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By Robert Dugoni

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He hung up. 4 DANA STOOD BENEATH the covered patio with the mail clenched between her teeth, a bag of groceries balanced on a knee, and the dry cleaning stretching the tendons of her fingers. With her free hand, she continued to rummage through the pens and paper clips at the bottom of her briefcase in search of her house keys. Water seeped between the butted ends of the plastic corrugated canopy overhead and dripped on her shoulder. Molly stood beside her, crying. Grant had promised her an ice cream after day care, something Dana did not allow before dinner.

It will make headlines all over the country. ” She’d heard it before, about a thousand times. ” “Oh yeah. ” “They’re going to call me,” she said, no longer interested in providing details. “You don’t know? So what are you so worked up about? ” He pushed a strand of hair from her face and kissed her on the lips. His hand caressed her thigh. She wanted to forget about Dr. Neal, Marvin Crocket, and the damn presentation. She wanted to be lost in pleasure again. But she had also come to realize she no longer wanted Grant to bring her there.

Logan walked down the hall to a room at the back of the house, where the crime scene detail moved in a rehearsed dance around the victim—a man, judging from the khaki pants and brown loafers sticking out from behind the couch. “Oh, God,” Logan said, stepping farther into the room. Carole Nuchitelli looked up at him. ” She fitted the right hand of the victim with a plastic bag. She’d already tagged the ankle and placed the contents of the man’s pockets in Zip-loc bags next to her on the floor. Blood had puddled and rolled with the sag in the dark wood and matted the man’s hair a deep burgundy.

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