, he entered the phone number from the form.

The call was answered before the second ring. He almost dropped the phone as he heard: “Wheat Ridge Police Department.”

As Nate drove home, he rehashed what he had just learned. Camacho’s next-of-kin worked in some capacity for Wheat Ridge P.D. Why didn’t anybody working on the case jump on this? Because they had different last names? No-brainer: same mother, different fathers. Okay, but there were internet services that traced everything about a person down to their underwear. If he had access to these, the cops would have even better sources.

He’d never run a trace on Camacho because he didn’t want the charge to show up on the Bayfield account. That would mean explaining what he was up to. Not yet. He preferred to present the fruits of his labor fully ripened.

And he was about to hand Morgan a real peach. As he coasted to a stop in the garage beside Morgan’s Jag, he performed the new addition to his routine. As he exited his vehicle, he felt the hood of Morgan’s. Garage temperature. Nate withdrew his hand from the Jag and then took the Harrisons’ lease application from his jacket.

*****

Cartons crowded the dining room table. Apparently Morgan had sent out for Chinese. Maid’s night off? Then he remembered. This last one had quit after only three days.

He heard Morgan’s voice and followed the sound to her bedroom. She was on the phone, dressed for a change, looking gorgeous in a honey-colored suit with a contrasting pale blue scarf at her neck.

She waved to him with a weak smile and then turned her attention back to the phone call. “I’d like to see it before you do anything further. Yes, I can come there. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

She must be picking out Kevin’s casket.

“About eight,” continued Morgan after a short pause. Then she returned the cordless to its cradle.

His glance traveled quickly to his watch. Seven-thirty. Then he kissed his wife.

“You going somewhere?”

“The mortuary.”

They walked back to the dining room

“Aren’t you afraid of the MSG?” he asked, with a nod toward the cartons from Yung Foo’s. Everyone knew the MSG they put in Chinese was hell on migraines.

“My headaches aren’t food-related.”

Morgan’s eyes pinned him. She was so hard to read when the black of her pupils melded with the dark irises.

He noticed something he’d missed on his first pass through the room: one place setting at the table. His dinner, not hers.

“You can’t eat first?”

“I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“I need you to be here when Beth gets home. She and Josh are supposed to be watching a movie here tonight.”

“They need a chaperone?”

“As a matter of fact they do.” She sighed as if it was obvious, and he’d missed it. “You’re to make sure they watch the movie in the den—not in her bedroom.”

“Oh.”

Nate’s attention wavered, drawn like a magnet back to what he’d just heard Morgan say on the phone. I’d like to see it before you do anything further. Not a casket. You don’t do something to a casket. Wouldn’t she be asking about Kevin? I’d like to see him would have been more appropriate. In the context of the mortuary, something was off. Dead folk don’t lose their gender, now do they?

“I’ll go to the mortuary. You stay here with the kids. Let me do that for you.”

Morgan shook her head. “No. I’ve got to do this.”

“If that’s what you want,” he shrugged, “but first, I’ve got something for you.” He still had the lease application in his hand. No doubt she already knew about his checking on Camacho. Betty Jean’s unexpected phone call to his office. Now he’d reveal the good reason he had for what he’d done.

He handed her the paper, and then watched her closely as she read. Her face was inscrutable. He waited for a reaction. Something. Anything?

“Don’t you see? That’s why they’re sitting on the report at Wheat Ridge. He’s got a--”

“I knew all this. I thought I told you. Stan Eisley is handling it. He set up a meeting with the policewoman who interviewed Deidre.”

“But--”

“I know you are just trying to help.” Condescension dripped from her lips, melting him into the naïve Oklahoma boy he was when he’d met her. “You need to back off, Nate. Let our lawyer do his job. Heaven knows we pay him enough.”

Morgan glanced at her watch, gave him a peck on the cheek and picked up her handbag. “I won’t be late,” she said as she headed for the door.

Why was it she could still do that to him? Fifteen hundred dollar suits, the best barbers, dentists, personal trainers, and whatever crap it took to make him fit her world—didn’t mean jack shit. He was still the Okie kid with his brand new B.S. from UNC in hand, applying for the property manager job at Bayfield Enterprises.

He had been a bit older than your typical new graduate, but then he’d explained how he had to go to work first to earn the money for college. That had made big points with old man Bayfield. He’d gotten the job, ditched his hokey Okie accent and then had summoned the gumption to court his boss’s granddaughter.

Morgan was three years older, but hey—he knew from experience that older was sometimes better—up to a point. That gorgeous creature had told him she didn’t date. Was it just the brush off? Not so. He’d learned that Morgan was the major caregiver for her mother and baby sister. Stepfather, dead ten years, mother a virtual invalid, and sister Deidre, a nightmare in black nail polish and purple eye shadow at twelve.

Nate told Morgan he didn’t mind playing second fiddle. Or even third or fourth. He told her that he admired her dedication. Almost as much as he admired her money, but he’d kept that part to himself.

The Chinese was cold by the time he picked at it. After only a few bites, he decided to pitch the rest. There was no future in warmed-over Chinese. He gathered up his plate, utensils, and the remaining cartons and carried them into the kitchen.

When he opened the dishwasher to deposit his dirty plate, the three cups with their matching saucers that already rested on the top rack raised a question in his mind. He didn’t usually have morning coffee at home. Beth didn’t drink coffee. Like most teens, she drank pop or that flavored bottled water.

His brain homed in on a sliver of conversation: Stan Eisley set up a meeting with that detective… He scanned the kitchen for some sign that Morgan had received guests that day. They would probably have sat at the kitchen table by the window, not at the dining table.

Why didn’t she say she’d already had the meeting? The pink pastry box from Meacham’s Bakery, still on the table, told the tale. He opened the lid. Crumbs. Just crumbs.

Why was Morgan keeping things from him? Their relationship had never been that great, but now he'd settle for things to be like they were. Was he paranoid? Was he just being infantile about having his amateur detective work rejected?

He thought back to their early days, like turning pages in an album. Courting her had not been easy. Like breaking down a wall. As Morgan relented and they got closer, he was even able to watch her give her mother Elisabeth those shots she needed when the migraines got so bad that nothing else helped. Morgan had looked up to him then, leaned on him even for emotional support. Or had that been his wishful thinking? He’d never let on how watching the needle enter Elisabeth’s flesh made him want to puke. Morgan's strength had impressed him back then--not just her ability to give shots without batting an eye, but the way she lifted Elisabeth when the need arose and even carried her, never asking his help. Frankly, sick people freaked him out. Even Morgan in her weakened state was somewhat repugnant to him.

Another thought, triggered by the idea of puking: Kevin’s autopsy report was still in his briefcase. He remembered something he was going to check out. Something from the report.

He grabbed Beth’s laptop out of her room. Where were those kids anyway? He looked at his watch: 8:30. Then he retreated to the guest room where he opened the laptop and went online. He Googled a word on the autopsy report: meperidine.

As he scrolled down the results, Nate felt moo shoo pork working its way back up his throat.

Bitch has to come home sometime. Outside Wehr’s apartment Reggie stewed in the rancid juices of the day’s events.

The drug bust he’d spent the better part of a year on was down the toilet. The meeting with his team had been depressing. Nobody came out and said it was his fault. They didn’t have to. Who had vouched for JJ? He’d been screwed again. Cabron was probably sitting in some cabana on a Mexican beach, spending Bayfield bucks and drinking tequila.

Reggie popped a handful of Tums to ease the gut ache that had been tearing at him all day. The night without sleep, spent weighing plans to cut his losses, had left him teetering on a crazy place in his head.

How’d he know for sure Wehr had kept the tape that could do in his already shaky career? There was the cell phone conversation he had tapped into last night. Though the tape hadn’t been mentioned directly, it confirmed his speculation. From the gist of what Wehr told Veronica Sanchez, she didn’t have the tape with her. This meant it still could be in the apartment. Or in a safe deposit box somewhere.

Ironical, he thought, Veronica could bring me down.

But there was still a chance he could beat this thing.

Where was Emily Wehr? Nothing in or out on her landline, which probably meant she led a pretty solitary life. Plain as she was, he didn’t wonder. Or, she’d told a bunch of people in advance she was leaving. But…no suitcase?

He’d seen her grab the interstate east last night, but was pretty sure she hadn’t made him.

Earlier, after he left his team, he’d ambled into the station at Wheat Ridge to get the lay of the land. No telling what the bitch might’ve told Commander Marsh after last night’s little fiasco.

Reggie had a plan in place. If he went down, Wehr would go, too. He’d say they conspired to use the tape to blackmail the Bayfields.

He’d seen Commander Marsh in with the chief, through the closed glass door. Maybe nothing. Then he’d mosied into the locker room and seen Susie crossing Wehr’s name off the weekly schedule. Susie had told him Wehr was on emergency leave. Family illness. He didn’t buy it.

Now he sat weighing his options in his dark green Dodge pickup, a vehicle Wehr wouldn’t recognize. Go back in, really tear things apart and maybe find what he missed the first time? Catch Wehr returning and maybe convince her that there was no way she could have a legit reason for keeping the tape. Shit! Maybe she’d already acted on that thought and destroyed it. Then, what in hell was he doing here? Setting himself up?

Krispy Kreme donuts and black coffee fought a duel in his stomach. Reggie popped another bunch of Tums from the plastic bottle on the truck’s console.

He’d already checked back and front for Wehr’s car before parking. She couldn’t drive in the back without going through the front driveway.

Reggie watched a woman in sweats and a baseball cap key into the common front entrance. A large grocery bag hid most of her face. Something kinda familiar about her. Maybe from his surveillance, but then he didn’t have everybody from the building pegged yet. He dipped into a battered briefcase and eyeballed his notes. Nada.

The single mom with two kids from apartment C, upstairs across from Wehr’s, buzzed in a pizza delivery guy. Reggie knew this from the kids’ faces at the front upstairs window. Pizza!

Seven-thirty. Dusk, but too early for the street lights to go on.

Then he thought he detected movement in Wehr’s apartment. Light flickered behind the draped front window. Irregular, pulsing light. Like somebody had turned on the TV. Or the VCR.

“Uncle Nate?” Beth’s voice just outside his door. “Do you have my laptop?”

He quickly logged out and opened the door. Beth stood there in jeans and a tank top. He looked down the hall behind her for Josh.

“Where’s Josh?” He closed the laptop and handed it to Beth.

She shrugged. “Home, I guess.”

“You two haven’t had a quarrel?”

Beth took the computer, and then wrinkling her nose, looked at him. “Why would you ask that?”

“I—No reason.” He tried to smile disarmingly.

“Next time you want to borrow my computer, ask me first,” said Beth. “Where’s Aunt Morgan?” She glanced around, though Morgan seldom entered the guestroom.

“Gone to the mortuary to see about Kevin.”

“Why didn’t you go with her?”

Nate mumbled something about being home for her and Josh.

“What?” Puzzlement played across Beth’s face.

Might as well bite the bullet. “Your aunt thought you guys might need a chaperone.”

As he reached out to pat her arm, she drew back like she’d been scalded.

“A chaperone!” Beth yelled, “How could you? How could Aunt Morgan think I’d have sex with my brother? Eeew. That’s disgusting!”

Nate was knocked off guard. Josh was her stepbrother, and he hadn’t been for long. Words jumbled around as he tried to make them come out in some order to appease Beth, but she would have none of it.

“And it’s not just Josh I wouldn’t have sex with,” she screamed. “Don’t you guys know there’s no way I’m ever going to end up like Mom? I mean, like how could I live with her and not know exactly what I was never going to be?”

Then her face froze, as she apparently got hit with the full brunt of her words. “Oh.” The scream shrank to a whisper as tears coursed down her face.

Again Nate reached out to her, but Beth turned and ran from the room.

As sorry as he was to see her pain, Nate was relieved. He’d tell Morgan that she had no cause for worry. But something in him was uncomfortably aware that Morgan probably already knew this.

He sat down on the bed with thoughts of meperidine swirling around in his head. Coincidence? He hoped that was it. What he was imagining could mean a drastic life-style change if it were true. Morgan’s being questioned by the police in the presence of her attorney, and not wanting him there—that was the clincher. Or was it?

No way. He was reading something into nothing. Playing what if. And some of the alternatives really weren’t all that bad. If something happened to his wife—like maybe she had to go away for a long time—somebody would have to take care of all that money.

Oh, yeah. There was Sam, but frankly, the old geezer couldn’t live forever, could he?

Then he remembered he hadn’t deleted the site he’d visited on Beth’s computer. What were the chances Morgan ever used Beth’s laptop? Next to none. She had her own.

But just in case, he began to envision a lock on the guest room door, to which he had the only key. But that was really crazy.

At 8:35 p.m., Wehr’s building was caught in a web of shadows from the surrounding trees.

The evening had cooled nicely, but Reggie had broken a sweat that wouldn’t let up from the moment he’d seen signs of life in Wehr’s apartment.

Not the cops. No vehicles that he couldn’t account for on the street or in the building parking area. Somebody Wehr had sent to retrieve the tape? No way. They wouldn’t stop to play it first.

The gal with the grocery bag. He’d waylay her when she came out and bust her for B and E. Or put the threat of being busted on her so’s she’d give up whoever sent her. And maybe he’d retrieve the tape in the process.

How’d he explain his presence at Wehr’s? More Tums.

The pain in his gut was moving. Gas, he told himself, from all that coffee. He shifted in his seat and tried to relieve the pressure but nothing happened. Hell of a note when a guy couldn’t even fart. Better not try too hard. He was in enough shit already.

Then he saw a white Jag circle the block for the second time, but he couldn’t catch the license. He waited. This time it didn’t come back by him. Reggie waited another ten minutes.

The gal in A came out with her boyfriend. Reggie watched them get into a Honda and drive away. The kids in C brought down a couple of pizza cartons and shoved them into the building’s waste dumpster. Recycle, ya little bastards.

The VCR strobed again in apartment D. Oh, shit, an encore. Reggie started the truck, threw it in gear and drove around the corner to where a city park backed up to Wehr’s building.

A handful of folks roasted weenies over a community pit. A couple sets of parents pushed small kids on a swing set.

Reggie pulled to an unlit corner of the parking lot and spotted the white Jag. He drew up next to it and looked inside. Empty. Run the tags? Nah—that could put him where maybe he didn’t want to be. He had no business hanging around Wehr’s.

A quick assessment of the small park turned up nobody who looked like they belonged to the Jag—all strictly Chevy and bicycle folk.

If White Jag was in Wehr’s, he would have needed to scale a six-foot cedar fence. No sweat. Reggie’d done that when he’d broken in. Right then, he prayed for no sweat. The walk from his truck to the fence had drenched him. The thought of making it over that fence with a gut ache was—ah, there were two fence panels on the ground, like somebody else had looked for an easy way.

He glanced back at the recreation area and gauged he was about a hundred yards from the nearest person. No lights here next to the fence, except from the building, and those were filtered through drapes and blinds.

Through the opening in the fence, he made his move. Halfway, he realized he had misjudged his own bulk. He needed more like four panels removed.

Oh, shit. Two women came out the back door of Wehr’s place and paused at the top of the stairs. The gal in the sweats, only this time she wasn’t carrying a grocery bag. The other gal moved like she was older. He couldn’t see their faces, but if he didn’t get himself loose, he soon would and not in a way he wanted.

Gotta get back to the truck.

Reggie pulled back in the direction of the park, but he had gone too far. Stuck like a pig on a spit. The pain hit him again and moved upward, skewering his chest.

When he heard the sound of the garage door opening, Nate looked at the luminous hands on his watch. Eleven-thirty. He didn’t turn the light on, as the guest room he occupied was near the garage. Its tiny window would be visible to Morgan as she went through the breezeway to enter the house.

He shivered at the sound of Morgan’s footsteps on tile, glad she passed his room without stopping.

In the wake of her footsteps, a soft wail drifted back. Was he hearing things? He waited a moment and then crawled silently out of bed.

As he listened at the door, there it was again. Muted sobs. Couldn’t be Morgan. She never cried. Not even when her mother had passed. And there had been no tears for Deidre or Kevin. At least none that he’d witnessed.

Down the hall he crept, and across the house to the master suite. Morgan’s door was closed, but he could see a light under it.

He twisted the knob slowly and opened the door a crack. She lay on the bed, sobbing into the stack of down pillows. His first instinct was to go to her, but there was something in those soft wails—like her heart was being torn out. She seemed totally unaware of his presence, so private and all-consuming was her grief. Nate wavered in the doorway and then stepped back into the hall, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him.

*****

In the light of day, Nate had to think. Outside on the patio, the comfort of hazelnut-flavored coffee warming his chilled nerves, he had to put it all together somehow. Had Morgan really, truly been crying out of grief over Kevin? Not a chance. Deidre? Maybe. Tears of remorse? That was scary. Like the meperidine was scary.

Why didn’t she even listen to his report? Did she already know the person named as Camacho’s next-of-kin? Was that why he was being kept out of the loop?

All Morgan’s obscure references to Stan Eisley taking care of things. Why didn’t she just say she’d met with Stan and the detective? Why did she phrase it as if it were something in the future? At least he knew Sam hadn’t been there. He’d been in the office all day—but did Sam know about the meeting? What other things might Sam be privy to that he wasn’t? Didn’t Morgan know a husband couldn’t testify against his wife? Was that name on the Harris’s rent application just going to disappear along with JJ Camacho?

And if the name didn’t disappear…and Morgan was somehow culpable along with Sam…who would be left to be Beth’s guardian? Somebody had to look out for all that money, if all her relatives were either dead or…incarcerated.

Nate weighed alternatives. If there was no wrong-doing on Morgan’s part, then what was the harm of his bringing his discovery to the attention of the authorities, presuming he could find someone in authority not complicit in the cover-up? Morgan couldn’t fault him for looking out for her interests if she were guiltless.

Of what might she be guilty? Kind of like poking a spider to see if it would run away or jump on you. Maybe best to leave it alone and tiptoe around it. But then he’d never know, would he? Unless he poked the spider.

The house behind him was deathly quiet. He’d heard Beth when she had left for school, but not a peep from Morgan. He could see the drawn shades of her tiny window from where he sat. From the corner of his eye, he detected movement in the kitchen. The thought that his wife might be watching him sent a shiver down his spine.

The kitchen door opened and Morgan came down the back steps toward him. She wore a pale blue negligee and her face bore traces of a sleepless night. Dark circled underscored her eyes coloring her sad and vulnerable.

He got up and went toward her, suddenly ashamed of what he’d been thinking.

“There is no financial data on these computers!” Veronica’s voice was beyond exasperated.

Rae held the phone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. It was 6:30 a.m. “Fortunately, I’m an early riser. You did not wake me, thank you very much.”

“I knew that.” Veronica laughed nervously. “I’m so pissed. Garvin let us walk out of there without once hinting that we were taking the wrong computers. These are full of lease forms, tenant data, and the laptop belonging to Nathan Farris—no wonder his was the only protest we heard when we picked them up.”

“A little illicit activity?” asked Rae.

“My team now refers to him as ‘Nasty Nate.’ I probably know more about Mr. Farris than I wanted to. Nothing that concerns our case, though. What do you think they did with the financial records?”

Rae thought a moment, took another gulp of coffee. “I think you may have taken the only computers and that the financial records are still in the office.”

“Manual records? A company that size?”

“It goes along with all the other outdated features. Bayfield isn’t really a big company, if you think about it. It’s the bucks that are big. Word is Jerome Bayfield was a real tightwad, set in his ways. He probably never entered the computer era.”

Rae heard Veronica’s disgusted sigh. “Will you please come in and pick up these computers? Return them and get the books, in whatever form they happen to be?”

“Aye, aye, Detective. Having a little egg on the face for breakfast?”

“Scrambled.”

“I’ll be there in about an hour. Any word from Sergeant Wehr?”

Silence. Then: “An email.”

“And?”

“We’re going in for the tape this morning. She gave me its location.”

“You weren’t going to tell me?”

“Of course I was. When there was something to tell.”

“What does that mean?” Rae was getting that uncomfortable, slithery feeling she sometimes had with Veronica. Like she never revealed the whole story. But why should she? Voice of reason. Voice of Grandma. Rae, you got a nosy streak.

“How about Danny? Will he get to see it? It’s probably the last he’ll see of his wife…alive.”

“Rae, it’s evidence in a homicide.”

“Right. I’ll be in for the computers shortly.” Curtness slid into Rae’s voice like the slap of a riding crop.

“I know you’re worried about Danny. He knows about the tape?”

“I’ve kept him apprised.”

“Once I’ve seen the tape, it probably won’t be a problem to let you both view it.”

“Probably?”

“I’ll leave the Bayfield computers at the front desk for you.”

As Rae returned the phone to its cradle, she thought she detected a change in Veronica’s tone. Had she already viewed the tape? Could it be bad news for Danny? She considered calling Sandy and giving him a heads-up. But, no, she’d already signed on with Lakewood P.D. They owned her for now.

Rae wore a new suit for her first day on the Lassiter assignment. Gray silk pin stripe. The coordinated shoes were killing her feet, and she’d only worn them an hour.

Veronica was already in the field when Rae arrived at Lakewood P.D. A civilian clerk helped her load the computers after having her sign a receipt and giving Rae another to get signed at Bayfield Enterprises.

The drive there took another fifteen minutes. Her feet no longer hurt. They were numb as she walked through the front door into the reception area.

“Mrs. Esposito, what a surprise.”

Sam Garvin seemed to be waiting for her.

“Why is that? I phoned your office that I was on my way.” Rae nodded toward the receptionist, whom she was seeing for the first time.

“Fredricka Halperin, our right-hand woman.” Sam gestured toward a flaming head of hair.

Rae couldn’t get past the woman’s head. Likely well into her sixties, mouth like a prune painted bright as the hair.

“Fredricka, this is Rachel Esposito. She’s going to be looking over our books.”

Fredricka nodded curtly and turned away from Rae’s outstretched hand.

Rae’s eyes burned from the sight. A hairdressers revenge? Nobody would choose such a color.

“Your computers are in my car. Could someone help me carry them in?”

She heard Fredricka mutter, “Don’t look at me.”

“Nate will be here shortly. I’m sure he’ll be glad to help,” said Sam.

“They shouldn’t be left in the car. The heat could destroy your data.”

When Sam didn’t respond to this, Rae continued, “As for Mr. Farris’s laptop, I think it may already have crashed and burned.”

Sam gave her a look she could only describe as sly. “What?”

“Never mind.”

“Please follow me.”

As she followed Sam down the drab hallway to the same room he’d assigned her on her prior visit, Rae thought she saw the man’s shoulders shaking. Laughter? Did he know about Farris’s porn site visits? Perhaps her comment had not been lost on Sam.

Rae had the feeling that Freddie—she’d better not slip and call her that—had been at her job a long time. If you’re new or insecure, you sure don’t turn your back on a person your boss is introducing to you, even if they are looking at you like you’re some kind of freak.

“Let me explain what I meant about being surprised.” Sam picked up the broken thread of his greeting. “My surprise was that you were to audit our records. When first we met, you were retained by Danny Lassiter.”

Rae deposited her briefcase, cell phone, and laptop on the table, opened the case and took out some papers, a mechanical pencil and a calculator.

“Notice of my resignation as accountant for Mrs. Lassiter’s estate went to Mrs. Bayfield-Farris.”

“Yes, I know. I was just surprised when Fredricka told me we would be dealing with you again.”

Rae fired a look at Sam and was stopped short by his pallid eyes.

“You think I can’t be objective because of representing Danny?”

“Not at all.” Sam spread bony fingers in a conciliatory gesture. “In spite of what’s gone on in the past, I think we’re all after the same thing.”

A full ten seconds of silence pushed between them before Rae asked, “And that would be?”

“Justice for Deidre and Kevin. Closure for the family members. If your work leads to that, I support it fully.”

“I have a list of items I’d like to see.” Rae handed Sam a paper from her stack. “This is just a start and will probably grow as my work progresses.”

Sam eyed the list. “It’ll take some time for the bank to return copies of the check endorsements.”

“A pity they don’t return the actual checks anymore.”

“You have our full cooperation.”

Rae nodded and let the hint of a smile soften her expression as she asked, “The check to Kevin? Do you remember offhand how long it took to clear?”

“It hasn’t…so far.”

“Has payment been stopped?”

Rae thought she noticed a slight twitch in Sam’s facial muscles, a trace of annoyance. Surely he knew that’s the first thing she’d be after.

“I’m sure Fredricka has seen to that.”

“She has signatory power?”

Sam shook his head, annoyance clearly visible. “Mrs. Esposito, with all the recent tragedies that have hit the family, I may not have instant recall on every matter. Fredricka most likely prepared the stop order and gave it to me to sign. Feel free to ask her for anything you need.”

“She didn’t seem overly pleased to meet me.”

“Fredricka is loyal to a fault. She and I were both brought on board by Jerome.”

“Jerome?”

“Bayfield.”

Rae arranged items on the table before her, opened up her laptop as Sam watched, showing no signs of leaving the room.

“Before you leave,” Rae said, “I’d like to go over a few bases.”

“Fire away.”

“How many checking accounts are there and how do they interface? Who has signatory power?”

Sam explained the structure of the accounts and added, “Nate, Morgan or I sign all the checks.”

“Two signatures required?”

“Not in all cases. Morgan can sign alone. Nate can only sign disbursements under five thousand without a co-signature.”

“No cap on what you or Mrs. Farris can sign?”

“That’s right.”

“How about disposing of assets? Say you wanted to sell this building. Two signatures or one?”

“Correct.” A smirk so fleeting that she almost missed it.

Smart ass. Two if it’s Nate and one if it’s you or Morgan. “I think I get the picture.” So much for internal controls.

“I think you do.” Sam’s thin upper lip twitched back in what might have passed for a smile had Rae not been convinced he was reading her thoughts.

Not that she had a poker face. Never did have.

The stack of ledgers on the table confirmed the suspicion she’d voiced earlier to Veronica. Bayfield Enterprises was a dinosaur waiting to have its bones assembled.

“I’m sure you knew we’d assume your records were on computer.”

“Not really. I thought your people would ask for the items on the court order, not charge in and grab.”

“I’m sorry they acted in haste. I’ll try not to make that mistake. I presume those…” Rae’s gaze traveled back to the stack of ledgers.

“They are.”

“Why?” Rae put a tentative hand on the top of the stack, trying to think of a tactful way to word her question. Dinosaurs and handwritten books of account had been extinct for a long time.

“Jerome’s only been gone a year. We have every intention of modernizing, but with all that’s happened, that priority has been overridden. You do get the picture?”

Rae felt sweat creeping through her suit jacket. What was she doing in dry clean only again? Her eyes hurt and she hadn’t even cracked a book yet.

“I think that’s all for now.”

“I’m sure you’ll find everything very legible.”

To her relief, Sam edged toward the door. “I’ll get Fredricka started on your list.”

He exited leaving the door slightly ajar. Rae got up and closed it. She could suffocate for a while, and then have an excuse to open it if she heard anything interesting.

It seemed like only seconds later when a sharp rap on the door preceded Fredricka’s entrance.

Rae smiled an ice-breaker smile, noting the stack of papers Fredricka was carrying.

“That was quick,” offered Rae as the woman deposited the stack on her table.

“Sam anticipated most of what’s on your list.” At least Fredricka’s tone was neutral. Well, almost.

“I really appreciate it.” Rae smiled again.

Fredricka didn’t. “I came in early this morning and did most of this. Anything else’ll take longer what with answering the phones and all.”

As the woman headed for the door, Rae noticed her shoes. She wore bright blue Crocs on very white feet. They looked comfortable. Rae had a momentary stab of envy.

The hair flared again at her as Fredricka turned in the doorway. “Buzz me on four if you need anything else.”

“I’ll need a copy of the stop-payment order on the check to Kevin.”

“It’s there,” snapped Fredricka. “Sam figured you’d need it since the check never cleared.”

“Thank you.” Rae felt a small twinge of disappointment. So far no inconsistencies she could hop on like a chicken on a grasshopper.

First order of business, Rae found the most recent ledger for the operating account and perused the check register. She noted an entry for a disbursement to Kevin Cantrell dated April 25th in the amount of $100,000.00.

Halfway through the documents, Rae heard men’s voices outside in the hall. Walls like paper. More of Jerome, the tightwad.

As she focused on the door, it was thrown open by a man in an Italian silk suit who didn’t look like he belonged in this frugal setting. Delete frugal—cheap dump was more on point.

“Mrs. Esposito,” he said, coming at her with outstretched hand. “I’m Nate Farris.”

His hand was damp. Rae took it quickly, then restrained the urge to wipe her palm on her own silk-blend slacks.

Sam stood behind the man, looking slightly off center. Rae was fast picking up on minute variations in Sam’s implacable countenance. Now, it was the movement of his dark brows almost imperceptibly toward each other. Sam was pissed at something and this Nate Farris was either unaware or didn’t give a rat’s ass.

“I don’t think Mrs. Esposito is to be concerned with this matter.”

But Nate was unstoppable. “In my opinion, this information deserves the widest possible distribution. I’d like Mrs. Esposito’s input, if you don’t mind.”

“Fine.”

Rae had the impression it was anything but fine.

“I would like to know if your office has a copy of the Wheat Ridge police report on my sister-in-law’s abduction.”

“You mean the extortion attempt? Alleged of course,” she quickly added.

“Come on now. We all know what I’m talking about. Are you in possession of such a report?”

Rae felt anger rising like steam. Don’t blow your cool, Rae, or you’re in for a very short contract—like one day.

“I personally have no such report,” she managed to articulate. Pompous ass!

“How about Lakewood P.D.? That’s who you work for, right?”

“I’m not privy to information outside the scope of my assignment, Mr. Farris,” Rae ground out between clenched teeth. Puffed-up asshole. She had the feeling that he might pop if she stuck a pin in him.

“I apologize for Nate’s…” Sam strove for an appropriate word and apparently didn’t find one he was comfortable with. “Nate has come across some information that would more appropriately go to the district attorney’s office.”

“I’ve tried,” countered Nate a bit too vigorously. “They won’t talk to me. I’m getting the brush-off. Just like with Wheat Ridge. Only now I know why the cops won’t go after Camacho.”

Oh, great, thought Rae. He’s found out JJ’s a snitch. A missing snitch. But he’s talking about a report, not a tape.

“Did you contact Detective Sanchez at Lakewood?” she asked.

“Uh, she wouldn’t take my call.”

The hesitation, so brief, but so outside the pattern of this man’s head-on style, set off an alarm in Rae’s head. He was lying, but why?

Then it computed without any deliberation on her part. Nate Farris had some information he wanted to make sure reached an authority figure. The information was probably so new that he hadn’t had time to offer it to anyone else.

Rae did a quick change of direction. “I can make sure your information gets to Detective Sanchez.”

Nate reached inside his coat, took out a paper and thrust it at her.

“What’s this?”

“It proves JJ Camacho’s connection to someone at Wheat Ridge P.D.”

What else was new? Hopefully, this blockhead wouldn’t mess up Veronica’s work.

“I’ll see that this gets to the proper authorities. I’ll personally hand it to Detective Sanchez.”

“Aren’t you even going to read it?”

She glanced at the paper. “Rental application?”

“Yes, yes,” Nate almost danced in place. “Not just a connection. His next of kin. I called the number on the form. It’s the Wheat Ridge Police Department. His brother, Reggie Navarro, must work there.”

Before Rae’s eyes could trip down the form to the personal reference section, her inner alarm went off. Reggie Navarro? In what context had she recently heard that name?

Kissing frogs. That was the context. From Veronica’s mouth to Rae’s ear. Reggie Navarro had been one of the frogs that had prompted Veronica to opt for a sperm donor at age forty.

“Someone you know, Mrs. Esposito?” Sam asked.

“Not really.”

She watched Sam’s expression as he turned to Nate. “Mrs. Esposito has a host of acquaintances in law enforcement.”

Rae had suspected that Sam had done a background check on her. Now she was certain of it.

“I’m not acquainted with a Reggie Navarro,” Rae said, hating the defensive note that had crept into her voice. Who was interrogating whom? When’re you going to learn to keep your mouth shut, Rae?

“I have another copy.” Nate directed this comment to Sam. “Maybe we should fax it over to Stan Eisley. Morgan said he’s our liaison with law enforcement now.”

Lawyered up, just like suspects. Must be enough attorneys in that firm to go around for this group. She watched Sam’s facial muscles tighten and then release into an indulgent smile. “That’s right,” he said as he propelled Nate out of the room.

“Why didn’t you--” The closing door cut off the balance of Sam’s question.

“Just fax it to Stan in the first place?” Rae filled in the logical. Why hand this information off to her? To make sure Sam knew that she had received it? Was the Sam and Nate connection not so solid after all? Did stuff that went to Stan Eisley disappear down the attorney-client privilege hole never to surface again? What kind of motive would prompt Nate to derail his own camp’s legal strategy?

She pushed in Veronica’s office number and got her voicemail. She cut off without leaving a message and tried her cell. Another voicemail. This time Rae left a message.

Rae forced her mind away from the Reggie connection and focused on Bayfield’s operations account disbursement ledger. The item she reviewed led her to the three-ring binder that held the check stubs for the account, an old-fashioned, three-to-a-page checkbook. The first stub was blank except for the printed word void across it. Two distinct, old-school penmanship samples jumped out at her from the next two check stubs. The one immediately preceding Kevin’s was made out to Fredricka Halperin, but in a different hand than on Kevin’s. Both were dated April 25th.

Rae dialed Fredricka on the old-style black rotary phone on the table. Fredricka answered promptly.

“Could I speak to you a minute, Fredricka?”

A huffy snort. “Speak.”

“I mean in here, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m just going to lunch.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

On second thought, Rae realized that the content of any conversation she had with Fredricka would be passed on to Sam. What the hell. She still wanted this conversation held face-to-face.

“What is it?” Freddie burst into the room and stood tapping a blue Croc impatiently.

Rae directed her attention to the check stub binder. “Could you tell me whose writing this is?”

Fredricka positioned reading glasses that hung from a chain around her neck, then peered at the page.

“Sam wrote the one to Kevin. The other one is mine.”

“It’s made out in your name.”

Resentment flared, matching the hair. “Of course it is. I always prepare my own paycheck. Then Sam signs it. Always on the night before payday. It’s how we’ve always done it.”

“But I thought you weren’t at work on April 25th.”

Freddie’s head jerked up from the page of checks. “How do you know that?”

“It’s what you told Detective Sanchez. Mr. Garvin gave you the afternoon off. That’s what she understood you to say. That’s why you didn’t see Kevin come in for his check.”

“That’s right,” replied Freddie, still showing traces of fluster, chip firmly planted on shoulder.

Rae tried unsuccessfully to make eye contact.

“Did you write your check in the morning before you left?”

“No. I…” Freddie’s eyes rolled upward as if she was trying to remember. “I didn’t know in the morning that I was getting half a day off.”

“So you wrote your paycheck when?”

“The next day. I must’ve written it the next morning.”

“That would have been a Saturday.”

“No. I never work weekends.”

“Monday, then?”

The implication of her check preceding Kevin’s must’ve hit her. Freddie’s face took on the hue of her hair. “Look, you’re confusing me. I’ve got low blood sugar. I need to eat some protein to clear my head.” She bolted for the door like the devil was after her. Rae could well imagine that as a possibility.

When Freddie was gone, Rae scanned the relevant pages of the check book into her laptop, wondering what the hell that was all about. Was Freddie in the office all day on April 25th or what? Could Veronica have misunderstood? No way. Not Miss Precision.

As if on cue, Rae’s cell erupted in the first bars of The William Tell Overture—a nice touch Rae had added upon the assumption of her new duties. Veronica’s number appeared in the caller ID box.

Chapter 34

Veronica’s voice had an edge to it. “I want you to meet me at the station.”

“What’s up?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

“I’m in the middle of something.”

“Anything earth-shaking?”

“I’m not sure. May be nothing, but--”

“Better drop it and head this way. You’ll want to see this.”

The tape. What else? Rae was both surprised and eager. She’d been afraid that she’d never see the infamous interview, but what else could Veronica mean?

“I’m on my way.”

Rae bundled up her stuff and hurried down the hall toward the front entrance. Sam’s door was closed, and she could hear the faint hum of voices emanating from within.

Then she remembered the computers still in her car and knocked on Sam’s door.

Nate opened it. “We don’t have much time.” Sam rose from behind his desk. “Kevin’s funeral is today. We need to leave shortly. I’m sure Fredricka--”

“I have to leave, too. And Fredricka just went to lunch.” Rae watched the men’s faces for reaction, discerned none. “If you gentlemen will please follow me, we can get your computers out of my car first.” Rae’s eyes lingered on Nate Farris. When she looked at him now, she thought of porno sites.

Nate smiled at her—a big, fat, phony smile—obviously not a mind-reader. He and Sam trooped after her to retrieve the machines. Sam signed for them.

*****

Rae caught every red light on Wadsworth. Finally she crossed Alameda and turned into the parking lot at the rear of the Lakewood Civic Center.

She parked in visitors’ parking and looked over at the police section. No sign of Veronica’s car.

Shouldn’t be long. Rae waited—and waited. No Veronica. She punched in Veronica’s cell number and got voicemail.

Thirty minutes seemed like an hour. Finally Veronica pulled into the lot. Seconds later she emerged from the vehicle, cell phone to her ear. Rae hurriedly stuffed the rent application into her briefcase and hopped out of her car.

In her free hand, Veronica carried something in an evidence bag, about the right size for a tape. She was still yakking on the phone when a second car, a black and white, pulled up alongside Veronica, and two uniforms got out. Now within hearing distance, Rae held back while Veronica apparently ended her phone call and turned to the men.

“They’re welcome to him when our CSU finishes,” said Veronica. Rae couldn’t hear what the guys said back, but they got into their car and took off.

“He who?” asked Rae.

Veronica just shook her mane of shiny hair and said, “Follow me. Let’s not air it on the street.”

She followed Veronica into the building and back to her office. Veronica’s phone buzzed before she had a chance to fill Rae in.

Rae listened to Veronica’s half of the conversation, trying to imagine the other half.

“Right, Commander Marsh. We have the tape. It was in the VCR at Sergeant Wehr’s apartment.”

A silence, then, “I appreciate that, but there’s no doubt that his death is connected to our case.”

Another silence, and “Yes. Your man made a copy on the spot. Should be walking it through your door as we speak.”

Veronica hung up after promising to meet with Marsh on the following day.

“Who’s Commander Marsh?”

“Wehr’s boss,” said Veronica. “We’ve got a situation, Rae.” She nodded toward the evidence bag she’d deposited on her desk. “No prints on the thing. Not even Sergeant Wehr’s. Somebody got there before us. But they left the tape in the VCR. Either we surprised whoever it was and they panicked, or there was nothing on it they cared about, which is unlikely.”

“The tape was playing when you went in?”

“What? No, the tape wasn’t playing.” Veronica looked marginally annoyed.

An uncomfortable thought was circling Rae’s brain like a fly she tried to swat and missed. Why would Wehr leave this crucial piece of evidence in the VCR? The question hung unasked.

Instead Rae asked, “Why am I here instead of finishing up at Bayfield’s?”

“According to Sergeant Wehr, there’s stuff on the tape that could impact Mrs. Lassiter’s estate. I wanted you to view it with me. Sorry for the down time. When I phoned you I didn’t know…”

Your dime. “Know what? Somebody else is dead, right?”

“…that one of the Wheat Ridge uniforms I sent around to cover the rear was going to find a big, fat stiff stuck in a hole in the fence.”

“Who?”

“Nobody you know.”

“Try me.”

Veronica closed her office door. “Detective Reggie Navarro, Wheat Ridge P.D. The guy responsible for suppressing the report on Mrs. Lassiter. He was stalking Emily Wehr. I knew this guy from Metro. He was bad news back then.”

Rae fumbled in her briefcase for the rent application Nate had given her. Don’t remind her she already mentioned this toad. As Rae handed the document to Veronica, she asked, “Did you know Navarro was JJ’s brother?”

As her eyes tripped down the paper, Veronica’s expression showed no element of surprise.

“I take it that’s a ‘yes’.”

When Veronica spoke again, it was through clenched teeth. “Emily Wehr has no idea of the danger she was in that night she called me. And we thought this was just about protecting a drug bust.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“The one I’m giving you.”

Veronica removed the tape from the evidence bag, stuck it in a VCR hooked up to a small TV, and pressed play.

Rae watched as the date of the recording appeared in black at the top of the screen, along with Emily Wehr’s name, rank and jurisdiction.

Then the camera’s eye found a gaunt, dull-eyed woman with long, black hair. Rae blinked. What was it about that face? A picture she’d seen at Danny’s?

“State your name, please.” Emily Wehr’s voice, no doubt.

“Deidre Bayfield Lassiter.”

Wehr asked a few more preliminary questions while Deidre sat at a table across from her interviewer, who never appeared on the screen.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

Wehr’s hand shoved a pack of cigarettes and a match book toward Deidre. She removed one with trembling hands, had to make several tries as she broke the flimsy matches. Finally succeeding, she took a long drag and exhaled through flared nostrils. Her hands still trembled like a palsied person’s.

“I can’t accept your offer of protection because it’s worthless. There’s nowhere I can go that he won’t find me.”

“He?”

“James Joseph Camacho.” Deidre spit out the words slowly as if each was a bitter pill she refused to swallow.

“How did you meet Mr. Camacho?”

“He was my drug dealer.”

“But, how did you meet? Did someone introduce you?”

Deidre rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Up till last week I thought Danny sent him.”

“Danny?”

“My ex…I mean my husband. But it was Kevin, my own son.”

“Your son with Danny?”

Deidre shook her head, brushed hair from her eyes. “Danny and I don’t’ have any kids together.”

“Where’s Kevin’s father?”

“Best guess? Jail. I haven’t seen him since Kevin was a baby.”

Deidre stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray Wehr pushed toward her across the table.

“I’ve got this talent for hooking up with the wrong men. They’re either control freaks like my grandfather or losers like Kevin’s dad and…and…”

Yes?”

Deidre looked straight into the camera’s eye. “I thought Danny was different, that I’d broken the pattern.”

“What happened?”

“He bailed on me. That’s what I thought.” Deidre’s face contorted. She wiped at something in her eye, then removed another cigarette from the pack and lit it.

“What happened to make you think Danny didn’t send the drug dealer?”

“Kevin. He just acted different toward me--disrespectful. And he had his own stash. I checked out his cell phone and found texts from JJ. My own kid was too wasted most of the time to think to erase ‘em.”

“Are you sure your son didn’t meet JJ through your initial connection?”

Deidre made a strange choking noise. “I’m sure,” she said. “By the time I found out it wasn’t Danny, he’d left me. I was too far gone, wasted. I didn’t care. I guess I’m the loser any way you cut it.”

A gray whorl of smoke circled her head like some demonic halo.

“Mind if I walk around while we do this?”

“If that would make you feel more comfortable. We’re here to help you, to prosecute the man who raped you and extorted money from you.”

Deidre stood up and paced the narrow confines of the room. She looked like a walking skeleton.

“He says you can’t touch him.”

“He?”

“JJ. He’ll find me and rape me again. Dangle coke under my nose, then take it away. Until I do what he wants.”

“Then you get money for him from your trustee?”

“Yeah. He takes what he needs, then gives me what I need. And for a while he leaves me alone.”

Deidre shuddered, pulling her blue cardigan sweater around her.

“Are you cold?”

“I don’t feel much of anything right now,” she whispered. Her eyes took on a glazed look. “I’m dying. Every time he touches me, I die a little. Smoking doesn't cut it. Every time I shoot up, more of me slips away.”

Five seconds of silence punctuated by Deidre’s audible breathing, like sobs from some inner place that still had feelings, brought tears to Rae’s eyes. She couldn’t look at Veronica for fear the dam would burst.

“I know they’re going to kill me soon,” Deidre continued, resignation in her voice.

“They?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? This last time at the Aztec, JJ brought his brother with him.”

“Ohmigod!” Rae couldn’t hold back.

“Hush,” whispered Veronica, riveted to the screen.

“His name?” asked Wehr.

“No idea. He didn’t introduce us. The big guy called him ‘little brother’.” Deidre dropped the cigarette she was holding, picked it up and stubbed it out in the tray. Her shaking grew more violent.

“They took turns.”

“Raping you?”

“No, holding my hand.” Deidre wiped invisible tears from beneath her eyes, deepening the cavernous bags that sagged below them.

“Did either man use a condom?”

“What does my rape kit say?”

“Can’t get results that fast.”

“I don’t remember JJ ever using a condom. I asked him to once. He just laughed at me.”

“How about the brother?”

Deidre stopped pacing and sank back into the chair. She crossed her arms, like she was trying to hug herself, fingers tearing at the blue sweater, rigid body rocking back and forth.

“I told them not to. Please not to, because it was my period. They didn’t care.” Deidre began to cry openly now.

Wehr handed her a Kleenex which she immediately wadded up, then shredded. Wehr handed her another.

Deidre wiped her eyes, took a shuddering breath and continued in a voice barely above a whisper. “The brother used other things. The last being a set of jumper cables. He swore he’d take me out in the alley and hook the other end up to his truck if--”

“No more!” Rae’s hand flew out to the stop button. Deidre’s face froze in mid-frame as the sound shut down.

“There’s a lot more,” said Veronica, her face showing deep furrows of emotion.

“Not now.” Rae headed for the door, barely able to breathe.

Veronica followed her, placing a hand on Rae’s shoulder. “Cops listen to this stuff every day.”

“I’m not a cop. Never was. Never will be.”

Rae was half way out the door, but Veronica’s voice was unrelenting. “Please come back and sit down, Rae. And for God’s sake, lower your voice.”

She hadn’t been aware of yelling until she looked around and saw people in the outer office staring at her. Rae eased back into Veronica’s office, drawing the door closed behind her.

“You can tell me what I need to know about the rest of the tape. I don’t need to see any more.”

“You have to bear in mind that addicts aren’t the most reliable sources of information.”

“You think she was lying?”

“Maybe embellishing.”

“What kind of mind would make up stuff like that?”

“The kind of mind that allows a person to shoot poison into their own veins.”

Rae looked at Veronica as if seeing her for the first time. “So that makes it okay to sacrifice her for the likes of JJ Camacho? A disposable woman? Is that what I’m hearing from you?”

“Hold it. Not me! It wouldn’t have been my call to scrap the Lassiter case for Camacho’s contribution to a drug bust.”

“Apparently this Sergeant Wehr was of a different mindset. I hope you’re going after her. She has no business in law enforcement.”

As Rae watched Veronica’s face harden, she wondered how they’d ever be able to work together. They’d just put aside one obstacle only to face another.

“Don’t be so quick to judge until you’ve walked in her shoes,” Veronica said.

Rae came right back at her. “Sorry, I don’t buy that. She didn’t have second thoughts about what she’d done until Reggie put the fear into her. Those shoes of hers have big holes in them.”

“How do you know what she thought?”

Rae edged toward the door again. “I might’ve known you cops would all stick together.”

As she watched Veronica’s eyes turn to black ice, Rae regretted the words.

“How do you think Anthony would feel to hear you say that?”

Betrayed, that’s how Anthony would feel. Suddenly ashamed, Rae could no longer avoid Veronica’s eyes.

“Who do you think got the damn case reopened? If I didn’t care, do you think I’d have gone to the trouble? Nobody listened to me at first,” Veronica said.

Rae sank back into the chair. A fly was buzzing in her brain again, forcing her back a few sentences to something else Veronica had said. How did she know there was a lot left on the tape? Suddenly, a clarity she didn’t want: Veronica had already seen the tape in its entirety. Rae’s presence at this particular time was to establish their joint first viewing.

“Okay.” Rae tried to produce a reasonable explanation. None came to mind. Maybe the rest of the tape did warrant her viewing.

“Okay, what?” That ticked expression was creeping back into Veronica’s eyes.

“Okay, I won’t wimp out again. Roll the damn tape.”

But Veronica’s phone buzzed again. “Veronica Sanchez here.”

The conversation was punctuated on Veronica’s end by short responses to what appeared an interrogation. “I have no idea. No. I gave your man instructions. Why would I? That’s not for me to say.”

Veronica hung up. Rae guessed the conversation had been terminated by the calling party.

“Trouble?”

“You could say that.”

“The Lassiter case?”

“Okay, the Lassiter tape—the copy Wheat Ridge’s detective made—it didn’t end up with Wehr’s boss. It somehow ended up with his chief and the Bayfield lawyers. Internal Affairs is breathing down his neck and he wants my hide.”

“Why?”

“He thinks I somehow detoured the tape around him.”

“Did you?”

Rae knew she’d gone too far the minute the words left her lips. Veronica’s expression shut down.

“Rae, we’ll have to continue this tomorrow. I need to take care of some damage control with my boss. Seven-thirty?”

Rae nodded and ventured, “Looks like the lid’s coming off the JJ cover-up. Shouldn’t you be glad? What if you did go around somebody?”

“I didn’t.” Veronica stood at the door of her office, holding it open.

Then, what did you do? Keep your mouth shut, Rae, before she fires you. “See you in the morning.”

In the parking lot, getting into her car, Rae still had the sense of hearing only one shoe drop.

Rae dropped the gray pinstripe on the floor of her closet, exchanged it for coveralls, and didn’t look back. Except to pitch the new shoes and pantyhose in the corner of the bathroom.

On the service porch she stepped into her muck shoes, then was out the door.

Her left foot hurt like hell. Halfway to the barn she stopped and dumped a small rock out of her shoe. That didn’t help the other hurt—the one that wouldn’t go away.

Until today, Deidre Lassiter had been just a name. Danny’s dead wife. Damn shame her death had been written off. What Rae had felt at the coroner’s office had been more for Danny. Seeing his grief up close had been a revelation: dopers bleed just like real people. No blinders on you, Rae. You, with your pristine grief. Migod, the man had a heart attack, he was so stressed.

But seeing Deidre, hearing the despair in her voice, had punched a hole in that shell Rae had crawled into the day Anthony died.

It hadn’t been a new shell, but a rather old one Rae thought she’d shed. Grandma’s voice again: You’re like a snail, Rae. One poke and you draw inside. She’d always been that way--pulling away from emotional pokes. But she could never hide from Grandma.

Inside the barn, Rae grabbed a manure fork and wheelbarrow. How could Danny have left his wife in that condition? Rae opened a stall door and began scooping manure into the wheelbarrow. After a couple of scoops, she broke a sweat. The air in the barn was heavy with the odor of animal waste.

The picture of the rape—no, multiple rapes—kept intruding on her mind’s eye as she scooped out stall bedding soggy with horse urine. Sweat ran down her brow, though a breeze now wafted through the barn’s west door.

How could another woman watch what I watched—no, worse, be right there with her, and then sit on that tape? Rae thought of Emily Wehr whom she’d never met and savagely stabbed at a pile of horse manure, sending it flying through the air rather than into the wheelbarrow.

Well, one good thing. Reggie Navarro was right where he should be: on a morgue slab. Rae’s eyes burned from the horse urine in the shavings she used for stall bedding. Sweat ran down her underarms and soaked her T-shirt.

Maybe now they’d get off their butts and find the Camacho monster. Looks like he double-crossed his cop buddies, including his own brother.

The chemical action of the urine on the pine shavings turned them red on the bottom layers. Rae scooped and dug. She’d missed cleaning for three days this week and now paid the price: her eyes watered from the released ammonia.

She walked out the east door of the barn into afternoon shade.

How would killing three people benefit Camacho? Deidre’s death, maybe. He and his brother still had her son Kevin to squeeze money out of. What did Camacho do? Kill Kevin for the $100,000.00 and then find out he couldn’t cash the check? Kill his own brother to avoid splitting the spoils they didn’t get? Something is terribly wrong with this picture.

But if Deidre’s family was involved, why would Nate Farris practically shove that rental application in her face? Nate Farris wanted to direct attention to the JJ/Reggie connection. Maybe to direct it away from his wife Morgan?

Where did Veronica fit into this picture? Straight-arrow Veronica Sanchez maybe had a bit of a warp to her? She definitely saw the tape before this afternoon. You don’t know that, Rae, she argued with herself. One dead Reggie was bobbing around in a fence hole in her brain. Could you blame her if she’d seen the tape, knew he was the brother, then…was presented with the opportunity?

And, why wasn’t Veronica whooping it up for joy or justice at the news that Wheat Ridge’s Chief of Police was about to render up the ass of one Commander Marsh for the Camacho cover-up? No answer to that one—not one Rae was willing to acknowledge—yet.

She pushed the full wheelbarrow to the manure pile and dumped. Again, she saw Deidre’s face. Throw-away woman. Disposable. Dispensable. Sacrifice for the greater good. One doper down the drain, so they could corral the big fish? Not going to happen.

Not on my watch. Anthony’s words came through as clearly as if he were standing beside her. And, in a sense, Rae knew he was.

The sun was a molten yellow ball on the eastern horizon as Rae went out the back door to feed the livestock. She’d overslept. Something that never happened—only it just did. Andy and the mares were banging on their stalls. Feed me. Feed me.

“Bunch of spoiled brats. Harvey Stallbangers,” Rae muttered. The barn cats skittered after a dead mouse that one of them had tossed in the air.

She raced through her chores. Barn, chicken house, loafing shed. “I can’t believe I did this,” she said to no one. In response, an Araucana rooster crowed.

Back inside her house, three messages waited on her voicemail. She’d return the client calls later. The one from her daughter Tori stuck in her heart.

“Mom, have you worked out something for next spring? We’re counting on you.”

She hadn’t, but Tori’s next words really piqued her curiosity: “Uh, have you talked to Steve lately? He, uh, I guess I better let him tell you.”

What was that supposed to mean? Rae’s son Stephen was a senior at Florida State University. Things had been tense between them since Steve had announced he was pursuing a career in criminal justice. What now? He’d already told Rae that he intended to go for his masters and had his sights set on the FBI. A FEEB, damn it. After what happened to your father?

After high school, Stephen had gone into construction work for a year. Rae wished he’d stayed in that field.

But what was she supposed to say to him now if he asked, “And what are you working on these days, Mom?”

Nothing much. Just a little rape, extortion, and murder. Nothing really dangerous.

Rae held the phone for a moment, looking at the instrument as if it might give her some revelation. Not even a Grandma adage popped into her head. She’d deal with the kids later. Besides, what would she tell Tori about next spring?

*****

In the car after a record-time shower followed by no breakfast, Rae returned Veronica’s call on her cell, saying she was on her way. She sipped coffee as she battled Wadsworth traffic and wondered if it had been no accident—her oversleeping. She so didn’t want to see the rest of Deidre Lassiter’s tape.

“What was it you found at Bayfield’s that was so important?” Veronica wanted to know.

“I told you, it’s probably nothing.”

“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“I’ll let you know…when it becomes something. See you in a few.”

Rae cut the connection. The out-of-sequence check had shrunk in significance in light of Deidre’s tape. She would feel foolish mentioning it. The specter of the dead woman seemed to perch on her shoulder for the duration of the drive.

*****

Veronica’s perfunctory greeting directed Rae into a chair. Then she wordlessly closed the door of her office.

“How’d the damage control go?” Rae asked against her own better judgment. You know what curiosity did to the cat? She tuned out Grandma and focused on Veronica’s expression.

“Not too bad.” Veronica’s tone was almost friendly.

“And?” Rae pushed her luck.

“I guess it’ll come out sooner or later. I mean, it’s not exactly a secret. Stan Eisley’s son and Chief Peterson’s are fraternity brothers. The Chief now has a personal stake in getting justice for the Bayfield family.”

“What took them so long?” Rae wanted to know. “Deidre Lassiter’s been dead going on five months.”

“Good question.” But Veronica didn’t offer up an answer.

Veronica’s hand paused as she was about to shove the tape into the VCR. “They’ll be damn lucky to get it whenever—justice, that is.”

“It shouldn’t depend on who you know.” Go ahead, fire me! Then I won’t have to watch the rest of the tape.

Veronica looked at her squarely. “I know. You’re right. But, Rae, they’re not monsters just because they’re rich and have friends in high places. Stan Eisley seems a pretty decent sort, still practicing law full-time at an age when he could easily be retired.”

“You’ve met him?”

“He was present when I interviewed Mrs. Bayfield-Farris.”

“I thought she was too ill to be interviewed.”

“She’s better now. I met with them at her home a couple of days ago. I thought I told you.”

Veronica shoved the tape into the VCR, pushed play and fast-forwarded. Deidre’s face swept through the frames as she smoked a five-second cigarette, then slumped back in her chair as Veronica hit stop, then play.

“You people are useless. But I’ve got an idea. A way to get them off me.”

“What do you mean?” Wehr’s voice.

Deidre squirmed in her chair, withdrew another cigarette from the pack Wehr had given her and lit up. She inhaled deeply, then blew a smoke ring. A whisper, barely discernable. “Mom.”

Rae strained to hear. “Did she say ‘Mom’?”

“Hush,” Veronica reprimanded.

On the video, Wehr was asking a similar question. “I thought your mother was deceased.”

“That person wasn’t really my mother.” Bitterness rattled in Deidre’s throat. “Not my biological mother.”

“You were adopted?”

A gurgle of something—surely not laughter—came from deep within Deidre. “Not exactly. That would imply I was chosen…by someone…some couple. No. I found out why I was always referred to…in whispers behind my back, when they didn’t think I was old enough to understand…as ‘the shame.’”

“What did you find out?” Wehr’s tone was even, business-like. Devoid of emotion.

Cold bitch, thought Rae.

“My sister, Morgan, wasn’t my sister. She was my mother. I was her shame. But she was the cause of the shame, not me.” Deidre rose up from the chair. “So, why was I ‘the shame’? It was her shame, not mine.”

The cigarette went flying from her hands, burning her as she tried to catch it. She didn’t even wince.

“Let her take my place. Let her feel what real shame is. Her, with her prissy little gloves and all the matching accessories. So proper. Dragging her feet over a few lousy—she wouldn’t pay!” Deidre’s anger spewed unchecked. Her thin hands clutched air, then her own temples as she threw back the long, black hair from her high forehead.

A splinter pricked Rae’s brain. What was it about the hairline?

“Sam said he’d get the money, but instead he called you cops, and here I am,” Deidre ranted on. “I know it was her idea. A lot of fucking good it’s going to do. Just make it worse for me.”

“Please sit down, Mrs. Lassiter.”

Wehr’s entreaty went ignored. “Mother dearest wouldn’t say fuck to save her own life.”

“Mrs. Lassiter--”

A break in the tape. A dark patch, as if something had been edited out.

Then a calmer Deidre, seated once again, hands folded in front of her. “I’m telling my son to take his pals and go play with his grandma.”

“By ‘his grandma’ you mean--”

“What did I just tell you? The bitch would give up her whole inheritance before she’d let on she’d had a little…slip.” Deidre’s hands began to shake again as she made them into fists, clenching, unclenching. “Let’s see what she’s willing to do to keep her dirty little secret.”

Deidre paused. An almost grin tugged at one side of her face. That face…where…

“That’s me, you know? Only I won’t keep her secret. That’s our ticket out. It should satisfy them.”

“You said ‘our’?” Wehr’s voice, detached.

Rae twitched in her chair, wanting to punch somebody, glancing at Veronica. Nothing coming from those eyes except a slow burn. She has seen this before.

“Me and my daughter,” continued Deidre.

“Have these men threatened your daughter?”

Deidre shook her head. “They didn't have to. When they're finished with me, she'll be the next target. Unless I give them a better one.”

“When did you find out…about your parentage?”

Deidre shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

“What about your biological father?”

“No idea.” Deidre sank inside herself again, slumped, clawing at her sweater. “Unless…” A whisper escaped her lips. “My grandpa. I mean, my great-grandpa…Jerome, the tight leash he kept on all of us.”

“Did he ever touch you inappropriately?”

“Is a slap in the face inappropriate? Never mind. Not sexually. I don’t think I was his type.”

“What do you mean?”

“Grandpa…see what habit does? Jerome liked blondes. All-American types. Like my daughter, Beth. I’m glad he’s dead.”

Something seemed to shut down in Deidre’s face. She stood and once more drew the sweater tightly around her thin body.

“I have to go. Unless you’re going to arrest me for something.”

“We could put you and your daughter in a safe house.”

Deidre laughed, like dry twigs rubbing together. “There is no such thing. No house that’s safe.”

“Do you really think you can protect your daughter without help?”

“Not really. I may have to die for her. She’s a good kid. You know what they say about roses from shit…”

Chair scraping. Rasping smoker’s cough. Deidre’s body, up close to the camera, then nothing. End of sound and picture. Like Deidre’s life—cut short.

Wehr’s voice recorded the time, repeating the date of the interview.

Veronica’s hand pressed stop, rewind.

Rae listened to the sound of her own breathing, swallowed repeatedly, glad she’d eaten no breakfast.

“How long have you had this tape?” Rae asked Veronica, her morning coffee burning a hole in her empty stomach.

“Yesterday. I told you when I went in for it.” A frown creased Veronica’s brow.

“I don’t think so.”

“Say you’re correct, what do you intend to do about it?”

“I don’t know. What would you do, if you were me?”

“I told Mrs. Bayfield-Farris I’d give her a heads-up.”

“A heads-up? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She knew a report existed, but she didn’t give it much thought until Kevin came to collect on her secret. She had our report, but not Wheat Ridge’s. She asked me to tell her what was on the tape…so she’d have some time to prepare before it became public domain.”

“Public domain?”

“So to speak.”

“It hasn’t made the news so far. These people give new meaning to the expression low profile. What’s to prepare?”

“Herself!”

Rae saw Veronica lose her composure for the first…no, the second time. The first being their confrontation over Justin’s parentage.

“You saw the tape, Rae. You heard Mrs. Lassiter trashing her mother. How would you like to be in Mrs. Farris’s shoes, watching her most intimate secrets hung out for public viewing?”

“What if it wasn’t her first viewing either?”

“You think Sergeant Wehr was doing a little blackmail on the side?” Veronica’s mane ruffled with her head-shake. “I can’t believe you. I’m going to remind you again, you’ve got no reason--”

“Yes I have. A million or so.” Rae’s internal calculator had kicked in and began clicking off decimals.

“What are you talking about? You’re a mother. You should have some feeling for the woman.”

“I do. For the woman who was murdered. Maybe by her own greedy relatives. Maybe by her own mother.”

“Make some sense.”

“The GST tax on Jerome Bayfield’s estate has got to be a whopper.”

“I have no idea--”

“Generation skipping transfer tax. Jerome Bayfield’s bequest to Deidre and her children skipped her mother, Morgan.”

“What do you mean, skipped her mother? Morgan Farris got a substantial--”

“Right, but as I recall from the probate file, Deidre’s Trust was equal to Morgan’s. It didn’t feed from Morgan’s.”

Now Rae had Veronica’s full attention. “But Jerome was Morgan’s grandfather. That means--”

“Morgan’s mother was already dead. Generation-skipping only applies to living generations skipped.”

“Will you stop interrupting me.” Veronica’s expression had taken on some worry lines. “Let’s see if I’ve got this right. Because Mrs. Lassiter was the daughter, not the sister of Morgan Bayfield, a generation was skipped when Jerome Bayfield willed something directly to her.”

“You got it.”

“And there’s a tax attached to that skipping.”

“I’ve seen the numbers in the probate inventory, as well as the will. Morgan’s and Deidre’s trusts were funded approximately equally. There’s a lousy little one and a half mil exemption.”

“Little? Since when is one and a half million little?”

“In this estate, trust me, it’s peanuts.”

Veronica sank slowly into her chair and stared at nothing. “She seemed so vulnerable.”

“The mother from hell?”

Veronica nodded slowly. “Her embarrassment could very well be overshadowed by her greed.” Then her mouth gaped, as if she’d thought of something else. “What if she knowingly signed documents…tax returns?”

Light bulb in Rae’s head. “Now it makes sense why she didn’t want to be P/R of Deidre’s estate. Possibly, Danny’s the only one who didn’t know the true relationship between Deidre and Morgan.”

“That must be what Wehr meant by relationships affecting the estate. I think she was just guessing, but I never would have picked up on its having a monetary consequence.” Veronica’s tone was hushed, apologetic.

“That’s why you hired me.”

Over a week had passed since Rae had spoken with Danny Lassiter. Not that she wasn’t concerned about his health. It just seemed awkward now that she was employed by the Lakewood Police Department. What would have been ordinary conversation between them was now off-limits.

She struggled with a prickling curiosity to know if Danny was aware of Deidre’s true parentage. No way could she ask him without leaking information. How would he react to the knowledge? Not her call to find out.

Rae’s intention, upon leaving Veronica’s office, had been to return to her own and come up with some sort of estimate of the GST tax due as a result of Deidre’s being a great-granddaughter rather than a granddaughter. But the thought of Danny wouldn’t leave her alone. Instead of continuing north on Wadsworth, she made an abrupt turn, heading west past Crown Hill Cemetery and the lush green surrounding the lakes of Crown Hill Park. Danny’s house was only a few minutes out of her way. Couldn’t hurt. If she kept her mouth shut about the tape she’d just seen.

A dark sky, clotted with rain clouds, menaced the western horizon. Rae remembered the forecast had been for afternoon rains—much needed as the wildfire season approached. But all the rain in the world could be sucked up in the dryness of a Colorado summer. A parched land, just waiting for a stray bolt of lightning—or a careless smoker. The front range was a tinderbox. Dry twigs. Voices like dry twigs. Where had she…

Rae almost missed the turn onto Danny’s street. God, she hoped he’d had the sense to chuck the smoking habit once and for all. Since the heart attack, his life might depend on it.

Then she thought she’d turned down the wrong street. The lake was there, blue-green waters writhing in a swell of wind. But the house that sat where Danny’s had was surely not the one she’d last visited when bringing him home from the hospital.

It had no roof! Where the roof had been, a black plastic tarp surged in the restless air. But, there was the dumpster to the east of the driveway.

As she tried to assimilate all the changes that had transformed the house, a horn honked behind her. She glanced into her rear-view and saw Danny’s old truck. Danny, in the driver’s seat, waved at her. She pulled to the side of the road and allowed him to enter the circular drive ahead of her. Then she followed and parked beside a bank of tiered planters, fresh with blooming annuals. Why had he done landscaping before putting a roof on the house?

He grinned as he hurried toward her. Still a little pale, he exuded an enthusiasm that she hadn’t seen in him for quite a while.

“Well, what do you think? No more mausoleum.” Danny wore a pleased-with-himself chessy cat expression.

Rae couldn’t help but smile back. “Didn’t you forget something, Danny?”

A look of genuine puzzlement crossed his face.

“It’s got no roof.”

“But that’s the best part.” He nodded toward another truck parked along side the garage, and Rae recognized Pat Keech’s logo on its side.

As she exited her car, the sound of hammering pummeled her ears, coming from somewhere on the far side of the property.

“We’re doing a pop-top. Lots of glass. Solar panels. Nobody in this house is going to be hiding from the sun.”

Dollar signs whirred in Rae’s head. “This looks expensive.” Where was the money coming from? She dared not ask if he’d paid Deidre’s past-due personal income taxes. Not her problem anymore.

He took her arm and guided her up the new red tile steps. Her eyes bugged and she missed a step. As if reading her mind, he said, “Stop being a CPA for a minute and just enjoy. Say ‘great job, Danny’.”

“It does look great. Just took me by surprise.” Rae watched beads of perspiration form on Danny’s brow. “You’re not overdoing things, are you?”

“Overbuilding? I don’t think so, based on what other properties are selling for around here, even in the recession.”

“No. I mean your health. It just looks like you’re taking on a lot.”

“I’m feeling better than I have…in a while,” Danny finished lamely, some of his exuberance waning.

He's planning on living here, not selling.

“I took out a line of credit,” Danny continued. “It’ll be paid when the other properties sell.”

“Does Sandy know?” Rae blurted, remembering the surprise generated at Danny’s homecoming, when he’d revealed that he’d put a first mortgage on the residence.

“He arranged it. Got me a great rate. Can you come inside and see what I’ve done so far?”

What’s he done with the cash from the first mortgage? It was no longer her business, except for the fact that she hadn’t been paid for her services, past or current. Sandy must be on top of the situation.

From the east side of the deck, at the entrance to the drive, Rae saw a discarded hot tub—one of the old-fashioned redwood tubs, scarred from many years of use. It had been hidden from her view by the commercial dumpster when she’d entered the drive at ground level. The tub was piled high with trash and debris from the remodel job.

Danny’s voice, animated once more, updated her on what he’d been doing to the interior of the house. She caught the words “kitchen’ and “island,” but his voice seemed to be coming from a distance. Rae couldn’t take her eyes off the tub. It was filled with more than debris.

Deidre had a face now. And a body. She filled the tub, bigger than life. Wisps of her black hair floated on murky water. Lifeless, pale eyes in a face beginning to bloat. Rae shook her head to disengage from the images burned into her skull from the two videotape sessions.

“Rae? Are you okay?”

Danny’s voice jerked her back from a dark place she never wanted to see again.

“Yeah. Just a little tired. Could we do a rain check on the interior?”

“Sure.” But he looked hurt.

“It’s just been a couple of really hard days.”

“Dee’s case?”

“You know I can’t--”

“No sweat. I wasn’t going to ask.”

“I just wanted to check on you.” Have you quit smoking? Are you eating right? Mother hen speaking. Why haven’t you paid me when you’re spending money like a drunken sailor? CPA speaking. She’d call Sandy when she got home.

“I’m being good, Rae. Josh and Beth watch me like hawks now that school is out.”

“They’re great kids. You’re lucky.”

“How’re your kids doing? And your grandkids?”

“Good. I miss them. I’m supposed to be going to California for…” she trailed off. No use going into that with Danny.

“Supposed to? Is there some reason you can’t? Do you need horse sitters? I’m sure Josh or Beth--”

“No, it’s not that,” she cut him off. “It’s not till next spring. I mean, a lot could happen between now and then.”

“More reason to go sooner rather than later.”

She looked at him. Did she really look so bad that he was worried about her health?

“Danny, I’m fine. Just kind of drained at the moment.”

“That’s not what I meant.” His chestnut eyes took on a new earnestness. “What I meant was I’ve come to appreciate…I didn’t see a white light or anything…but something has changed for me since I had the heart attack.”

“I can see that.” She reached over and gave his arm a squeeze. “I’ll be back.”

She started toward the front steps. Danny followed.

“Go see your kids.”

She smiled back at him. “I’ll mull it.”

“Don’t mull too long.” He shot a grin at her.

She made the stairs without looking in the direction of the hot tub. The rain smelled close now on heavy air. She got quickly into her car, making a conscious effort to look straight ahead. As she pulled forward around the circular drive, she waved cheerily to Danny, hoping he didn’t catch sight of the gritted teeth under her smile.

Mull it, my ass. A speckle of rain drops sprouted on her windshield. More ghosts than Deidre’s surfaced in her mind’s eye.

I don’t need this right now. Irrational anger at Danny flared in her. But she’d been the one to bring it up about California. And it wasn’t Danny that she was angry with. She was still just as mad at God as she’d been thirteen years ago, when Anthony had died. And this damn case, with all its gruesome, hateful secrets popping up like worms from a corpse, wasn’t helping matters. Even if it was for her grandson’s first communion, God was on her list, and no way was she going into His house. Not after Anthony.

*****

When Rae paused for the mail at the beginning of her drive, a window envelope bearing Sandy’s return address topped the pile. Her curiosity wouldn’t let her wait. She tore it open and found her account had been brought current from Deidre’s estate. Not that it was an earth-shattering amount, but it made her feel more confident that Danny, with Sandy’s guidance, wasn’t letting things get out of hand.

The red numeral four was flashing on her answering machine when she entered her office. She listened to two client calls, duly made notes of their problems. Fortunately, not the same two that had left early messages. She’d call them all back before the day was over.

The third call was from Stephen. “Hey, Mom. Sorry I missed you. I’m going to Miami for the weekend. You don’t have to call me back. Not a big deal. Catch you later.”

Oh, fine. That means it is a big deal.

Rae shook her head.

The fourth call was from Fredricka Halperin.

“Mrs. Esposito, I made a mistake about when I wrote my paycheck.”

Rae noted the number on the caller ID. Not Bayfield Enterprises. In the ID box she read F. Halperin. Fredricka must have called from home. On a weekday. During business hours. Not a good sign. Rae frowned as she listened to the contrition in Freddie’s voice. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience my mis-remembering may have caused you.”

Morgan hadn’t come out of her room in two days. When Nate knocked on her door, she wouldn’t answer. Or she told him to leave her alone.

They’d buried Kevin. Just a quick get-him-in-the-ground. A minimal group had shown up. The kid hadn’t had any friends.

Morgan had held up, like a stone holds up, until after they’d gotten it done. Closed casket. He hadn’t been that disfigured, but who’d really wanted to see the dead kid?

The question was who wanted to see the kid dead. Now, you might draw a bunch from that pool, he rationalized. Not just Morgan. Put him in a crowd, and the kid was like Raid on an ant hill.

Nate hadn’t a doubt that it had been something Kevin said or did that drove away the third maid in the last five months. Maybe Kevin had just looked at her the wrong way. Those minority types could be pretty sensitive.

The one who’d left after just three days had been butt-ugly and a lousy cook. Maybe it hadn’t been her cooking, just to look at her had taken his appetite. But the one before her had been a real good worker. Kind of cute, too. He’d considered calling her and saying, It’s okay, you can come back now. He’s dead. But he’d thought better of it. As soon as Morgan was out of her latest funk, they’d run another ad. This time he would do the hiring.

The fact that Beth came and went freely from Morgan’s room assured him she was still alive and not in need of medical attention. Then he asked himself if it was prudent to depend on the judgment of a fifteen-year-old.

But the kicker was the fermenting memory of the partial conversation between Sam and Morgan. The more he replayed it, the more he came to believe that Morgan had been there in Sam’s office, not on the speaker phone. That’s when Nate admitted the truth: he was afraid of what he’d see in Morgan’s room. If he opened that bedroom door, Morgan’s spider eyes might snap him up like some fly. He knew this was totally illogical, but the longer silence hung between them, the bigger his fear grew.

Beth took Morgan food, but told him she just picked at it. When she ate even a little, her migraines made her throw up. Beth said Morgan didn’t want him to see her like that. What was new to see? He’d seen her bare face, cleaned barf off it many a time during her killer migraines throughout the early years of their marriage. The only thing he couldn’t do was the shots. Something about putting a needle into somebody’s flesh creeped him out.

What was new was that Deidre was dead and Kevin was dead. When Morgan’s mom and granddad had died she hadn't taken to her bed. The migraines had returned when Deidre died. Nate kept circling back to that point, the repetition forming a deep rut in his thought patterns.

The inertia of it all was doing a number on his head. Why hadn’t that sexy Detective Sanchez called him about his lead? Maybe the Esposito woman had forgotten to give her the paper…the lease application that tied JJ Camacho to Detective Reggie Navarro.

Now on the afternoon of the second day after they planted Kevin, Nate sat in the kitchen, thinking about making some tea for Morgan. The thing inside him was ballooning. He had to break the barrier of silence between them.

As he got up to find the tea bags, the phone rang. He hesitated, and in his hesitation the ringing stopped. But the red light was still on. Beth had gone somewhere with Josh. Morgan was the only other person in the house.

Nate wavered, his hand hovering over the receiver. Then he carefully picked it up, covering the mouthpiece with a potholder.

He heard Morgan’s voice. Numbers. She was reading off numbers.

“We can have that for you in about an hour, Mrs. Bayfield,” a man’s voice said.

Mrs. Bayfield. Not Mrs. Farris. He was her husband and he was all but invisible. Jerome Bayfield was dead. Why didn’t she chuck that Bayfield name?

“Thank you.” Morgan’s voice, even-toned, no tears in it.

Her migraine prescription. That’s what the numbers were.

The inertia was suddenly gone. Something clicked in Nate’s head—besides an urgent need to get out of that house.

*****

At work, he tried to act normal in front of Sam and Fredricka.

Then he shut himself in his office—as if either of them would barge in and look over his shoulder. But what he was doing was so far from anything he’d ever planned.

Nate paused before opening his laptop. No, he had to do it. Self-preservation was a basic instinct. He stared at the open laptop for only a moment, logged on, then went on the internet.

Colorado Revised Statutes. He scrolled until he came to what he was looking for: Section 13-90-107. Who may not testify without consent.

After printing out what he considered relevant, he went to the section concerning Marital Property. More particularly, division of marital property upon divorce.

Rae listened to the rest of Freddie’s message.

“What happened was I got sick on that Friday…the flu, I guess. But I had already written my paycheck that morning, like always. I forgot. I’m really sorry.”

In a pig’s eye! Rae pressed call return. After five rings, she got Freddie’s generic voicemail. Shit!

Dueling alternatives vied for control in Rae’s head. This is the key. They got to her and made her lie about it. Rae, you’re being paranoid. It’s a little thing. It means nothing.

When in doubt, sort it out.

Thanks, Grandma.

Rae sorted. If the check was no big deal, why did Freddie get so flustered in the first place? Why even bother to call? Why not just wait until Rae asked again?

What reason was there to want the check to appear to have been written on Friday? No stretch. Sam was on record as having admitted that Kevin was in the office on Friday, the 25th and that the boy picked up a check for $100,000.00.

Reason for not writing the check to Kevin on the 25th: Dead kids don’t need checks. Reason for going back, after the fact, and writing the check: Oops, somebody might want to see the canceled check. But there is none. Next best thing, at least dummy one up in the check book.

On the other hand, maybe Freddie was an airhead who really didn’t remember until later that she’d written her check before she took the rest of the day off. Maybe she really had been sick, feverish even. Bunch of crap!

You don’t know that. You’re just trying to make it something sinister to put a feather in your own cap.

God, when had she heard that old saying? A feather in your cap? Not since Grandma. And then the loneliness dropped on her, unexpected, like a summer snow. One minute it’s hot, the next you get dumped on. Everybody’s gone. Parents, grandparents, kids out living their own lives. As they should.

Anthony.

Rae stood up and shook herself. Shaking off the self-pity was a constant battle.

Get a life, Rae.

I’ve got one, Grandma.

To prove it, Rae went to her office and pulled out the Bayfield file, all the stuff she’d accumulated and was supposed to be drawing conclusions from.

She took another look at the page from the three-ring check stub binder that she’d scanned into her computer, then printed it out.

Kevin’s was the third check on the page, Fredricka’s the second. She’d ignored that first check stub with Void printed diagonally across it.

Rae ran a fingernail over a couple of small specks on the void check stub, though it was a printout and not the real thing. Damn flies. Then she took a closer look, remembering the papers had been inside one of those legal file boxes.

About halfway up the check stub were two tiny black dots, maybe half an inch apart. Staple holes.

What did the bookkeepers do in the olden days before computers? She knew from watching her mother keep books for clients part-time, when Rae was growing up. They were so precise, those old-timers. When they voided a check, they carefully tore off the signature if it had been signed, folded the check in thirds, so that when stapled to the back of the stub, the check number would be visible, and the boss would know they hadn’t played hanky-panky with the check—it really was void.

The key concept here being: When stapled to the back of the stub.

Rae stared at the printout of the stub as her imagination went into overdrive. Why would someone go to the trouble of stapling the void check to the stub and then remove it so carefully that there were no tears on the sheet?

Habit. Either Sam or Freddie. Both appeared to be from the generation that would have this habit. But Freddie would never take it upon herself to destroy a check. It had to have been Sam. There had to be something on that check he didn’t want anyone to see. Like that check was made out to Kevin, but void because Kevin didn’t need it any more. Because he was dead.

The trouble Rae found with this scenario was that Sam didn’t come off as hasty. Meticulous to a fault. That’s how she pegged him. Not a person to write a check, void the check, then, oops, destroy the check and write another. It had to be something inconsequential, and she, with nothing else to do at night but let her mind run wild, let it kick over the traces.

When Morgan knocked on the door of the guest room and called his name the night before, Nate had pretended to be asleep. Then he’d watched the door knob turn futilely, glad he’d called the locksmith earlier. He’d also had the guy install a lock on the patio sliding door—a cover in case Morgan came out to see what was going on.

But the locksmith had been quiet, knowing that there was illness and bereavement in the house.

That morning, Nate had called the office and left a message for Sam: He wouldn’t be in until late afternoon, maybe not at all.

He’d made breakfast for Beth. Well, he’d set out the package of Special K and the cartons of milk and orange juice. School was out. They’d made small talk. Beth appeared preoccupied. He wanted to draw her out, to ask her when she’d last seen Kevin alive. But that seemed cruel, almost as bad as mentioning Deidre.

“Have you talked to, uh, Aunt Morgan this morning?” she asked in a peculiar, tight voice.

“I knocked on her door but she didn’t answer,” he lied. He’d knock later.

“I think you should try again,” said Beth, pushing her bowl of cereal away, half-eaten.

“What’s up?” Something in his niece’s manner this morning was off kilter.

“Oh, I 'm just going to meet some friends and hang out.”

That wasn’t what he meant, but he wasn’t going to push it, not today. “You want to leave me a name and number where you’ll be?”

“No.”

She got up and headed toward the bathroom to get ready. Probably brush her teeth. She paused in the doorway. “If you need me, you’ve got my cell number.”

How could she know? He hadn’t discussed his decision with anyone. But Beth seemed to know something was in the air.

When Nate heard the front door close, he headed for the garage. He still wasn’t one hundred percent sure he could go through with it. But then when he opened the door from the house, he saw Morgan’s Jag was gone. He’d never heard a thing. Maybe she’d left when he was in the shower.

This really could give him an advantage. He retraced his steps back to the guest room closet where he now kept most of his clothes and a few pieces of luggage. There he retrieved the bag he’d packed in the early morning hours.

On a whim, he set the bag down just inside the guestroom door and made his way stealthily down the hall, across the house to Morgan’s room. Why the stealth? he asked himself. Her car was gone. That meant she was out. He still felt like a thief, stealing into the room he once shared with his wife, in the house that was really half his.

He went straight to the medicine cabinet. The usual array was still there. Some of his stuff, too. Where was the packet of syringes and the small vials of liquid? If she’d just filled her prescription, why would she take the whole thing with her?

Nate picked up a small, plastic bottle of pills. Percocet? He read the remainder of the label. This was her old prescription—but it had just been refilled yesterday. Where was the stuff she injected?

He pawed through the articles in the cabinet, then went through the drawers. Nothing. He’d seen her inject herself dozens of times, assuming she’d gotten the stuff by prescription. What if…

He dropped a bottle of cough syrup. Crap! Fortunately it landed on the rug and didn’t break. Quickly Nate tidied up the area, trying to remember how, exactly, he’d found all the articles he’d moved. Maybe, in a few hours, it wouldn’t matter.

As he stopped at the guest room to pick up his bag, he noticed it. Light—a scarce commodity in that house—reflected off metal. He stooped and looked closer. Almost buried in the carpet fibers a hypodermic needle nestled. Remembering the door handle turning in the night, he broke a sweat as he hurried toward his car.

*****

As he parked in the Lakewood Civic Center visitors’ section, Nate was overwhelmed by a wave of guilt. Could he really do this? He sat for a few moments, looking forward and backward at his life choices. The stagnant status quo was totally not an option.

Morgan had never shown much passion toward him, but he’d been willing to accept her reserved nature. What would it be like to go to bed with a wife who wanted him? One who didn’t always have a headache. Who was he kidding? Even on her good days, Morgan’s desire had been practically non-existent. She’d gone through an early menopause, but, hell, he hadn’t really noticed much change.

What would happen if the whole thing backfired? What if Morgan hadn’t killed Kevin? Worst case scenario, he’d get a decent settlement in a divorce.

While it wasn’t an absolute slam-dunk, judges usually divided the marital property equally, and that would cover everything they’d acquired during their marriage. Including the ugly house—he’d take his half of that in cash, thank you very much.

If Morgan wasn’t guilty—or wasn’t convicted, he could kiss his job goodbye. If she was guilty, that conversation between her and Sam, the puzzler he’d agonized over, the catalyst that had brought him to this point, was a strong indicator of Sam’s complicity in it. It wasn’t just about a murder. If they were playing games with the money—Beth’s money, too, now that her mother and brother were dead—that could mean the appointment of a new guardian for his niece, and a new trustee for the trusts. Guess who stood ready, willing and able?

He’d gone over this course of action and its likely consequences at least a dozen times now. But not sitting in his car in front of the Lakewood Police Department at eight in the morning.

Nate removed Veronica Sanchez’s card from his pocket, lifted his cell from the car’s console, and pressed in the detective’s number.

The message Fredricka Halperin had left on Rae’s voicemail the afternoon before had stuck in her mind like a goat head bur on a tennis shoe.

She remembered the stress she’d heard in Freddie’s voice. Maybe her theory wasn’t so far-fetched. Then again, the out-of-order check and the staple holes paled in comparison to the GST tax omission. There could be a logical explanation. Maybe Freddie was telling the truth. Rae would have to look her in the eye to find out for sure.

It was nine-thirty the next morning when she drove into the empty Bayfield parking lot. Could be cars in the back, she thought.

Rae glanced across the street as she walked toward the front door. A couple of cars in the Adult Books parking lot. Scum at work. In light of the porn site visits on his laptop, Rae wondered if Nate was one of their customers.

She’d been prepared to wait, but the front door of Bayfield Enterprises was unlocked. She walked inside, noticing that the reception area was unoccupied. Fredricka’s desk was not only neat, it was empty of any work in progress. No handbag on or around the work station.

“You’re here early, Mrs. Esposito.”

Sam’s voice spun her around toward the hallway that led to his office.

“I needed to follow up on a phone message from Fredricka. Where is she?”

“On vacation.” Sam walked to the empty outgoing mail basket on Fredricka’s desk and deposited a small stack of mail.

“When will she be back?”

“I know about your confusion concerning the checks.”

“My confusion?”

Sam offered her the bare flicker of a smile. “Fredricka’s confusion. The matter is resolved. You may direct any further questions about those checks to me.”

“Fredricka’s not coming back?” Rae felt alarm creeping into her voice, the last thing she wanted Sam to detect.

“I didn’t say that.”

The sound of the front door opening drew their attention.

The woman in the doorway, a full-bodied platinum blonde, was straight out of a Turner Classic Movie. Designer sunglasses hid her eyes.

Morgan Bayfield-Farris, in the flesh.

An electric moment. Rae could feel it as she looked from the woman to Sam, and watched the elderly accountant metamorphose into an entirely different person. The man appeared to grow in stature before her eyes. No longer stoop-shouldered, he seemed to fill out like a reconstituted raisin. Even the lines in his face softened, as if airbrushed away by the broad smile that now softened the angular lines of his face. Rae saw dimples in those sunken cheeks.

“I should have called first. I see you’re busy.” Morgan’s tone was self-effacing, not at all what Rae had expected.

“No, uh…” Like a smitten schoolboy, unflappable Sam Garvin was tongue-tied.

Rae stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Rae Esposito. You must be Mrs. Bayfield-Farris.”

Morgan grasped Rae’s hand firmly and flashed a smile. “Of course. I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting.”

Rae noted Morgan’s camel-colored pantsuit with matching silk scarf. Definitely not off the rack at Kohl’s. And the pale beige gloves. Unusual summer accessory.

“Mrs. Esposito came in to re-interview Fredricka,” Sam explained.

“But she’s on vacation, isn’t she?” said Morgan.

Sam placed a hand on Morgan’s elbow and steered her toward the hallway that led to his office.

“If you’ll have a seat,” Sam said to Rae, “we just have a few things to go over. Then I’ll be at your disposal.”

As the two left the room, Rae was almost certain she detected a tremor in Sam’s hand as he touched Morgan.

At the sound of Sam’s door closing, Rae let down her guard. She shook her head to clear the thoughts that were pouring in. Then she glanced at that picture she’d noticed on the wall beside the entrance. The one that had been so puzzling on her first visit. Jerome Bayfield, the patriarch, with an arm around his daughter, Elisabeth, and teenage granddaughter, Morgan. The caption: Groundbreaking—Bayfield Commons—1966.

The dark-haired young man with the widow’s peak and the dimples whom she’d wondered about—that was Sam Garvin.

And the years of pent-up longing in the man’s eyes as he’d looked at Morgan told the tale. Rae wondered what ghosts of the past, what feelings spilled from Morgan’s eyes when she removed those Serengetis.

Moving closer to the picture of the Bayfield Commons groundbreaking, she stared intently at the images. An eerie familiarity prickled her spine. Familiarity with what? What could those inert figures tell her? More to the point, what would they tell her—those still alive?

“Worth a thousand words.”

Sam’s voice right behind her startled Rae. No telltale sounds of doors or footsteps. She glanced around and beyond Sam.

“Where’s Mrs. Bayfield-Farris?”

“My office has a rear entrance. She was feeling a bit emotional. She knows you’ve seen the tape. Deidre’s tape.”

“Oh.” Rae distanced herself from the picture on the wall as if this could prevent Sam from guessing her thoughts. What did it matter if he knew that she’d figured out he was the young man in the picture? Somehow, instinct told her it did matter.

“She loved her daughter.” Sam’s voice, like fine sandpaper on her ears.

She had a pretty strange way of showing it. Rae bit back the sarcastic remark. She really didn’t know these people. Besides, it would be unprofessional. Just do your job, Rae.

“Can we just cut to the chase, Sam?”

She thought she detected a slight intake of breath as Sam looked a question at her.

“I mean, how long have you known about Deidre’s true parentage?”

A bony hand hid his crooked smile, muffled something like a laugh devoid of humor. “As you’ve seen by that picture,” Sam gestured toward the wall behind her, “I’ve been around a long time. I’ve known Deidre all her life…known who she was.”

Rae resisted the urge to turn back toward the photograph as she focused on Sam’s pale eyes. “Then you’re aware of the implications,” she continued.

“I am.” His voice was barely above a whisper. Soft, as it may once have been before something sucked all the juice out of him. “But are you, Mrs. Esposito?”

The pale eyes, the angular face, the black hair, the widow’s peak coalesced in her brain. Ohmigod. He’s Deidre’s father.

“Mrs. Esposito?”

Rae struggled for composure. “The implications…I think so. The GST tax.”

Sam took a step back, again giving her the lop-sided grin, this time not bothering to cover it. “The GST tax?”

“It must have been a whopper. I’ll need to take a look at Jerome Bayfield’s 706.”

Sam had stopped smiling and was looking through her.

“I can understand your wanting to protect Mrs. Bayfield-Farris by not putting a disclosure like that on her grandfather’s estate tax return. Who could fault you for making a mistake? Worst case scenario, you’ll pay a preparer penalty.” Rae backtracked, hoping her panic didn’t show. People didn’t kill over a tax return error, did they?

“Are you wearing a wire, Mrs. Esposito?”

“A…whoa…you think I’d tell you if I was?” Rae backed toward the front door. Too late, she realized Sam wasn’t looking through her, but at someone behind her.

“I’ll bet she’s not.” Morgan’s voice fanned her ear, chilled mint on the stale office air.

Rae whirled around to face Morgan. “How do you know that?”

“They don’t send accountants in wearing wires.” Morgan’s voice sounded frayed at the edges.

Rae watched a cloud pass quickly over Sam’s expression as he asked Morgan, “Did you forget something?”

“The books are clean. You can’t blow that check all out of proportion,” Morgan continued, ignoring Sam’s question.

“Fredricka has explained about the check.” Rae fought for calm as she watched Morgan clench and unclench her hands on the handle of her beige leather handbag.

Then, Rae decided calm wasn’t going anywhere. “If I were you, I’d be more concerned with the GST tax omission.”

“GST tax?” Morgan’s volume cranked up a notch, a decibel away from completely doing in her serene image.

“She has no idea what that is,” said Sam to Rae.

“What’s she talking about?” Morgan demanded, brushing past Rae to get to his side.

Rae watched Sam guide Morgan into the chair behind Freddie’s desk. “It’s going to be all right,” he said.

“That’s what we thought when Jerome died.”

The hateful tone Morgan used confirmed Rae’s picture of Jerome Bayfield as a cold, miserly tyrant.

“It’s going to be fine, dear.” Sam rubbed Morgan’s arm.

The intimacy implied in Sam’s words and touch made Rae uneasy. “I need to get back to my office. They’re expecting me.” Rae wished. Truth be told, she was supposed to be at her home office working on a projection of the GST tax that had been skipped.

She watched more looks pass between Sam and Morgan, as Morgan shrugged off her moment of weakness. They really don’t need words, they’ve been together so long. Apart yet not apart. They’ve had to get major mileage out of a glance.

“The check is a dead end, Mrs. Esposito. Fredricka’s not going to change her story,” said Sam.

Story? Don’t touch that one, Rae.

But, that cat-killer curiosity was honing her senses, making her say it out loud. “So, it’s a lie? You pressured Fredricka into lying?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Sam’s voice burst into flames. “All you have is the GST tax. I’ll take whatever blame is due for that.”

All? Isn’t that enough? What could be worse?

But she knew now what something so insignificant as the date on a check could really be—not just a theory she only half-believed. One dead Kevin sure didn’t need a check. And Sam couldn’t leave Morgan out there as the last to see the kid alive. If Kevin was in the office on that Friday afternoon, there had better have been a check written.

Rae dove for the front door and gave the knob a mighty twist, then nearly landed on her butt as someone on the other side turned the knob and pushed inward at the same time.

Rae struggled for balance as Veronica brushed past her with barely a greeting. A stocky young uniformed officer followed her like a puppy without a leash.

“Detective Sanchez,” began Sam, gearing up to make nice, placing himself between Veronica and Morgan.

With a curt nod of her head, Veronica shoved some paperwork at him and then continued on without slowing until she faced Morgan, who had retreated to a point just beyond Freddie’s desk. The looks were darting between Sam and Morgan again as Sam glanced up from the paperwork Veronica had given him.

“Morgan Bayfield-Farris,” said Veronica, “you are under arrest for the murder of Kevin Cantrell.”

Rae watched numbly while Sam wasted no time in hopping behind Freddie’s desk, grabbing the phone and hitting speed dial.

“You have the right to remain silent. If you waive that right, anything you say may be used against you in a court of law.”

Rae strained to hear what Sam was saying on the phone, but his hand was cupped around the mouthpiece. Got to be Stan Eisley. Rae felt an unbearable sadness wash over her. She’d wanted justice for Deidre, but justice for Kevin? Did he deserve justice? And wasn’t it only a few weeks ago that she’d been asking herself if Deidre was worthy of all their efforts?

I don’t want these thoughts. But Rae couldn’t shake them as she watched the scene unfold.

Morgan stood impassively while the young male cop put the cuffs on her. It looked to Rae as if he was trying to be gentle. Morgan Bayfield-Farris didn’t look like a criminal. She looked like a trapped animal that had given up.

“You have the right to an attorney.”

“He’s on his way,” Sam interrupted. “Don’t say a word,” he instructed Morgan.

Morgan gave Sam a wan smile and a mouthed thank you.

Veronica continued her Mirandising as if Sam didn’t exist. “If you cannot afford an attorney…”

Rae let out an involuntary snort at the idea of an indigent Morgan Bayfield-Farris. Veronica rattled off the rest, all the while eying Rae as if she were a nut case.

Then Veronica plucked Morgan’s Brahmin handbag from Freddie’s desk. Last Rae remembered, the beautiful leather bag had been in Sam’s hands. Veronica plopped it into an evidence bag and headed for the door.

But what about Sam, Rae wondered. Accessory?

With a quick nod of her head, Veronica signaled. When Rae didn’t move, Veronica said, “Let’s go.”

“But, what about…” Rae looked at Sam.

“Tell Stan Eisley we’ll meet him at the station,” Veronica said to Sam.

Rae hurried out the door, trying to keep up with Veronica. “I need to talk to you.”

“We’ll talk at the station.”

The young cop helped Morgan into the back seat of the squad car, protected her head just like on TV.

“No. We’ve got to talk now,” insisted Rae.

“What is it?”

“What about Sam Garvin?”

“What about him?” Veronica tapped her foot impatiently as she watched her backup officer climb into the driver’s seat of the car. “My warrant is only for Morgan Farris and her purse.”

“At least you could’ve given me a heads-up.”

“You weren’t supposed to be here. Besides, the informant just came forward. I had to scramble like mad to get the warrant. Now get your butt in gear and follow me back to the station.”

While following Veronica back to Lakewood P.D., Rae's mind constructed various scenarios to explain the turn things had taken.

An informant came forward? Did this mean they finally got their hands on JJ Camacho, and he implicated Morgan? Was this whole thing just about money?

No way. Unless Morgan Bayfield-Farris was one award-quality actress. Morgan and Sam, the ill-fated lovers, paired for life like a couple of wild geese—they did not kill their love-child, either directly or through a hit man. Rae would have staked her life on this. Well, not her life. And yesterday she’d have had a different take on it.

But the arrest had been for Kevin’s murder. And Kevin seemed like a really bad seed. A loco weed in the pasture.

Would someone of JJ Camacho’s ilk lie to save his ass? You bet he would. Stop it, Rae. You’ll know soon enough from Veronica. But how in hell did Veronica know Morgan would be there? Rae’s mental processing had slowed her driving and taken her attention away from Veronica, and now the detective’s car was nowhere in sight.

*****

As Rae pulled into guest parking at the Lakewood Civic Complex, she noted Veronica’s car parked and empty in the police section.

Not yet eleven in the morning, and heat waves danced along the asphalt parking area. Rae pitched her suit jacket into the back seat, grabbed her briefcase and exited. Damn skirt always ended up around her thighs by the time she got from the driver’s seat of her SUV to the ground. Once she felt established in her new job, she’d go back to jeans. And boots. The damn shoes still weren’t broken in.

Inside the building, she hurried past security. The guards all knew her by name now.

Still no sign of Veronica. How’d she do that? And with a prisoner in tow. Rae pulled out her key card as she hurried down the corridor, then quickly keyed into the department offices.

When she passed the interrogation room, she caught sight of Veronica, Morgan and a youngish guy in a suit. Must be somebody from Stan Eisley’s office. But what could Stan be doing that was more important than being at his number one client’s side?

More importantly, where was Sam Garvin?

Rae briefly greeted the co-workers she passed before holing up in the cubicle that had been assigned as her work space.

Her first order of business was to check for messages on her cell that had been silent longer than usual. For good reason. She'd forgotten to turn it on. Dumb-ass thing to forget. Especially today. She found one from her son. His text message read: Sorry mist u. Try from Miami.

What’s with Miami?

Have newz.

News? What news?

Her finger hovered over the call back icon. Not now, she couldn’t deal with any more news. Not personal news anyway. These cubicles didn’t really have walls. Just partitions. Not like Veronica’s office, which had real walls. Stop it. She couldn’t halt the processing of minutia.

She brought Stephen’s text message up again. Why couldn’t he have left a voicemail? Then she could tell something from his tone. Why didn’t he end the text Luv, Stephen, like a letter? Wishful thinking. She knew guys didn’t do that, especially to their mothers.

“Well,” said Veronica from the doorway, “that was one big, fat nothing.”

“Did you really expect an instant confession?”

“There was enough Demerol in her purse to sedate a horse,” Veronica said.

“What was she doing carrying it around in her purse?”

“She used it to treat her migraines. It's the brand name for meperidine, one of the drugs that turned up on Kevin's tox screen in such a high ratio that it suppressed his breathing and killed him.” Veronica kept her voice low, then added, “Let's go to my office. Bring along whatever you've got from your Bayfield visits.”

Once inside Veronica's office with the door closed, Rae watched the detective sink down in her chair and cup her head in her hands. “I have a really bad feeling about this.” Veronica's dark mane fell over her face, momentarily obscuring it from Rae's vision. “She's being processed for release as we speak.”

“What did you expect? She's rich.”

Veronica looked up through angry eyes. “Don't start with that liberal crap.”

“Don't you start up with me. I'm not even liberal, in case you haven't noticed.”

Veronica shook her head, as if to erase the unwarranted jab at Rae. Probably the nearest thing to an apology she'd get.

“What did you find out about the GST tax?”

“Sam Garvin admitted it hadn't been paid. He took full responsibility. Said Morgan didn't know anything about it.”

Veronica was quiet for a moment, as she appeared to consider possibilities. “I don't think the tax has anything to do with Kevin's death,” she finally said, “but it's something we could use for leverage to maybe get Sam Garvin to implicate Morgan.”

“In your dreams.”

“What?”

“First, tax evasion isn't your jurisdiction--it's federal.”

“I know that. I'm talking about using it as Garvin's possible motive for conspiring with Morgan to kill Kevin.”

“He'll file a supplementary return, pay the tax, pay the penalties,” said Rae, “but he'll never roll on Morgan. Nor her on him.”

“How can you be so sure? We'll do some checking, try to come up with an Achilles heel on one of them,” Veronica said.

“Won't do you a bit of good. They're like a pair of wild geese.”

“Geese?” Veronica raised an eyebrow.

“They mate for life. Did I mention that Sam Garvin is Deidre's biological father?”

Veronica seemed to puff up with a giant intake of breath that she held, then exhaled with a hiss. “Just how long have you had that little piece of information?”

Rae consulted her watch. “About an hour, give or take--”

“You're not going to tell me they were married, common-law or anything?”

“No. I'm pretty sure they weren't. Why?”

“Because that would make her marriage to Nate Farris invalid.”

“What possible relevance--”

“If Nate Farris was not Morgan Bayfield's legal husband, then there would be no chance of him later asserting marital privilege when he was called to testify at her trial. If there is a trial. I can see this whole thing going south.”

“What about the informant? You got a warrant. It must have been a solid lead.”

“It seemed so at the time. Since Mr. Farris is not picking up my calls, I may have been overly optimistic.”

“Nasty Nate is your informant? How'd you manage that?”

“He came to us. Said his wife had been using injectable Demerol for years because it was the only thing that relieved her worst migraines. He believes she used it on Kevin.”

“I thought a husband couldn't testify against his wife.” Rae's already low opinion of Nate Farris took a new plunge.

“Mr. Farris said he was willing to waive his right to spousal privilege.”

“Can he do that?”

“According to the ADA I worked with to get the warrant, he can in a felony case. He's the witness. The potential witness. We don't need Morgan's permission for him to testify.”

“You mentioned looking for an Achilles heel. Looks to me like you've already found him. I don't know about the Achilles part.”

“He may have reason,” Veronica snapped back. “He thinks the lady may have been gearing up to use her latest supply of Demerol on him.” Veronica paused. “Now it makes sense. Morgan and Sam.”

“Yeah, who'd have thought? Did Nate tell you Morgan would be at Sam's office?”

“His best guess. She wasn't at home when he left.”

“That's a pretty big leap,” Rae said. “She could have been…shopping.”

“It doesn't matter,” Veronica said, “if all I have is the Demerol. It's useless without Nate Farris's testimony. Do you have anything else for me?”

“Sam asked if I was wearing a wire.”

“I wish you had been.”

“I wouldn't do that. Wear a wire. But, I've got something else. It may not seem important at first glance.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Veronica motioned toward the guest chair across her desk.

Rae settled down in it, relieved to see the fire sweep back into the detective's eyes.

Nate Farris was sweating profusely, even with the air conditioning on in his Lexus. So, he'd done it. There was no going back now. Literally, no going back.

He hoped he'd have the opportunity to clean out his office, realizing that he should have done that before visiting Veronica Sanchez. If she arrested Sam, too, he'd have the chance after all. But he really hadn't been privy to what was going to be the next step. The Sanchez woman and the black ADA she'd brought in--big guy with gray fuzz for hair--had left him alone while they went off to another room and talked, he guessed, about how credible he appeared to them.

Hell, he didn't even know if they'd get their warrant. He might even have more time than he really wanted. What if they didn't believe him?

His cell phone twanged. Nate glanced down at the caller ID box. Damn. Stan Eisley's number like an announcement: We know what you did.

Not necessarily, he told himself. A million reasons why Stan could be calling. Well, at least…maybe…a couple of reasons?

Who was he kidding? Stan Eisley called Morgan or Sam, never him--the appendage husband. The real estate attorney, whom he consulted from time to time, who wasn't even a partner in the firm was who called him.

Nate let the call go to voicemail, waited a bit and then pressed the code for his mailbox. You have one new message. New message: “Nathan, this is Stan Eisley.” The man's deep baritone resonated. “I'm with Sam Garvin at the Bayfield office. We have an emergency situation. You need to get here as soon as possible.”

That didn't necessarily mean they knew. It could mean Morgan had been arrested, and they were still clueless as to his part. Yes, that was the likeliest explanation.

Just to be sure, he pushed return call. Stan answered on the third ring.

“Nathan? Are you alone?”

“I'm in my car. What's the emergency?”

“Not over the phone. How long will it take you to get here?”

“I'm in Northglenn,” he lied. “Depending on the traffic, half an hour? Maybe forty minutes.”

“We'll wait.”

We? He wondered how many that included. “Uh, is Morgan there? When I left home, her car was gone.” It was a legitimate question.

“No,” replied Stan. “Morgan is not here.” Then the connection terminated.

Nate was just about five minutes from the office, but he'd now have to kill at least half an hour. Shakily, he pulled into a WalMart complex and parked as his cell signaled another incoming call. Thinking it was Stan again, he almost picked it up. A glance at caller ID told him differently. Detective Sanchez. He let the call go to voicemail

*****

“What is it? What's the emergency?” Nate looked from Stan Eisley to Sam Garvin, playing his part to the hilt. “Where's my wife? I called home, and she didn't pick up.”

“Sit down,” Stan invited coldly, in that bigger-than-he-was tone that Nate hated.

Nate could never look at Stan without remembering his surprise at their first meeting. The managing partner of RS&E was small and lean--probably didn't weigh over a hundred thirty pounds. The man clearly didn't match his voice. But his steel-gray eyes had knocked any cocky sense of size superiority right out of Nate at that first encounter.

Today was no different. Worse, in fact. They were in Sam's office. Nate felt like a schoolboy called in to see the principal.

“I think you have a pretty good idea where your wife is. We know where you went this morning.”

“I don't know where Morgan is. So, tell me, where is it you think I went this morning?”

Then it occurred to him that maybe he should seem more worried about Morgan's health or safety. Oh, that should've been his first reaction. “Has she been in an accident? Is she in the hospital?” he asked a bit too loudly.

“Cut the crap, Nathan. Morgan was arrested. You know all about it.”

Sam Garvin sat sphinx-like, regarding Nate as if he were a worm. Not the demeanor of a man worried about his own possible implication in a murder.

“I…I…” Nate stuttered.

“Don't,” interrupted Stan. “No more lies, please. We know you went to Detective Sanchez at Lakewood PD and gave her access to privileged marital communications between yourself and my client. You gave her medical information about your wife, which you are precluded from divulging by both the HIPAA law and the statutes covering marital communications.”

Inside, Nate squirmed to pull himself together. “I know my rights. You can't intimidate me. That's witness tampering.”

He heard something very much like a chuckle coming from Sam's direction. This was not unfolding as planned.

“Before you shoot off your mouth any more, you might want to take a look at this.” Stan handed Nate a document from the top of Sam's desk--many pages long--on legal paper.

He took the papers, read the top page. So, Morgan was suing him for divorce. “So what? If Morgan hadn't, I would have.” Wait a minute. How could she have gotten all this together so soon?

“In case you're wondering, Morgan has planned this for some time. She had been willing to give you a very generous settlement, but in view of your unthinkable behavior, that may change. Drastically.”

Nate's confidence was returning. He was even able to muster a bit of a smirk. “You are aware, Stan, that Morgan and I didn't sign a prenup?” He'd thought it strange at the time. Then he had decided that Jerome must hold him in high esteem. The old man would never have been that forgetful. And Morgan would never have thought of defying her grandfather. Conclusion: If Jerome had wanted his granddaughter to have a prenuptial agreement, by God, there would've been one.

“There wasn't really a need for a prenup,” continued Stan, an icy smile on his lips.

Nate's confidence swayed in the chill wind of insecurity. “I know my rights to marital property. I'm allowed one-half.”

“I'm sure you would be…if there was any…to speak of.”

“You're kidding? Right? How dumb do you think I am?”

Both Stan and Sam seemed to find this amusing.

“Oh, Nathan, I thought you knew. All Morgan's interests in the various trusts are income interests only. She has no principal interest, and the income distributions are by and large discretionary. Anticipating that would-be creditors might find Morgan vulnerable, Jerome had us put spendthrift clauses in his trusts for her benefit. But I'm sure he never anticipated how these might come into play to protect Morgan from her own husband.”

Sarcastic bastard. Nate began to pace, crumpling the divorce papers that were supposed to preface his new life.

“There's our house. That was a gift. I know gifts received during marriage are marital property.”

“You are absolutely right. Gifts received during marriage are considered marital property. But you're wrong about the house you occupy with Morgan.” Stan paused a moment, as if to let his words sink in. “The gift from Jerome was of the use of the house. The vesting is in the Elisabeth Bayfield Trust. You never noticed that? On the property tax bills?”

“I…”

“Now, Sam has something to tell you.”

“About your job, Nate,” Sam was obviously relishing every word, “are you aware that Colorado is an employment-at-will state?”

“Of course I am. You can fire me without cause.” Nate had anticipated this. “Since I'm over fifty, you might have a problem with the age discrimination thing, though.”

Sam smiled his little crooked smile. “Everyone in this office, including myself, is over fifty. You will be replaced by someone over fifty, I assure you.”

This was not how it was supposed to go. None of this was supposed to happen. They must be bluffing.

“There is an alternative. Fix the grievous wrong you've done your wife,” Stan said, “by falsely accusing her of involvement in her grandson's death.”

“You mean her nephew.” The old geezer was losing it. Couldn't keep the identity of his clients straight.

“I mean her grandson. I guess you've been kept out of the loop too long, Nathan. Your wife had a child out of wedlock, before you two met. Deidre was that child.”

“That's not possible.” Nate felt the blood-rush color his face. “She…she couldn't have children.”

“Maybe you couldn't conceive a child, Nathan, but Morgan could and she did. The conversation you related to detective Sanchez and ADA Bell, that you interpreted as proof of conspiracy between your wife and Sam in some sort of evil deed, was in fact an expression of their concern over their secret coming out.”

“Their secret?” It can't be. Not Sam and Morgan. All those years…Sam and Morgan…behind his back. Morgan, with a skinny old geek who didn't even look like he could get it up. The picture would have been laughable if it had not been for the fact that, at that moment, Nate wanted to cry.

“Man up,” Stan said. “You need to fix this wrong impression you've given the authorities.”

“And just why would I do that?” He willed the tears out of his voice.

“Maybe you won't.” Stan shrugged as if it didn't really matter. “You definitely need to get an attorney. Also, you may want to imagine your life stripped of the amenities you now enjoy, versus a comfortable life that includes a consulting contract with Bayfield Enterprises.”

*****

It wasn't until he was driving away from Bayfield Commons and life as he'd known it that Nate realized he'd been played by Morgan. Everything she'd done--including the damn needle by his door--had led him to do exactly what she'd planned all along. She'd get her divorce, and she'd be the one wronged, not him. No way in this world was she going down for Kevin's murder, though he was still convinced he'd been right about that. But the fact was, when it came to deciding between justice for Kevin and his own comfort--well, thought Nate, that was a no-brainer.

His cell buzzed. Detective Sanchez again. He let it go to voicemail.

Chapter 47

“It seemed like a small thing at first,” Rae said to Veronica, “but now I think it's bigger than the GST tax.”

The women sat facing each other in Veronica's office. Rae bent down and pulled a file folder out of her briefcase.

“Big is what we need. Let's see it.”

Rae withdrew the copy of the page from the check stub binder. “I know it doesn't look like much.”

Veronica eyed the page, a skeptical look on her face. “You're right. It doesn't. Just what conclusions am I to draw from this piece of paper?”

“It's a copy of a check stub. You remember the old three-to-a-page--”

“I see what it is,” Veronica snapped. “Just how does it impact the case?”

“When I first interviewed Fredricka Halperin, she said she wrote the middle check on Mondy, April 28th. That would mean the check to Kevin was not written on Friday, the 25th.”

“The check to Fredricka is a paycheck. Maybe Sam Garvin skipped a check when he wrote the one to Kevin. Don't accountants ever leave checks, so they can back-date them?”

“I'm sure they do. I don't think that's what happened here. Fredricka got really hostile when I questioned her about when this check was actually written. Then she did a complete about-face, called me at home with a change of story that I think is a crock. But there's something else. See the first check stub?”

“The one with nothing on it?” Veronica's eyes were beginning to take on a glazed look. “I can't see any of this being of use to us.”

“Stay with me. I know it's boring. The top stub has void written on it. And staple holes.”

“So?”

Rae explained what old-time bookkeepers did with their void checks.

Veronica just shook her head. “I thought you had something. This is useless.”

The more Veronica brushed off her evidence, like bread crumbs on a table cloth, the more the theory wove its way into Rae's head.

“Could I see your notes on the interview you had with Sam Garvin? The first one, right after Kevin's body turned up.”

“What for?” Veronica had on her defeated face again.

“Just humor me. Could I see your report?”

Veronica rummaged around in a manila file folder she took from a side drawer. She extracted a two-page hand-written report and handed it to Rae. “Be my guest.”

Rae studied the pages silently for several moments, then looked up at Veronica. “In answer to your question, When did you last see Kevin Cantrell, Sam says, He arrived in Mrs. Bayfield Farris's car at around mid-day. Note, he doesn't say the boy was alive. Just that he arrived in Morgan's car.”

Veronica rolled her eyes and growled under her breath.

“Then you say, Did he ask for money? Sam answers, I already knew the amount from Mrs. Bayfield-Farris. Didn't that seem like a peculiar answer?”

“I always find talking to accountants peculiar.”

“Thanks a bunch. I'll overlook it, though.”

“Whatever.” Veronica looked at her watch.

“Then you ask, Did you give Kevin the hundred thousand dollars he allegedly asked for?, and Sam says, I had already written the check. He certainly didn't refuse it. You ask, What did Kevin say? Did he make any threats in your presence? Sam says, I don't remember any specific threats. Doesn't that strike you as pretty non-responsive?”

“No. It seems like a thoughtful response.”

“You can't see it?” Rae hurried on, not waiting for a reply. “Morgan calls and tells Sam what Kevin's doing--the extortion bit. She asks him to get the check ready. He writes the first check, but he doesn't put anything on the stub. He'll decide that later, after he gets the lay of the land, so to speak. Then Morgan calls back, says we're on our way, but Kevin won't be needing the check after all. Sam must've asked her what she meant, but she was probably evasive. So, being the meticulously peculiar accountant that he is, Sam voids the first check, folds it and staples it to the back of the stub, having no idea that Kevin is dead or that anybody but him and the family is going to be looking at that check book.”

Veronica's phone rang, wiping the glazed look off her face. She stood after a brief exchange. “Sorry to interrupt your fantasy, but the coroner has faxed over Reggie Navarro's autopsy results.”

“Any needle holes in him?” Rae asked, choosing to ignore Veronica's arctic splash on her theory, but smarting inside like she'd been slapped.

“I doubt it,” replied Veronica.

Because you were there? “Can I go with you to look at it?”

Veronica hesitated. “Not this time.” Veronica looked at her watch again. “My boss and I have to meet with some IAB people about Reggie's misconduct. His DNA matches the semen from Deidre's rape kit. One of the samples anyway. The second set is probably Camacho's, but we've got nothing to compare it to.”

“Misconduct?” Rae couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “He raped a victim he was supposed to protect. He's worse than JJ Camacho because he's…he was…a cop. You say misconduct like he got a speeding ticket or something.”

“I do not!” Veronica glared at Rae. “Commander Marsh's and Sergeant Wehr's jobs are hanging by threads as we speak. The cover-up is being taken very seriously. That should make you happy.”

“Nothing about this mess makes me happy. Do you mind if I try to track down Fredricka and dig into this check thing? I know you aren't buying it.”

“Do anything you need to finish up the audit.”

Chapter 48

Fredricka Halperin lived in a modest brick bungalow on Garland Avenue, not far from her place of employment, but a cut above in terms of the neighborhood.

Rae parked in front of the house, noting the neat lawn bordered by a low picket fence. Day lilies poked their yellow heads through the pickets. A small gate barred Rae's access to the front walk, but she found it unlocked--just a catch, probably to keep dogs and kids off the lawn.

The woman who answered Rae's knock on the door threw her off balance for an instant. Through the latched screen door, she appeared almost a duplicate of Fredricka, but not quite. The hair color was the same, but the style was different, and she wasn't wearing glasses.

“Honey, you really need to get yourself a spiel,” said the Freddie look-alike into Rae's gawking silence. “Whatever it is you're selling, you need to speak up, not stand there like a stone.”

“Oh, right,” said Rae, laughing at the prospect of being a tongue-tied sales person. “I'm looking for Fredricka Halperin. Just for a moment, I thought you were Fredricka.”

“What's this about?” A frown puckered the woman's brow.

“I'm Rachel Esposito, from the Lakewood Police Department. This concerns an audit we're working on with the Jefferson County D.A.'s office.”

“Oh, I know who you are. I'm Alvina Halperin, her sister. She told me all about it. But I thought she fixed things before she left.”

“Fixed things?” It didn't look like the sister was going to open the door, but on the plus side, her tone wasn't overly hostile. Maybe a gnat's ass the other side of neutral. Rae strove for optimism.

“Before she went on vacation,” Alvina explained.

So the vacation was for real. At least she's alive. The prospect of a dead Freddie had been looming on the edge of Rae's thoughts. Now she was glad she didn't voice these fears to Veronica. That, on top of her other trashed theories, would've been the kiss of death for future forensic contracts.

Rae nodded, relief softening her expression. “I hoped to catch her before she left. Just some clarification.” She smiled at Freddie's sister.

“Well, honey, you missed her by a day. I'm glad she went. It's the first vacation she's had in five years.”

“Wow, looks like she was due.” Rae pushed on. “Everybody's got to take some personal time or they burn out. I'll bet that was why she got sick a while back and had to come home in the middle of the day.”

“You know, honey, you just may be right,” Alvina said.

“Do you happen to remember what day that was, when Fredricka came home with the flu?”

“Can't help you there. I took a cruise to Alaska the last two weeks in April. You won't catch me being a slave to the office.”

How'd she know it was April? I didn't say anything about April.

“Would you do me a favor, Alvina?” Rae smiled.

“You want my sister to call you when she gets back? That won't be till the end of June.”

Rae blinked. “That's quite a vacation.”

“Europe. I wish I could've gone.” Alvina sighed wistfully, then closed the door in Rae's face.

*****

Rae replayed the events of the day as she did her barn chores that evening. She marveled at Morgan Bayfield's calm upon being arrested. And Sam had acted with amazing alacrity in phoning the lawyer. Not even one blink of surprise between the two of them when Veronica walked through the door and plunked down the warrant.

And what was it she felt in herself? She'd gone through all the motions, given her best shot at presenting her theory to Veronica. But, while Veronica's reaction had hurt her pride, another part of Rae was glad to see the wild geese gliding to safety.

The barn cats trailed her at a haughty distance, their attitudes implying that they'd made their own dinner arrangements. The brindle tabby caught a small wild rabbit and gutted it in front of her. No sense of shame clouded the cat's instincts. Rae wondered if the same could be said of some people.

Self-preservation was strong, but it came out so differently in people, shaped by inhibitions in ways an animal would never dream of…if animals dreamed. What if Morgan and Sam decided she was a threat? Rae shook her head, to clear the vision of a needle coming at her. Goose bumps raised the hairs on her arms though the air was warm. Jagged blades of dry lightning pierced the northern horizon, like a giant's game of mumbledepeg. Not often did she feel so alone and vulnerable.

As Rae hurried toward the house, chores completed, she felt rain drops. Anthony. Sometimes she felt him in just a change of temperature in the air as she passed a certain spot--never the same spot.

The teaser sprinkle of rain had stopped by the time she reached the porch. The pasture was withering in the June heat--too early in the season to be so hot. Rae made a mental note to order ditch water.

In the kitchen, she glanced at the blinking message light on her phone. At the same instant, she thought of Stephen and his two calls she had missed. The caller ID read unavailable.

Whoever it was could wait. Rae punched in Stephen's cell number. The phone rang until she thought it would surely go to her son's voicemail. Then she heard a woman's voice, young and self-assured, “Hello.”

Rae paused a beat before asking, “May I speak to Stephen? Uh, this is Stephen Esposito's number?”

“He's not available right now. Who's this?”

Rae wanted to ask back, And who's this? But she killed the urge. “His mom. He called. I'm just returning his call.” Who is she that she's got Stephen's cell? People don't usually leave their cells behind when they go out.

Rae…

I know, Grandma, I've got a nosey streak.

“Oh, right. He'll have to call you back. He's in the shower,” said the perky young voice.

I didn't ask. I didn't ask. “Oh, thank you. I'll be here. Tell Stephen I'm home for the day.” Dummy! It's night. It's ten o'clock in Miami.

“I will. It's good to talk to you, Mrs. Esposito.”

“Thank you. Nice to meet you…”

“Callie.”

“Of course. I'm just a little slow on the draw…it's been a long day. I…uh…just realized the time. Stephen can call me tomorrow. Okay?”

“Sure, Mrs. Esposito. Bye now.”

Who the hell is Callie? Somebody important. Hopefully, Stephen wasn't having casual sex.

Who the hell are you kidding? Stephen is a healthy twenty-four-year-old male.

That's not you, Grandma?

Rae buzzed around the kitchen, hoping sustenance would clear her head. There was morning coffee left in the Krupps and leftover lasagna in the fridge.

Two minutes in the microwave should make the lasagna palatable. While it was nuking, she played the phone message that had been left on her machine: Mrs. Esposito, Sam's voice, the bank has returned copies of the checks to Deidre. I'll have them available for you tomorrow.

Rae picked up the phone. Her first reflex was to call Veronica. But what if Veronica wanted her to wear a wire? Rae replaced the phone in its cradle. What to do? Sleep on it. Fat chance she'd get any sleep tonight. Might as well warm up the coffee.

Chapter 49

Rae heaped her entire Bayfield audit file on Veronica's desk the next morning. “Here's everything I have to date. There is no evidence of misappropriation of funds. The only screwy things are the page of checks, which we won't revisit, and the GST tax which I've estimated. If Deidre's disbursement checks went to Camacho, you'll soon know that. If she cashed the checks and gave him the cash, you're back to square one.”

“I'm back to square one? Wait a minute. What're you doing? Quitting on me?”

“When I pick up the bank copies of the disbursements to Deidre and examine them, my work will be finished.”

“You've got a contract. You're finished when I say you are,” Veronica said.

“Not when you trash my conclusions. I don't need that.” Rae turned toward the door.

Veronica grabbed her arm. “I was needlessly rude to you yesterday. I had no right to take out my frustrations on you.”

“That's true,” Rae said. You acted like a roaring bitch.

“I still haven't made contact with Nate Farris.”

“Are you worried something might've happened to him?” Rae's anger softened, replaced by her usual curiosity. If she left the case in a huff, she might miss something besides billable hours.

Veronica shook her head. “They wouldn't be that stupid. He's checked into a Holiday Inn in Arvada. We've had surveillance on him.”

“You think he's having second thoughts?”

“I do.” Veronica sighed. “About those checks? You're probably right. It makes sense, but there's nothing the D.A. can use. There are too many ways they can neatly explain it away. Nate's story seemed solid. If he recants, I don't even think we can use the Demerol.”

“Why not?” Rae asked.

“Because the information that it might be in her purse came from Nate. With him recanting, the worst we'd have on Morgan is possession of a controlled substance. That is, if his recanting doesn't also shoot down our probable cause for seizing her purse. There's nothing on the packets or syringes that identifies where they came from. Her prints aren't even on the packets.”

“She was wearing gloves when I met her,” offered Rae. “Like my mother used to wear when she got dressed to go to church or something. People don't dress like that for every day.”

“None of it matters if we don't have Nate's testimony.” Veronica thumbed through the documents Rae had deposited on her desk. “I see there was a stop-payment put on the check to Kevin. The second check. And the stop is dated after Kevin's body was discovered.”

“Yes. Sam is meticulous. I would have been surprised if he'd overlooked that.”

“Rae, I owe you.” Veronica looked her straight in the eye. “I'm going to try to keep you in the loop from now on. Starting with Reggie's autopsy. He died of a myocardial infarction.”

“A heart attack.”

“I didn't order a tox screen. Why waste the taxpayers' money?”

Rae suppressed comment on that one. “What about IAB? Have they taken any action?”

“Too early, but I'm sure they will.”

Veronica paused and seemed to be searching for the right words.

To say what? Rae twitched in her chair.

“All this talk about wires,” began Veronica.

I knew it! Here it comes. I won't--

Veronica cut her off in mid-thought. “I was wearing a wire when I brought Morgan into Wehr's apartment. She's been our primary focus from the beginning. Since Deidre's death.”

Rae gaped. “What about JJ Camacho?”

“We suspected he might have been acting on her orders.”

“Raping her daughter? Taking her money? Give me a break!”

“No,” Veronica's voice rose in pitch. “Of course not. That was before we knew Deidre was her daughter. But the whole bit about Sam sending Beth and Josh away without her knowledge. Claiming she thought Beth was missing. All smoke and mirrors.”

“You never suspected Danny?”

“I'm a realist, Rae. Danny had the least to gain from Deidre's death, and nothing to gain from Kevin's. My idea was to get Morgan away from her lawyer. She wasn't officially a suspect, so we could do that. I had no idea what was on the tape. Just that it was bound to be emotional. Then when I saw it, I hoped that when she saw it, she would crack and admit to killing Kevin.”

“I guess she didn't.”

“As a matter of fact, she did crack. But not in the way I'd expected. Her face just crumpled up and she kept repeating 'My baby, my baby.' She rocked back and forth till I thought she was going to have a seizure. But she never shed a tear, and she never said a word that might implicate her in either murder.”

Rae nodded, remembering Morgan's behavior the day before. “Everybody has a breaking point. Yesterday may be the closest Morgan's come to hers.” She got up from the chair, preparing to leave Veronica's office.

“Any other questions?”

“Why did you keep Wheat Ridge out of the loop?”

“Are you forgetting the Wheat Ridge/Stan Eisley connection?” Veronica said.

“Oh, right. The fathers and their frat brother sons.”

“Anything else?”

There was one more nibbling at Rae's brain. A biggie. She already knew the answer Veronica would give. “When you and Morgan left Wehr's…was Reggie…”

“I didn't even see Reggie. I told you, it was the next day, when I went in with the Wheat Ridge guys--”

“Oh, right, I forgot,” Rae lied.

*****

Sam Garvin met Rae at the door of Bayfield Enterprises. His craggy face looked like parchment drawn over bones. Rae felt her heart lurch, trying to imagine how he felt.

As she followed Sam past the picture of the groundbreaking, she took another look at young Sam. Doing the math from the date on the picture, she realized that he was younger than he appeared, even on good days. More likely early sixties rather than seventies. Not that much older than Morgan. They'd just had really shitty timing.

“I have the check copies laid out in the conference room, the one you used before,” he said.

No niceties this morning, thought Rae as she followed him down the hall. She wanted to ask how Morgan was holding up. And it wasn't just curiosity. Somehow the face of crime wasn't coming through in black or white. It was weird how something in her was now rooting for the geese. That's how she'd come to think of Sam and Morgan.

How could this be when they had probably killed at least one person and maybe planned to do in Nasty Nate? She guessed it fell into the class of emotion that let your heart bleed for a trapped coyote when you knew it would bite your hand off if you tried to help it.

In the conference room, Sam stood at an appropriate distance while Rae examined the checks drawn on Deidre's trust. The first two appeared to have been cashed by Deidre. The next three, each for $50,000.00, were endorsed by Deidre to the order of James Joseph Camacho. Under Deidre's writing, Camacho had endorsed the checks and apparently received the cash.

“A hundred and fifty thou is hardly enough to retire on,” Rae said.

“My count exactly,” replied Sam, apparently ignoring the gist of her comment.

“I mean, this looks like just a start.”

“As soon as I found out what was going on, I called the police. We didn't know Dee was turning her monthly disbursements over to him until she tried to double up on January's. That's when she first called me.” The muscles in his jaw began to quiver.

“You did the right thing,” Rae said. The sight of pain in his usually stoic face sent tears brimming. She blinked them back.

“I did the right thing, and it got her killed.” There was a catch in his voice. “Do you think these checks will make any difference? Now do you think the police will finally go after this scumbag?”

“I think they've been looking for him all along.”

“We know he was an informant. The police and the DEA considered him more important than my daughter.”

So, he'd finally said the words. My daughter. Rae saw the blood rush into his face from the effort. Or the pain. Or the pride that might have been, had things been different.

Then she realized Sam had spoken of Camacho in the past tense. Did he just mean that Camacho was no longer an informant?

“Morgan Bayfield is not a murderer,” said Sam.

So, he's leaving off the Farris.

“I'm in the process of preparing the supplemental Form 706 to pay the GST tax,” he continued. “That was my error in judgment, and I'll pay for it. There's been no other crime on our part.”

Our? “I'm sure you had no idea Kevin was dead when you voided that first check to him.” Rae ventured out on the thin ice of her theory, but this time Veronica knew where she was and had a man stationed across the street in front of the porno shop.

She'd never seen Sam caught off guard. This time, he blinked.

“Of course we didn't know he was dead. What check are you talking about?”

“The first one on the page with Fredricka's check and the other check to Kevin.”

“There was only one check to Kevin.”

“Could I see the check book again? I'll show you what I mean.”

“Check stubs over thirty days old are shredded. Do you want to see the ledgers again? Or the bank statements?”

Rae shook her head. Period. End of story. That's all you're going to get, Rae.

“Can't say that I would've blamed you.”

“Morgan and I have quite enough to blame ourselves for during Deidre's lifetime. We're taking steps to see to it that our daughter's death doesn't go unpunished.”

Don't say it, Rae.

Too late, Grandma. The words were already in motion. “Kevin's death was a step in that direction.”

Sam's next words glided smoothly over Rae's comment, never acknowledging it. “Since the police have chosen to ignore Deidre's murder, we're employing other means to get the justice she deserves. Legal means.”

“You're suing the city?” Rae blurted.

Sam cracked a smile, but there was no humor in it. “Mrs. Esposito, I'm disappointed. You appeared to have more imagination than that.”

Enough, Rae. “I'll just take these check copies and be on my way.” Rae placed the evidence in her briefcase. I'm not playing any more games with you, old man.

But there was one more thing, since their paths were unlikely to cross again: “Why didn't you and Morgan just run away?”

As he looked at her, Rae saw his eyes brim, then he blinked. “A pregnant teenager and an adult male?”

“I mean … later. After Deidre was born.”

“Once Morgan reached majority, Deidre's identity had been fixed. Morgan was so cowed by Jerome that she dared not take a breath on her own.”

“And then Jerome died.”

“And Morgan was reborn.”

Sam stepped aside, allowing her to precede him through the door. They walked to the front entrance.

“There's still so much control here,” Rae observed. “How did Danny ever end up as Deidre's P/R? Why didn't you or Morgan step up to the plate?”

“Danny insisted. Since he promised to use RS&E as his legal counsel, we thought no harm, no foul. We underestimated Danny.”

“It was after you'd agreed not to fight him on the P/R thing that you came to believe he had a connection to Camacho?”

“Of course.”

“And that's why Morgan threw the coffee at him at the funeral reception? I think I can understand--”

“Morgan threw coffee at Danny? At anyone? Where did that tale come from?”

“Where do you think?”

Sam just shook his head. They paused beside the front door. “There's a piece of advice I'm going to give you,” said Sam. “You may not thank me for it. Not today, anyway.”

Rae looked at him, her nod giving him permission to continue.

“Morgan and I are fortunate in that we've been given another chance at a life together. The loss of our daughter could've been the end for both of us. Instead, it's becoming our beginning.”

Your point? She started out the door, looking back a question at him.

“My point is, Mrs. Esposito, don't let the loss of your husband turn you into a bitter old woman.”

Rae dove through the open door, slamming it behind her. How dare he? The sun outside in the parking lot scalded her cheeks. Her grief, her private grief was none of his damn business. As she threw open the door to her SUV, her reflection in the driver's side car window spoke louder than Sam's words.

The sound of her cell, the William Tell Overture, heightened her anger. The lone ranger. Yep, that was her. Goddammit, so what? The musical phrase repeated, and she grabbed the phone, remembering Veronica's scheduled call.

“How'd it go?”

“Peachy.”

“What's wrong with you?” Veronica wanted to know.

“Nothing. I've got the check copies. Camacho got a wad out of this, but not as much as I thought.”

“Probably not as much as Nate Farris is getting.”

“You've heard from him?”

“Yeah,” Veronica said in a tired voice. “He's invoking his marital communication privilege. And the stuff that didn't fall under the privilege? He's recanted.”

Chapter 50

After Rae handed Veronica the check copies, she listened as the detective did a port-mortem on her dead case.

“We don't know where she got the injectable Demerol,” Veronica confided. “The packet had no identifying information. We could trace the manufacturer's number on the vials and syringes, and come up with the hospital it was originally sold to, but that won't help our case if it's ruled that we had no probable cause to seize the purse. If only she'd taken the stuff out in your presence.”

“Oh, great! And maybe injected me right before you came in? Thanks a bunch, Veronica.”

“I didn't mean that.”

“So nailing Morgan for Kevin's death may be a lost cause,” Rae said, “but what about Deidre? And JJ?”

Veronica looked at her for such a long moment that Rae knew there was something percolating. She held her breath, hoping Veronica wouldn't decide not to tell her.

Finally: “We're certain JJ was not involved in Kevin's death.“

“You found JJ?”

Another pause--not so long this time. “We found Kevin's cell phone in the Golden house. JJ had been texting Kevin up until the day his body was found.”

“Then you do know where JJ is?”

“We know the approximate vicinity where he was. He apparently never left the area. The calls trace to a tower in Arvada.”

“You think his brother was hiding him and just pretending to look for him?”

“Career suicide and a one-way ticket to Canyon City,” Veronica muttered. “But now we'll never know with Reggie dead. We'll keep looking, but…”

“But you're running out of work for me on this case.”

“There'll be others,” Veronica said. “There may still be tag ends. It's not over till it's over.”

*****

After she left Veronica, Rae decided to swing by Danny's and collect her rain check on the grand tour, and maybe glide into the subject of Danny's rift with Morgan. Could she do this without bringing Sam's contradictory version of the events into the conversation?

It was the kind of day that made people swear they'd never leave Colorado. Other skies could never be so deep a blue. In the distance, cirrus clouds played along the tops of front range peaks.

As she approached, Rae noticed that Danny's house now had windows, so he actually had a view of the lake. Why wouldn't he want to live there? What better place to put ghosts to rest than in this beautiful setting?

Rae's anger at Sam had passed. Now she stewed and fretted that her protracted grief hung out there in the open for all the world to see. Her emotions still not in check, she drove past Danny's, noting roofers at work, but no sign of Danny's truck. Something was different about this roof. Solar panels? Rae smiled. So like Danny to do his bit for the environment. She guessed it cost maybe twice what a normal roof would cost. He'd brought her bill current and even had enough left to do all this elaborate remodeling? He must have paid Sandy, too. And RS&E, for Gil's time. How much equity was in that erstwhile ugly house?

Rae pulled into the small parking area that preceded the Graystone Lake bridge. A single small rowboat drifted on softly rippling cerulean waters. She could see its occupant holding a fishing pole, the line moving slowly with the current.

There are fish in there? She imagined her grandsons holding fishing poles while she guided them in the lore her dad had taught her. Rae remembered her first trout. And for no good reason, she began to cry.

Don't be a wild goose, Rae.

I'm trying, Grandma, I'm trying.

Try harder.

And she thought of her dad, big Eddie Rothe, strong as a bull, but the Big C got him, and his Rose just had to follow.

They don't call it that anymore, Rae. Cancer. They talk about it now.

I know that. Why is it, Grandma, when half a couple goes, the other half's not far behind? She remembered her mom, the fragile Rose. I'm nothing like her.

You're more like her than you think, Rae.

Rae sniffled and leaned on the memory of Grandma who didn't dry up and blow away like cottonwood leaves in autumn no matter who died.

The Overture emanated from her cell. Rae glanced down through wet eyes, and then answered the call.

“Stephen?”

“Hey, Mom, I hear you've met Callie.”

“Well, I guess you could call it that. She's your new girlfriend?” Rae swallowed the sniffles and hurried on, “She sounds really nice, Stephen. Very…friendly.” Keep it positive, Rae.

“She's not my girlfriend, Mom.” Stephen had something different in his voice that Rae couldn't identify.

“She sounded like a girl.”

Stephen's laughter roared in her ear. When it quieted, he said, “She's my fiancée. Callie and I got engaged last week.”

Ohmigod! Rae didn't know it could feel like this. She wasn't one of those clinging moms. It was just that she thought she'd have more time to prepare.

“Mom? Say something.”

“I'm…speechless. I'm…happy.” Yes, happy is good. “Are you happy?” Dumb, Rae. What's he supposed to say? Duh.

Stephen laughed again, a joyous eruption so like Anthony's laughter had been. That was answer enough.

“When is the wedding?”

“Next year, when we graduate.”

Good. That means they don't have to get married.

Rae, nobody has to get married any more.

“You met her in school?”

“Callie's a criminology major, too.”

Not two of them in the same household. “That's nice. You'll have a lot in common.” See, I can be tactful.

“Since we're off for summer break, we'd like to come out for the Fourth of July. Then you two can meet.”

“How about Tori and Jeffrey? We could make it a kind of family reunion-engagement party.”

“I doubt they could get plane tickets that fast. Mom, plane tickets are something you really need to get in advance.”

Tori's talked to her brother about next spring.

Why wouldn't she?

Stephen continued into Rae's silence, “You've got about two weeks to get ready. Can you do that? How's your schedule?”

“I'm just winding something up. You'll stay at the house?”

“If that's okay.”

Joy, anticipation, and dread dumped on her like a summer snowstorm. “Uh, I'll get everything ready.” So, why was she stuttering? “Uh, one room or two?”

Her son's laughter again, like music. Don't get maudlin, Rae.

“One. That's okay?”

“Sure. I just needed to know how many sets of sheets and all that stuff.” See, Grandma, I'm bending, I'm bending.

“Okay, I'll email you our itinerary. Gotta go, Mom. I love you.”

“Me, too. Can't wait to meet Callie.”

Stephen's news blasted Rae out of her snail shell mode. She started up the car and turned back toward Danny's. While she drove, she conjured up pictures of what Callie might look like.

At the house, Rae saw that Danny's truck was back. Then she saw him around the side directing the operation by the looks of it. He had more color in his cheeks now, didn't have that hospital pallor as if he'd just crawled out from under a rock.

She parked and got out of the car. “Hey, Danny, I'm ready for the grand tour.”

Danny waved, then jogged over to where Rae stood and gave her a brotherly hug. “Another week and we'll be able to inhabit the entire house,” he said. “To actually have a kitchen again. I never thought I'd be sick of eating out.”

“Where are you and Josh staying?”

“In the house. The basement. Or the garden level. Basement sounds low class--as in bargain basement.”

“No bargains here, I'm sure.”

Danny gave her an edgy laugh as he led her from the new deck into the new kitchen. All granite and stainless steel. A huge island dominated the center. Rae noted the absence of cigarette packs on the island. Her eyes skimmed the other surfaces, sweeping for ash trays, finding none. “I'm impressed,” Rae said.

Danny smiled. “I've gone into partnership with Pat. This is going to be our showcase for future remodel jobs.”

“But you're going to live here, right?”

“You guessed it.”

“Wasn't such a stretch. How does Josh feel about that?”

“No argument out of him. Especially since Beth will be right across the lake with her grandmother.”

“You know. When did you find out?”

“That my sister-in-law was my mother-in-law?” Danny giggled, but it seemed forced, no humor in it.

“I was going to tell you,” Rae said.

“No need. Deidre told me soon after we met.”

So, Danny could keep a secret. And lie convincingly. As she strained to recall the early conversations on the subject, the words, Morgan is childless jumped out at her. “Did Morgan know you knew the truth? Did anybody besides Deidre?”

“Not likely,” Danny said and then quickly changed the subject. “Did you know Nate's moved out? They're getting a divorce. Sam is Beth's grandfather. That was news to me.”

“And you're all on speaking terms now?”

“We seem to be.”

So much for Sam's different version of the rift. Rae decided to file that under needlessly inflammatory for the present.

Danny switched on an elaborate coffee maker that ground its own beans. While the coffee brewed, he showed Rae through the house. The upstairs master bedroom suite had a balcony that looked out on the lake. The master bath had his and hers sinks, separate shower and sunken Jacuzzi tub. And there was one of those things with the French name she couldn't remember that sprayed you after you peed, as well as the standard toilet--Danny must be expecting female company. Everything was top-drawer, which meant top-dollar as well.

Where is the money coming from? “Old man Bayfield must be churning around in his pine box,” Rae ventured with a smirk, “to see such a spending spree.”

Danny giggled. “I can picture it. Oh, we sold the triplex over on Independence. No sweat. Most of the loan is paid off.”

Rae nodded her approval as they wended their way back to the kitchen where Danny poured coffee into two stoneware mugs. As she took a seat on a bar stool adjacent to the island, she thought again of the scene Danny had described: Morgan throwing hot coffee at him. The scene Sam told her never happened.

“Danny, I don't understand how one minute Morgan hates your guts and the next, you're all one happy family. Could it be that you were so stressed that your mind embellished the rift?”

Danny looked at her quizzically. “It can't be that hard to understand. Once she found out that I wasn't responsible for Dee's contact with JJ, things started normalizing. It must've been reading that police report that set her off. Rae, it was Morgan who called me the night Deidre died. The cops didn't have my number.”

“She called you in Pagosa Springs?” In another attempt at recall, Rae could have sworn that in Danny's earlier version, the police had informed him of Deidre's death.

“No. At the motel.”

“What motel? Where were you?”

“In town for the intervention. Morgan and I planned an intervention for Dee. It was scheduled for the next day. If only we hadn't waited so long.”

“Why didn't you tell me any of this?”

“You never asked. What difference does it make? We didn't do it in time. She died.” His tone was almost matter-of-fact.

“You're right,” Rae said, “it's going forward that counts.” She took a sip of coffee. Too hot. She set the mug down.

“That's what I'm doing,” Danny said. “Josh and Beth are amazing considering what crappy parents Dee and I were.”

“Don't beat yourself up.”

“I'm not. I've started fresh. Mister Clean in the flesh.”

Rae rolled her eyes. “Come on now, let's not overdo it.”

“And how are your two wonderful kids?” Did she detect a note of sarcasm?

“They're telling me I have to move forward,” Rae said, trying the coffee again and finding it cooled to bearable. “Put the past behind. So I understand something of what you're going through. Going forward is not easy if you've been stuck in a time warp for thirteen years.”

Danny nodded, looking at her intently. “It's not good to be alone as much as you are. It'll mess with your mind.”

“Oh, so you've noticed.” She made a funny-crazy face. At least, she hoped it was funny. Danny didn't laugh.

“Seriously, living out there in the country, doesn't it ever get to you? I mean, it's so isolated.”

She'd thought of the isolation and its implications but never for very long. “I've got Anthony's police pistol. He taught me how to use it. I keep it close by.”

“Uh-huh, when did you last fire it?”

The truth was--never, but she wouldn't admit it. The drift of the conversation was beginning to scrape on old wounds. “Recently enough,” she lied. “Don't worry about me, Danny. You've got enough on your plate.”

“Not too much to be there for you. Like you've been there for me,” Danny said.

Rae was touched. Not everybody could handle money responsibly. That didn't automatically make them a bad person, did it?

*****

Her drive home was long and slow, the Wadsworth traffic tedious, giving Rae plenty of mulling time.

The feud between Danny and Morgan had evaporated like virga over Rabbit Mountain. Apparently there had been no animosity on the night Deidre died. Morgan could have just as easily given Danny's motel number to the police, but she chose to call him herself. Lakewood's police report on the welfare check would've been available to her by then. If she'd had it, she would have already known that Deidre had named Danny as the JJ connection. But what if Morgan hadn't picked up the report until after Deidre died?

Let it go, Rae.

But there was an odor from the carcass of the dead case that she couldn't quite identify. Maybe she didn't want to name it. Something about the way Danny was spending money.

Like a drunken sailor.

Right on, Grandma.

*****

After her barn chores were done, Rae sat before her computer and logged into Jeffco's Virtual Courthouse. Beside her were the copies of documents she'd kept from Deidre's estate file when she'd turned the job over to Sandy. She focused on the list of real properties Deidre had owned at her death, all held in the name of the limited liability company Danny had mentioned previously, but never by name: DanDee Properties, LLC, a company listed as having been created only months before Deidre died, and over which Danny held management control.. Then she proceeded to do all the things she would have done had the completion of the estate tax return not been turned over to Sandy Robinson.

She looked for deeds. Deeds of trust recorded after loans had been taken out. There were nine properties in all, including the personal residence. All nine had been mortgaged. Rae pulled up the first document--the one for the residence. The only one Danny acknowledged having taken a loan on. But the deed of trust was recorded in late March, not as recently as Danny had claimed. As she pulled up the information on the balance of the properties, a sickening feeling churned her stomach. Each and every one had been stripped dry of equity. In fact, in today's declining real estate market, they would probably not bring enough to retire the loans. The deed of trust on the Independence property had not been released, possibly because the sale Danny had told her about had been so recent--unless Danny had lied about that, too.

The irony was irrefutable: Danny had duplicated the sins of his father who had drained his children's trusts by pulling all the cash out of the real estate, that comprised the bulk of the trust investments, for his own ill-fated investments.

Many years ago when they were working together on a sensitive case, Sandy had given her his private number. Now she used it for the first time, not really knowing what she would ask. Hoping that Sandy would give her some reassurance--an explanation that would make her say, Oh, yeah. Why didn't I think of that? And Danny would still be something of a screw-up, but not a thief.

“Rae?” Sandy's voice sounded alarmed upon seeing her ID on his private phone at such an hour. Not late, but she'd never called him at night before. “Is something wrong?”

She was tongue-tied for a moment. “I'm hoping you'll tell me that there's not. Something wrong, that is.”

“What is it? Your kids okay? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“I saw Danny today and he said the Independence house sold.”

“That's right.” Sandy sounded a bit miffed.

“Come on, Sandy, you must know that all the properties are mortgaged to the hilt. Danny has drained them dry and has been using the later loans to pay down the earlier ones.”

Silence.

“Sandy?”

“I'm surprised that you'd put me in this position, Rae. I can't discuss this with you.” His voice was colder than Rae had ever heard it.

“I just thought…” What had she thought? That Sandy would come up with an explanation that would make the suspicions go away? And she realized how attached she'd become to Danny Lassiter. It seemed that doubting him cut nearly as deep as if he'd been her own child or younger brother.

Sandy didn't help her out. “I'm sorry,” she finally said in a small voice. “I won't trouble you again.” She hung up without waiting for an answer from Sandy.

Chapter 51

Rae presented her bill to the Lakewood PD office in person just to have a chance to talk to Veronica. She felt a need to share her thoughts about Danny and her discovery of his ongoing immaturity. But as she approached Veronica's office, she realized that discussing the matter with the detective would be no more appropriate than phoning Sandy had been.

Veronica called to her through open her door as Rae approached, “Ready for your next assignment?”

“You've got one?” Rae entered and sat down in Veronica's guest chair.

“Not really, but I'm confident that it's only a matter of time.”

“You have time for lunch?” Rae asked.

“Next time.” Veronica glanced at her watch.

Rae got up and moved back toward the door, relegating thoughts of Danny Lassiter to her mental transfer file. Just let it be. Veronica followed her and held out her hand, then apparently thought better of it as she embraced Rae. “Don't be a stranger.”

As Rae hugged her back, she thought of Justin growing up not knowing his brother and sister. She thought of Tori and Stephen, the unsuspecting siblings, and her heart did a frog-leap in her throat. I'll really have to mull this one.

*****

Telling Tori about Justin had been the easy part. Her daughter was so full of love, Rae would have been surprised at any other reaction than the immediate acceptance she voiced.

“But I do have some bad news, Mom,” Tori had added. “We can't afford to come for the Fourth. It was too late to get any good deals on tickets.”

“I could send you some money.”

“No, Mom. We've discussed it. We're coming for Christmas. Can't we meet Justin then?” Before Rae could answer, Tori continued, “Did Stephen tell you they were going to Callie's folks' for Christmas?”

“I don't think so…”

“Well, we'll be there with you in Colorado. I'm going to book our flights soon. I'm just waiting for fares to go down. You can go on Orbitz and ask for the cheapest flight.” Tori paused. “Mom, you can go on line and book your flight…”

“Your brother already reminded me of this option.”

“Well?”

“I'm getting there. Don't push.”

*****

Rae feared telling Stephen that his father had another son might be more of a problem than telling Tori. What if she didn't get all the information out before he jumped to the wrong conclusion? Wasn't that what she had done when Veronica had tried to explain how Justin came to be?

Through Rae's stuttering starts and stops, Stephen had held his silence. Then his expressed wish to meet his brother had been as genuine as his sister's had been.

The only person left to confront was Veronica.

*****

After Rae extended her invitation, there had been silence on Veronica's end. Rae held the phone, waiting, feeling like a fool. Feeling rejected. The hand of friendship, slapped away. Worse than one of those dead-fish handshakes. Much worse because this was the offer of family that was being rejected.

When Veronica finally answered, Rae thought she heard tears in her voice. “I…I'm not sure if we can do that. If we did…and later, after Justin had become attached to his brother and sister…”

“What? I don't understand. They already love him. That's how my kids are.”

“It's not your kids I'm worried about, Rae.”

Rae stiffened in her chair. “You're worried about me? You think I'm going to take some proprietary interest in your son? Try to replace you?”

“No…” Rae heard along sigh from Veronica. “Your offer, I can't imagine anything that would make Justin happier…or me, too, for that matter.”

“Then what is it?” Rae couldn't keep the impatience out of her voice.

“Can we meet somewhere? Away from both our offices? I…there's something…I haven't told you.”

“Oh?”

Rae had a queasy feeling, as if the other shoe was about to drop.

Chapter 52

Rae met Veronica met at Dawson Park on the following day. The park snaked around McIntosh Lake, at the quiet north end of Longmont. Veronica had taken the day off and offered to come to Rae's territory.

From the look of her, Rae judged that Veronica didn't have an appetite either, so lunch was not a consideration.

The park was quiet at mid-afternoon on a weekday. Just a handful of kids. A couple of moms--or nannies--pushing strollers along the path that ran by the swings and climbing bars. Rae sat down at one of the picnic tables, her back toward the mountains. Veronica took the bench opposite her, and Rae watched her glance move along the panoramic view that was dominated by Longs Peak for which the town was named.

Somebody has to start this conversation. “You get a great view on a day like this,” Rae said. “That snow patch? It never melts.” Veronica nodded. Rae thought she saw tears in the detective's eyes. Maybe they were just from the bright sunlight.

“I know the Lassiter case has left you frustrated,” Veronica said. “You wanted justice for Deidre and answers.”

What has that got to do with Justin meeting my kids?

Veronica continued, “We may not always find all the answers. Or the ones we get may not be the ones we wanted.”

Rae twisted in her seat, suppressing her urge to comment. A squirrel nabbed a crust of bread from under their table and scurried away.

“But sometimes justice comes when you least expect it. From no effort at all on your part.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Reggie Navarro…”

At the sound of his name, Rae imagined the rage Morgan and Veronica must have felt as they came from viewing Deidre's tape to find one of the perps up to his ass in cedar boards. “You did what I'd have done. Is that what you're trying to tell me? Left him flopping in the fence? You think that bothers me?”

“You think I'd risk giving Morgan Bayfield something like that over me? When she was a prime suspect in Kevin's murder? Don't you remember? I was wearing a wire.”

You just answered my question with three questions. Was Morgan's arrest just more smoke and mirrors?

Wait and see, Rae.

“We never saw Reggie,” Veronica said. “At least I didn't. I left Morgan at the top of the stairs. I went out the front entrance. That's not where I'm going with this.”

“So where are you going?”

“To a very dark place, especially for you, Rae.”

Rae wondered what could be darker than the Lassiter case with all its twisted arteries. So Morgan went down the back stairs? Was Reggie already dead? How could she miss seeing him? But how would she know who he was?

“Victor Markov didn't kill Anthony.”

Rae felt her chest constrict. Not there. I won't go there.

“Reggie Navarro was a member of the swat team that took out Markov. They were positioned on the roof of the house next door. Markov had a little twenty-two. He shot at Anthony, but the fatal shot came from a much larger weapon. A swat team rifle.”

Veronica's words seemed to be coming from a distance. But not far enough. Rae could still hear her. She leaned away and closed her eyes.

“Did you ever read Anthony's … autopsy report?”

Rae shook her head emphatically. Tears squeezed through her tightly-closed eyes. No…no…no… Deidre's was the only autopsy report she'd ever read.

“It was Reggie's fire that pierced Anthony's vest, not Markov's puny little twenty-two bullet.”

“Why wasn't I told?” she finally choked out. “Why didn't somebody do something?”

“Covering up death by friendly fire isn't exactly new, Rae. It isn't confined to the military.”

Veronica's words, painful knives, hacked away at Rae's old scar tissue revealing the true message. “But you're really saying it wasn't friendly.”

“It was deemed to be friendly fire. Reggie was put on indefinite administrative leave. Then he resigned and went with Wheat Ridge.”

“And all the time, you had information that it was deliberate?” Rae's senses heightened at each incision of the word-knives, as if someone had turned up the volume on a bad movie.

“Reggie had been stalking me for a year. He was obsessed with me. He thought…what you first thought…that Anthony and I were involved. He followed me to the family planning clinic, not bothering to find out that the fertility clinic was part of the operation. He must have seen Anthony go in at a different time because he confronted me and threatened to report us both. Reggie thought I was going for an abortion.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That it was none of his business. I didn't bother to explain. Why should I? I told him I'd report him for stalking me. Since the law had been tightened up to make it a felony, I thought he'd see that he had too much to lose. I was wrong.” Veronica hung her head. Rae could see her shoulders quivering.

Anthony died because of you? “Why didn't you do something?” A volcano of rage was building in Rae's midsection.

“Once I saw what Reggie was capable of, I was scared for the new life inside of me. Besides, I had no proof. He'd drag Anthony's name through the mud along with mine. You'd be thinking what you first thought. Only you'd still be raw from the newness of Anthony's death.”

You really think I'm less raw now? Only she was. The anger peaked and ebbed without her usual vitriolic discharge. Maybe the scar tissue had to be cut away before she could really heal. No, it hurts too much.

“It wouldn't bring Anthony back,” Veronica whispered. “I know your temper, Rae. I've felt its full force. Better get it over with now.” She bowed her head as if expecting a blow.

You just think you've felt it full-force. Rae tried to summon back her dissipated rage. Mind shots from the past danced before her eyes, including a vision of Veronica, pregnant and alone. Her choice.

The last thing Rae pictured was the pinched, bitter face of an old woman--her own face reflected in her car window on the day she'd last seen Sam Garvin. Bitter old woman.

Rae jumped to her feet. “I can't do this.”

“Please, Rae…”

She ran down the bike path, leaving Veronica behind at the picnic table with tears chasing the mascara down her cheeks. She narrowly avoided running down a mom and toddler, scared a flock of scavenging crows up into the Scotch pines, nearly tripped over a kid fastening his roller blades.

I…won't…be…this…person.

Then stop running, Rae.

Chapter 53

Stephen and Callie arrived on July second, a Saturday. Rae had offered to pick them up at DIA, but Stephen had insisted on renting a car.

When they drove up in the blue compact, Rae stifled an urge to run out and greet them. She'd been waiting for half an hour by the front window, crouched on the window seat like one of her cats. Now she strained to get a look at the woman in Stephen's life as the two exited the car.

Callie was tall, about Veronica's height which Rae guessed to be around five-eight, but with a lot of pale hair the color of corn silk. From a distance, her skin looked pale, too. Definitely not the look of a Floridian.

Rae hurried to the door to welcome them. Every time she looked at her son, Rae marveled at his likeness to Anthony expressed in his hunky, six-two frame, the huge, deep-set hazel eyes. Stephen's hair was medium brown, whereas Anthony's had been nearly black. Rae drank in the sight of her son, then grabbed him in a bear-hug and felt his kiss on her cheek.

He detached himself gently and said, “Mom, this is Callie.”

She's gorgeous, thought Rae as she wavered between shaking Callie's hand and hugging her. Why was resentment seeping into her craw like moldy chicken scratch? She hadn't felt this way when Tori married Jeffrey.

In the living room, Callie took the initiative. “Mrs. Esposito, it's a pleasure to meet you.” She followed this with a firm handshake.

Rae squeezed equally hard on Callie's slender, short-nailed fingers. “Please call me 'Rae.' You're making me feel like the hundred-year-old woman.”

“Oh, sure. Rae.” Now Callie was holding onto Stephen's arm like she owned him. He was beaming at her as if he enjoyed being owned by her.

Like when she had to tell me he was in the shower, she's marking her territory. If she pees on him, I'll hit her.

“As they say,” Callie continued in that same infuriatingly perky voice, “fifty is the new thirty.”

Bitch! I'm only forty-eight.

“I'll just go back out and get our bags,” Stephen said. “You two can get acquainted.” His smile at Rae asked, Isn't she something?

Yes, son, she certainly is. Rae smiled back.

In the kitchen, Callie expressed a preference for herbal tea. She and Veronica should get along just great.

Rae and Veronica had made their peace. She and Justin would be joining them on the Fourth.

“Where are you from, Callie?” Rae asked as she brought out her new assortment of tea bags. Callie's complexion was so fair, it seemed translucent. Her clear, gray eyes held intelligence and mischief.

“Wisconsin,” replied Callie.

I knew it couldn't be Florida. Her skin hates the sun. “That's where you and Stephen are going for Christmas?” The information Rae had gotten from Tori was still prickling her. The bigger holiday would be spent with her folks.

“No. My parents have a second home in Miami. That's where we'll spend Christmas.”

Rae tried to paste a smile on her face. She must have done a crappy job.

“We've got it planned to divide the holidays equally. Next year, we'll come to Colorado. That is…I mean…”

Rae was suddenly ashamed. “Of course it is. All right. That's what you meant?”

Callie nodded, smiling a perfect-teeth smile.

Get this over with. You're going to love her. Even if you end up hating her. Rae gave Callie a big hug. It felt like holding a startled deer.

*****

As she prepared chicken dinner, Rae could hear Stephen and Callie's voices coming from the porch.

“I think it's so great your mom raises her own food. My grandparents had a dairy, but I don't think I could ever pluck a chicken.”

Rae rolled her eyes. The chicken had come, in parts, from Whole Foods in Boulder. She heard Stephen's laughter, then his reply. “Honey, when one of Mom's chickens dies, it's from old age.”

Then their voices got lower. Rae imagined him telling Callie about his mom, the farmer who couldn't kill food animals.

Callie giggled, notching up her volume a bit. “Does that mean those Black Angus critters we saw up front aren't going to be our Fourth of July barbeque?”

“Babe, you'd break a tooth if you ever took a bite out of one of those old guys. They were our Four-H projects that never got to the fair.”

*****

Next morning when she did her barn chores, Rae thought about how really pleasant dinner had been. Callie talked almost non-stop, but Rae was getting used to her. She learned Callie's last name was Nordstrom. “Like the department store, but no relation.”

Callie didn't fit Rae's image of a criminologist, but maybe she'd change her mind about that career. On the plus side, maybe she'd change Stephen's mind about becoming a FEEB.

The kids were up when Rae returned to the kitchen. Callie had put on a pot of coffee for her. Both kids drank herbal tea and ate Total cereal with skim milk. While on the porch feeding the cats, she heard the phone ring.

“Shall I answer that?” Callie offered.

You sure do love to answer other people's phones. Before Rae could reply, she heard Callie's cheerful “Good morning. Esposito residence.”

Then, silence.

As Rae came back into the kitchen, she saw a bright crimson flush creeping up Callie's neck onto her cheeks, turning her milk-white flesh the color of an evening sunset. Callie held the phone out toward her as if it were road-kill. “It's a man,” she said, her voice suddenly small.

Rae glanced at the caller ID and took the phone from Callie. “Hi, Burt. Just a minute.” She covered the receiver with her hand, turning to Callie. “It's the ditch company. We're getting water today.”

Callie still wore the same dazed, embarrassed look.

At the other end of the line, Burt enlightened her. “I told her not to bother you--just to ask how many inches you wanted this time.”

Chapter 54

As it turned out, the only ones exhibiting tension during the introduction of Justin to Stephen and Callie were Rae and Veronica. They'd stood like nervous mother hens while the young people did what, well, young people do. They shook hands--no soggy kisses and hugs. After all, two of them were guys.

Callie wore navy shorts and a pretty flowered blouse in pale blue that matched her sandals. Rae noted Callie's lightly tanned legs, thinking the tan probably came from a spray can.

It was a time to get acquainted, both during and after the barbeque on Rae's wide, wrap-around porch. Justin didn't seem to have any trouble bridging the generation gap between himself and his new-found brother and future sister-in-law. Rae and Veronica grinned at each other as they heard the three swapping grade-school horror stories.

“They're not talking down to him,” Veronica said. “That's a good thing. It's something I've never done, even when he was a toddler.” She laughed. “He says I treat him like a person, not a kid.”

“That's what parents end up doing with an only child. I'm one. You tend to relate better with adults, don't you think?” Rae asked, making an assumption.

“I wouldn't know,” Veronica said. “I'm one of four. None of us are close.”

When the sun set over Longs Peak in a burst of vermilion, and the echo of firecrackers reverberated from the neighbors' down the road, Stephen offered to drive them all to the fairgrounds for the public fireworks display.

Rae and Veronica opted to stay behind and watch the show from the porch. “Fat chance you'll find a place to park,” Rae said. “You should have thought of this earlier.”

“Spontaneity, Rae,” said Callie, answering for Stephen. “We'll take our chances.”

When the three young people had driven away, Rae looked at Veronica. “I'm getting used to her,” she said.

“I'm not going to touch that one.” Veronica smiled, looking more relaxed than Rae had ever seen her. Maybe it was the three glasses of merlot.

Rae began to fidget with her wine glass, twisting its stem, feeling like she had a goat head in her shoe again and not being able to take it off to empty out the irritant. “I've been thinking,” she began.

“Don't do too much of that. It'll give you a headache,” Veronica said with a laugh in her voice.

Veronica cracking jokes? What have we come to? Rae's giggle sent wine down the wrong path and out her nose. When she'd cleared her throat, she picked up the sobering thread she'd begun, “Deidre's dead. And JJ Camacho is still as free as a bird. Kevin's dead. And Morgan and Sam are getting married like their day has come. It's like the books are out of balance, as my mom used to say.”

Veronica shrugged. “Sometimes that's just the way it is.”

“But I want things to tally up.”

“You want neat answers?”

“Yep. Like the rows of corn across the road. Neat, symmetrical.”

“You won't always get that in police work, Rae.”

“At least, can I expect some housecleaning? Did they decide anything about Marsh and Wehr?”

“Commander Marsh has taken an early retirement, effective July first. Sergeant Wehr was put on sixty days unpaid leave.”

“I guess that's better than nothing.”

She was about to confide about Danny and his regression to fiscal irresponsibility when Veronica pointed toward the fairgrounds. “Look, Rae, the fireworks have started.”

A star-burst of red, white and blue split open the night sky.

“Happy Fourth of July, Veronica.”

The women clinked their glasses, then raised them in a toast to the falling bits of brilliance in the southern sky.

Chapter 55

Lakewood, Colorado

September

The Colorado Front Range usually gets its first dusting of snow around Halloween. Frosty skies and pumpkins accompany little ones bundled up for trick-or-treat.

Once in a while in September, winter plays a dirty trick on trees still decked out in summer finery, and sends in a blast of things to come.

Soccer Mom saw the big, slate-gray clouds sitting low over the mountains like cats getting ready to pounce. But the kids had to go to practice, and the storm would probably not hit till they were home, tucked in their beds…she hoped.

By the time they'd finished practice and were hopping into her SUV, Soccer Mom knew she'd misjudged the storm's progression. The sodden cloud, now nearly black, opened like a mouth and began disgorging increasingly huge globs of snow. The four boys--two of them hers and two she'd vowed to deliver safely to their doorstep--began to shiver. She started the engine and turned on the defroster, noting the exterior temperature reading. In the past hour, it had dropped nearly forty degrees.

Complete dark came too quickly, the moon-sliver having been devoured early on by the storm. Soccer Mom had to cross the Graystone Lake Bridge to reach the boys' home in the Peardale section. She drove cautiously, thankful that her new all-weather tires were still getting traction in the increasing accumulation of icy snow.

Through the narrowing vision path blasted by her wipers and defroster, she could barely make out the smaller vehicle as it cut in front of her and barreled onto the bridge. All four boys screamed as she pulled over, shaken by the irresponsibility of the other driver.

Mom and boys all watched with suspended breathing as the small car slid precariously close to the right guardrail of the bridge. Then, as the driver appeared to over-correct, the vehicle plunged through the guardrail on the opposite side, into the icy waters. As the boys began to cry, Soccer Mom pressed in nine-one-one on her cell phone.

Chapter 56

At six a.m. the following morning, Rae was out in the wake of the storm, assessing the remnants of her garden. As she knocked snow off trees and shrubs with a broom, a pale sun shivered in the eastern sky.

Rae surveyed the ruin around her. Rose bushes in the midst of their final blooming for the season were stripped. Whole sections of Russian olive trees were strewn across the lawn. One big, broken cottonwood branch lay across the back gate. She could almost hear the trees groaning. The snow and ice were supposed to wait until all the leaves were gone and the sap stored safely underground.

The cell phone in the pocket of her thermal coveralls vibrated. Who'd be calling at six a.m.? Her heart lurched as she grabbed the phone and looked at the caller ID.

“Veronica?” Relief. Not one of the kids. “Hey, what's up?”

“Me. I've been up all night. There was an accident on the Graystone Lake Bridge last night. Teenager going too fast for road conditions.”

“Not--”

“Oh, no one you know. And he survived. Broken bones and frostbite. His car was totaled, though.”

“You called because…”

“I thought you'd want to know if we got anything on JJ Camacho.”

Rae dropped the broom she was holding in her other hand. “You've got a real lead this time?”

“Better than that. We've got him. We're ninety percent sure.”

“He's in custody?”

“He's in the morgue. When the rescue team went down for the kid, they found a big, black Lincoln Town Car with a body in it. The car has been confirmed as Deidre's.”

“Why aren't you sure it's him?” Rae plopped down in the slush on the back steps, not even feeling the wet that seeped through her coveralls.

“The medical examiner thinks he may have been under water for at least six months.”

“Six months? But he was texting Kevin.”

“Somebody was texting Kevin. Not Camacho. He had on one of those watches that shows time and date. Apparently it got smashed in the crash. He died the same night as Deidre.”

“Ohmigod.”

“Yeah, somebody strapped him snugly into the driver's seat, but forgot to adjust the seat. JJ was a shorty. His feet couldn't have touched the pedals even if he'd been alive.”

“Do you have any idea…who?”

“Not yet. I'm really beat. Just wanted you to be among the first to know. Talk to you later.”

Sometimes justice comes when you least expect it. Rae had a new vision of Morgan in animal form. Only this time she wasn't a wild goose. She was a raging mother bear, ripping the hell out of the man who'd killed her cub.

*****

Tori called Rae at noon. “We saw the storm damage on TV. Are you okay, Mom?”

“Fine. Me and the critters. A few trees didn't make it. And my rose garden was sliced and diced.”

“We were worried. It looked pretty bad.”

“I haven't turned on the TV. Guess I was one of the lucky ones.”

“Hope it's not a sample of what winter's going to be like, 'cause we've got our tickets for Christmas. They've got some really good deals going that might not be available if you wait till spring.”

“I hear you.”

When they'd finished talking, Rae turned on her computer, logged onto the internet, typed in O R B I T Z and hit enter. The simple act gave her an immense sense of relief.

*****

After she'd eaten dinner, fed the animals and returned Stephen's call that he'd left while she was in the barn, Rae thought of Danny and wondered if Veronica had called him. Her heart had softened toward him. Though a dunce when it came to judgment in financial matters, Danny had, at least on paper if not by monetary contribution, owned half the real estate in Deidre's estate by virtue of being an equal partner in the LLC. Beth was Deidre's only other heir, and she didn't want financially. So what if Danny spent money like a drunken sailor? Didn't he deserve a little peace of mind about his wife's killer? Of course, she wouldn't mention her theory about Morgan evening the score for all of them.

So many rings made her think that the call would surely go to voicemail. But finally Danny answered. “Rae?”

“Has Veronica phoned you by any chance?”

A slight pause. “Nooo. We're not exactly buddies. What's up?” And then he giggled. Rae hoped he wasn't high, that fiscal irresponsibility wasn't just a symptom of another regression.

“They found JJ.”

“Oh, so that's what all the ruckus was about.”

How would he… Ohmigod! She tried to keep her tone even and her words a misconstruction of what she'd heard. “Yeah, all over the news. But I slept through most of it, too. Didn't know till Veronica called me this morning.”

“How'd they catch him?” Apparently she wasn't the only one who could switch gears after a nasty slipup. And her minute silence had been just that.

“Uh, not sure. You'll have to ask Veronica.” Did she pause a bit too long again? Did he catch the panic in her voice? “Well, I'm bushed, Danny. Just thought you'd want to know. Talk to you.”

“You bet.”

She heard the click as he hung up, and then felt her heart pounding in her ears. Quickly, she entered Veronica's number. Voicemail. What kind of a message to leave? Was she losing her mind? But suddenly her Morgan theory burst like an abscess. She'd forgotten about the text messages sent to Kevin from JJ's cell phone. That shot the hell out of any crime of passion done in retribution for the murder of a child.

There must have been cops and emergency vehicles all over the place last night. Danny would have had a great view from his new front window. Why on God's earth would Danny have associated her news about JJ to a neighborhood ruckus unless he knew JJ was in the lake? Good God. He may know I know. She called Veronica's cell. Same. Voicemail.

He can't know I know. Had the isolation of her lifestyle really done a number on her head? Grandma! But there was no answering thought, no wise adage, no advice come from sifting the past for the known. What was left was the unknown. I must have heard him wrong. In her mind, she replayed Danny's words, and her gut told her that there was no other interpretation. For him to associate a ruckus, as he put it, at any location with the apprehension of Camacho was illogical. Considering the proximity of his house to Graystone Lake, what else could she think? What would she have normally done? Jumped all over him with questions about the ruckus he heard…or saw as he came home from wherever. The fact that she instead jumped into a bunch of nonsense about TV coverage of the incident--not quick thinking. Idiocy! Danny knew her--too well. But did he? Really?

She tried Veronica--both numbers--again, this time leaving a message: Call me. Please. It's urgent. But she could not say more, as some irrational part of her still didn't want it to be true.

In the kitchen, as she warmed up coffee, she remembered the incident of the staple holes on the cancelled check stub and Veronica's reaction to Rae's idea of a significant piece of evidence. The conversation with Danny in which she gave so much significance to her own small hesitation would seem absurd to Veronica. This was Danny, whom she had known for years--a screw up, maybe, but could she really imagine Danny harming her or anyone for that matter?

What if he had come upon JJ in the act of murdering Deidre? What if Danny had dispatched his wife's murderer? Rae shuddered. How smooth a liar would Danny have to be to pull off a convincing front? She remembered his apparent shock in Veronica's office over Deidre's sexual assault and his insistence that he didn't know JJ. And how would he know to send fake text messages to Kevin if he wasn't in on the plan? Or could the text messages have been sent by Reggie Navarro? To Rae's knowledge, JJ's cell phone had never been found. A tenuous calm settled upon her as she formed the idea of talking to Danny about his involvement--counseling him, even, if he had in fact killed his wife's murderer. As the phone rang, she realized that her decision in this regard needed to be immediate.

*****

An hour later, Rae sat in her darkened living room. Danny should have been here by now. She'd opened a front-facing window a crack in spite of the cold. Few vehicles passed on the road below. She heard only the occasional yip of coyotes in the distance--then a ki-yi-yi as the pack closed in on a hapless critter.

Somewhere in the house, a board creaked as they often did in old houses. She flinched and looked behind her. Nothing. She got up and slowly walked into the hallway, reminding herself that there was no approach to her house except by the road below that she'd been watching diligently.

Outside, she knew the roads were slick from yesterday's storm. The sun had been out long enough to melt the snow, but now the falling temperature had turned it to black ice. He could not have hurried in that old truck of his. With all the spending, she wondered why he hadn't bought a new, snazzy car. Maybe a sports car. Or better for this climate, a four-wheel drive.

In the dining room, she peered through the window as an aircraft's blinking light passed before the moon's skinny crescent. A creak behind her just before he said, “I'm over here, Rae.”

Even though expected, her heartbeat increased so quickly that she felt faint. A million rabbits hopping in her chest. “Danny.” She flipped on the light. No need for dark now.

“It was quite a long walk, but not an impossible one since I'm here. By the way, you left your side door unlocked.”

“How careless of me.”

She marveled that he looked perfectly calm. A little short of breath, maybe, because he must have hiked at least a mile or two through farmland to the north of her.

“Why didn't you just come to the front door?”

For an answer, he shrugged. He was dressed in a warm sheepskin jacket and his hair was boyishly tousled. She looked down at his feet and saw that his boots were encased in plastic.

“Why, Danny?”

“Why not?” He giggled, and Rae was pretty sure he was high. “As you said, I've made some pretty crappy choices in women. I didn't need you to tell me to correct my errors.” He giggled again. Rae's stomach was doing the queasy thing. She walked into the kitchen for water. Danny followed.

When she'd filled her glass and drunk about half, she said, “Water, Danny? Or coffee? You want to tell me about it? How you corrected your mistakes?”

“I'll do that much for you, Rae. I owe you. But first, let's go upstairs.”

“No. We'll talk here.” Her knees trembled, but thank God her voice remained firm.

Danny drew a small pistol from his coat pocket. “No, we'll go upstairs.”

“You're going to shoot me?”

He laughed an eerie, crazy cackle. “Of course not. Rae, how could you think such a thing?” He walked over and prodded her with the gun. “Now, move slowly up the stairs.”

She obeyed, holding on to the stair railing for support. “Now where?”

“Your bedroom.”

“My bedroom?” Ohmigod, what's he thinking?

“Oh, no-no-noo. Rae, would I do a thing like that?”

She flipped on the hall light as they topped the flight of stairs. “I didn't think so. I didn't think that of you, Danny.”

“I just want to take a look at something in your room.”

“What would that be?”

“Anthony's pistol.”

“How…” Instant replay. She'd told him, that's how. “Why do you think it's in my room?”

“You said you keep it close by. At night, that's when you'd want it close by. In your bedroom--that's where you're most alone. When you need protection.”

“How smart you are, Danny.”

“Not really. Else I never would have made another mess I'd have to clean up. You can't imagine how much I regret the position you've put me in.”

“I've put you in? You think you have no responsibility here?”

“Sorry, Rae. I just can't afford to let you screw up my plans.” He pushed open the first bedroom door. “It won't be hard to determine which room is yours.”

She hung back. “You said you owed me. So tell me how you happened to kill JJ.”

“Your room first.” He prodded her in the back with the little gun. Up close she'd seen it was real--maybe like the one Markov had used. The little twenty-two that hadn't killed Anthony.

You can do this.

I'm not sure.

Yes, you can.

She opened the door to her room and entered ahead of Danny and switched on a bedside lamp. Grandma's quilt on her bed--she wanted to draw it around her--handmade in a pattern of Grandma's design--if he shot her, there would be blood on the quilt. She walked to the window, distancing herself from the bed. “You think it'll be any harder to figure out if you use Anthony's gun?”

“I'm not going to use Anthony's gun.” Another crazy, crack-head giggle. “You are.”

She turned to look into his eyes, and the Danny she thought she knew wasn't even there. “You've really lost it.”

“No, Rae. It's you who are unbalanced. Your grief over your husband's death has left you despondent.”

“Oh, right. So despondent that I just bought a plane ticket to go see my kids.”

“Thanks for telling me. When we're finished, I'll just go into your computer and cancel it.”

“You can't do that. You don't even know what airline. Who's to say I didn't call my travel agent?”

“First, you don't have a travel agent. Second, I've become very proficient at hacking into computers.” He walked to the bedside table, opened its one drawer and removed the heavy flannel from Anthony's pistol. “You said 'close by.' What could be closer?”

“No one would believe I'd kill myself.”

“You'd be surprised. Sandy and I have discussed your grief at length.”

“Sandy's in this with you?”

“No, Rae. Sandy's the same good old Sandy that you thought he was. We discussed your state of mind the day you hit me in the face. You do remember hitting me? And why do you think I never brought charges? Sympathy for your mental state, Rae.”

She suddenly felt cold creep down her spine. Her knees trembled. Why had she gotten herself into this? “Tell me about JJ and Deidre. You owe me, Danny.”

“I do. You stuck by me, helped me get rid of Gil and the pack at RS and E. My removal as P/R is imminent, but you helped me buy some time. One good thing my dad taught me was how to strip properties of their worth. Gil suspected, but you got him so riled up that he resigned instead of following through, which meant I didn't have him breathing down my neck. You and Sandy are much more trusting. Good people are, you know?”

“You were the JJ connection after all.”

“Silly Kevin. He was the one that had it mixed up.”

“Then you killed Deidre--”

“No, Rae. JJ killed Deidre. He thought he'd do Kevin and Beth next. Not the brightest bulb, JJ. I put to good use all the lessons you gave me on how trusts operate. There had to be one kid left standing to get at the big money--as Beth's guardian, of course.”

“So, you killed Kevin?”

“Nooo.”

“But JJ was already dead.”

“Actually, I think Morgan killed Kevin and saved me the trouble. I've been waiting for the wheels of justice to bring her down. When they do, I'll step in as Beth's guardian.”

“I doubt that. Sam--”

“Sam's an old man, Rae. Things sometimes happen to the elderly.”

Her anger rose. She could feel heat in her neck. What she wanted to do, she couldn't--not just yet. “But you had JJ give Dee the overdose?”

“Are you dense, Rae, as well as despondent and suicidal?”

“Is that a 'yes'?” Say it already.

“Oh, if it will make you happy. Yes, I killed the bitch, and JJ was my weapon. Then I got rid of the weapon. For the record, raping Dee was not part of our deal. Happy now?”

“Happy?” She felt the tears burgeoning. It breaks my heart. I loved you like you were my oldest kid. But she stuffed those feelings as she made her voice all business. “You can come in now, Veronica.”

“That old trick? I turn my back to see and you…what? Jump out the window? See, no one's coming. Why do you think I checked around in back?”

“They're in the barn, Danny, vehicles and all. I'm wearing a wire.”

“I don't believe you.”

“You should,” Veronica said from the doorway. “Drop the gun or you're a dead man.”

Epilogue

The psychotherapist reviewed her notes while waiting for the patient to arrive for their weekly session. Going into the second year of treatment, there was still no discernable improvement. On the positive side, there had been no apparent deterioration. The sixteen-year-old maintained passable grades in school and reasonable social interaction with her peers.

Still the girl continued to be plagued by a recurring nightmare about the tragic deaths of her mother and brother, and she harbored a deep seated fear of most men. A good sign was that two men had earned her trust: her grandfather and her step-brother Josh, whom the grandparents had taken in when his father was imprisoned for the murder of Beth's mother.

The doctor looked up at the sound of her office door opening. As usual, the girl wore no makeup. Her blond hair was pulled back severely, as if to deflect attention from her prettiness.

“Good afternoon, Beth.”

The girl gave her just a wisp of a smile before settling into the upholstered chair across the desk.

“How has your week been?” the doctor asked.

Beth shrugged and looked down at her hands. Still avoiding eye contact, she began, “There's more this time.”

"More to the dream?" The girl's previous accounts had been of hiding in her room at her grandmother's house. She couldn't tell the doctor from what or whom she was hiding.

“I saw his face,” Beth said.

“Whose face?”

“I stayed home from school with really bad cramps. I didn't tell anybody. They didn't know I was there. I heard him come in and go to Grandma's room, only I still thought she was my aunt. I didn't want to see him, so I stayed in my room and hoped he'd leave soon.”

“Who?”

“They left for a while, but then they came back and started yelling at each other in the hallway. I sneaked up to listen, and I heard him say what they were going to do to me.”

“They? The man and your grandmother?”

“No. My brother Kevin and JJ, the man who killed my mom. I didn't know what to do.”

Beth looked up at the doctor, making eye contact. “I know I should have screamed…called nine-one-one…but there wasn't time.”

“What was your brother doing?”

“He was going to kill her. I needed to stop him. Then I remembered Grandma's Demerol. She kept it in her bathroom.”

“How did you know that?”

“Sometimes I helped her with the shots when she was too sick to do it herself.”

“You got your grandmother's medication?”

Beth nodded. “When I got back with it, I saw him hit her. They were both so angry they didn't even know I was there. Grandma hit him back, but he was stronger. He knocked her down. When he bent over her, I stuck the needle in him and pressed hard as I could. He swatted the syringe out of my hand. I ran to my room. Dragged a dresser in front of the door. I didn't know I could be so strong. He pounded on the door--yelled what he was going to do to me.” Beth panted, stopping now for breath, her eyes tripping wildly around the room.

“Wasn't there a phone in your room?”

Beth shook her head. “I had my cell. I must've left it in Grandma's bathroom when I got the Demerol. I was going to call nine-one-one, but I didn't think there was time.”

“Then what happened?”

“I heard a thud--like Kevin falling down. But I thought he might be trying to trick me into opening the door, so I waited. I heard somebody moving around--then, nothing. I listened a long time…to the quiet. But I was too scared to open the door.”

The doctor watched a shudder course through Beth's body.

“I stayed there till Grandma knocked on my door and told me it was safe to come out.” Beth began to sob. “I only wanted to make him go to sleep till we could get help. I guess I gave him too much. Grandma said it wasn't my fault.”

“And then what happened?”

Bewilderment captured Beth's expression as she looked up at the doctor. “What? I don't know. That's when I woke up.”

###

Table of Contents

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Epilogue