I Can See You

Chapter Two

Sunday, February 21, 7:55 p.m.

Sorry again. I gotta get a new phone,” Jack said, crossing Martha’s bedroom.

Noah had been waiting, stewing for half an hour. Jack had said he’d change clothes, but his eyes held a satisfaction any man would recognize. He’d had sex with Katie. While a victim hung from her damn ceiling. That was it. I’m going to have to report him.

“Whatever, Jack,” he said coldly, but if Jack detected his fury, it didn’t show.

“So, introduce me to the lady with the Bette Davis eyes and get this party swinging.”

The ME techs were impatiently waiting to cut the body down, but Noah had wanted Jack to see the scene. I shouldn’t have bothered. I might have a new partner soon.

“Martha Brisbane,” Noah said tightly. “Forty-two, single. Found by her neighbor.”

“It’s cold in here. Did the neighbor open the window or did Ms. Brisbane?”

“The neighbor said the window was open.”

“Well, it could be worse. It could be August. Shit. Are her eyes glued open?”

“Yes,” Noah bit out. “They are.” Just like the other one.

“That’s one you don’t see every day.” Then Jack shrugged. “At least this should be quick. I might even get back to Katie in time for dessert. If you know what I mean.”

Noah bit his tongue, saved from a response by ME tech Isaac Londo. “So now that Detective GQ’s finally here, can we finally cut her down?”

“No,” Noah said sharply.

“I got twenty on tonight’s game,” Londo grumbled. “I want to get out of here.”

CSU’s Micki Ridgewell looked up from putting her camera away. “What’s the big deal, Web? The vic strung herself from the ceiling, kicked the stool away, and died.”

Jack frowned, as if finally realizing something was up. “What’s wrong here?”

You want a damn list? “This scene,” Noah said. “I’ve seen this scene before.”

“Well, of course you have,” Micki said reasonably. “After fifteen years, you’ve seen almost every crime scene before. So have I.”

“No. I’ve seen this scene before, down to the placement of the victim’s shoes.”

“I haven’t,” Jack said, dead serious now. “When did you see it and why didn’t I?”

“Friday morning, a week ago. You were home… sick.”

Jack tensed at Noah’s hesitation, flags of angry color staining his cheeks. “I was.”

Noah let it slide. This was not the place for confrontation. “It was Gus Dixon’s scene. I’d borrowed his mini recorder because mine broke and I needed to interview a witness.” For a case he’d closed without Jack, because Jack had been sick. “On my way back from the interview, Dix called. He needed his recorder at a scene, so I took it to him.”

“And it was this scene?” Jack asked, eyes narrowing. “A hanging?”

“Exactly. The stool was overturned, same distance and angle from the body. The vic wore this dress and the same style shoes. One shoe lying on its side, the other standing straight up. The type of hook, the noose, the open window, everything is the same.”

Micki frowned. “Déjà vu all over again.”

“But this victim was hung,” Londo said. “Petechiae in the eyes, the ligatures on her throat… All the injuries are consistent with a short-drop hanging.”

“Dix’s was the same,” Noah said. “But her eyes are glued open just like Dix’s victim.”

Jack winced. “I was just kidding about the Bette Davis eyes.” Studying the scene again, Jack pointed to the stool. “You done with it, Mick?” He picked it up and, placing it directly under the body, stepped back, and Noah’s suspicion was confirmed.

The stool sat two full inches lower than the tips of Martha Brisbane’s toes.

“Holy fuck,” Londo muttered. “Was that the same on the other hanger, too?”

“I don’t know. When I got there some other ME techs had already cut her down.”

“This vic couldn’t have stuck her neck in the noose and still been able to kick the stool away,” Micki said quietly. “Somebody helped her.”

Noah looked up into Martha’s wide eyes. “Somebody killed her.”

“And went to a lot of trouble to make it look like a suicide,” Jack said. “Any note?”

“We haven’t found one,” Noah said.

Micki took more close-ups of the red stilettos. “No scuffs.” She held a shoe next to the victim’s foot. “And too small. Why go to all this trouble and leave the wrong shoes?”

“I wonder how many others he’s staged,” Jack said.

“And how many we missed.” Noah nodded at Londo. “You can take her down now.”

“Let’s check this apartment,” Jack said, “then go talk to the neighbor who found her.”

“Sarah Dwyer. Martha promised to water Dwyer’s plants while she was away.”

“How long ago was that?” Jack asked.

“Two weeks,” Noah said. “Officer Pratt said Dwyer got back today, pissed because her plants were dead. She came to yell at Martha, but nobody answered the door so she climbed the fire escape to bang on the bedroom window, and saw her hanging.”

Micki’s brows went up. “She went to all the trouble to climb the fire escape?”

Jack’s lips twitched. “Three guesses as to the plants she was so attached to.”

“I thought the same thing,” Noah admitted. “But I bet she got rid of any pot she was growing on her windowsill before she called 911. Let’s finish up here. I’ve already searched the bedroom and bath. You take the kitchen, I’ll take the living room.”

Noah was searching Martha Brisbane’s empty desk drawers when Jack came in from the kitchen, a can of cat food in his hand. “The vic had a cat,” he said.

“There weren’t any cats here,” Noah said and Jack frowned.

“A multiple murderer and a missing cat. Not good. You finding anything?”

“Nothing, and nobody’s desk is this clean. Let’s see the neighbor, get a next of kin.”

“You talk to the neighbor,” Jack said. “I’ll go door to door and find anyone who may have seen her more recently than two weeks ago.”

Sunday, February 21, 8:20 p.m.

Dell stretched out his hand. “Gimme the zoom.”

Harvey shook his head. “You should have brought your own tools.”

Dell shifted in the passenger seat. “They’ve been in there a long time.”

“Means it’s a big case,” Harvey said. “Bigger the case, harder they fall.”

“Sonsofbitches,” Dell muttered. “That article made them look like damn Messiahs.”

Harvey heard the hate in his son’s voice. He felt the same. “Which is why we’ll show the world the truth. Which is why you won’t be taking that gun out of your pocket.”

Dell’s jaw tightened. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t, not till now. But it seemed like the kind of damn fool thing you would have done. You shoot, and they become martyrs on top of being heroes. And you go to prison.” He shot Dell a glare. “I lost one son. I don’t want to lose another. We’ll be patient. We’ll watch and take pictures and prove exactly what kind of men they are.”

“They deserve to die,” Dell said.

“Of course they do. But once we show the world what they really are, they’ll go to prison.” Harvey’s brows lifted. “Do you know what happens to cops in prison?”

Dell’s smile was a mere baring of teeth. “They’ll wish they were dead.”

Sunday, February 21, 8:25 p.m.

Noah placed his mini recorder on Sarah Dwyer’s coffee table. “So I don’t have to take notes,” he said when she eyed the recorder. “How well did you know Martha?”

“I’d see her occasionally in the laundry room. We weren’t friends.”

“But you gave her a key to your apartment, so you must have trusted her.”

“She was a lady in my building,” Dwyer said impatiently. “Sometimes we talked.”

Noah watched her wring her hands. “You seem agitated, ma’am.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I just flew in from Hong Kong and haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.” She pointed to a small hothouse on her dining room table. “I get home, find my prize orchids dead, and my neighbor deader. And you have the nerve to accuse me?”

“No one’s accusing you.” Jetlag and shock could account for her nerves, and fury over dead orchids could have sent her up a fire escape. “What did Martha do?”

“She was a computer consultant. I’m pretty sure she worked out of her apartment.”

Noah thought about the empty desk. No papers, no CDs. Only the computer. Odd that a consultant who’d worked out of her home would have no evidence of work.

“In any of your conversations, did she seem depressed or afraid?”

“No. Usually we talked about how much we hated Mrs. Kobrecki. She’s the building manager. Kobrecki and Martha did not get along.”

He’d paged Mrs. Kobrecki several times, with no returned call. “Why not?”

“Kobrecki said Martha was a pig. Martha took exception. That’s all I know. If you want more, you’ll need to talk to Mrs. Kobrecki.” She grimaced. “Or her grandson.”

“Why don’t you like her grandson?” Noah asked.

“He’s a creep. Once I caught him taking my lingerie out of the dryer and sniffing it. I made sure never to do laundry at night again. He only seems to come around at night.”

“What’s his name?”

“Taylor Kobrecki. Why?”

“Just gathering the facts, ma’am. Do you know Martha’s next of kin?”

“Her mom. She’s in a nursing home, in St. Paul.”

Noah stood, giving her his card. “Thanks. If you remember anything, please call me.”

“What is this?” she asked suspiciously. “Did Martha kill herself?” Noah smiled vaguely. “We’re just following procedure, Miss Dwyer.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “I’ll have my gun loaded and next to my bed tonight.”

“Anything?” Jack asked, meeting him as he left Dwyer’s apartment.

“Maybe. You?”

“Bupkiss. You get a next of kin?”

“Nursing home, St. Paul. You get any calls back from the building manager?”

“Nope. I couldn’t find any tenants who seemed to care for her.”

“She has a grandson.” Noah’s brows went up. “Panty fetish.” “Interesting. I wonder if Mr. Panty Fetish has a record.”

“I’ll run the grandson, you find the mom. Call and I’ll meet you at the nursing home.”

“What about Gus Dixon’s case reports?”

“Records said they’d have everything pulled when we got back to the station.”

Jack checked his watch with a sigh. “No dessert for me tonight.” Noah gritted his teeth. “You get too much dessert, partner.”

Jack snorted. “This from the man who hasn’t had dessert in how long?”

Noah shook his head. Everyone saw that Jack was a train wreck. Everyone but Jack. “Just find Brisbane’s mother. I’ll meet you there.”

“I’ll call Abbott,” Jack said, “and give him a heads up.”

Abbott was their boss. “I already did, while you were having your ‘quickie dessert.’ ” Jack’s eyes flashed, his lie called out. “And no, I didn’t tell him you weren’t there.”

Jack let out a careful breath. “I owe you one.”

Noah met Jack’s eyes, held them. “Don’t make me sorry, Jack. Please.”

Jack looked away. “I’ll call you when I find Brisbane’s mother.”

Sunday, February 21, 8:45 p.m.

The crowd was cheering at the largest of Sal’s flat-screen TVs. It was college hoops and home team star Tom Hunter had the ball. Not much more needed to be said.

Eve watched her oldest friend fly across the screen, dropping the ball through the hoop like it was nothing. A cheer shook the room and Eve rocked back on her heels.

“Yes,” she whispered, then jumped when a stream of cold beer ran up her sleeve. She jerked the overflowing pitcher out from under the tap and shook her sleeve with a grimace. Careless. She’d have to let it dry, as there was no time to change.

Tonight’s other bartender hadn’t shown. The line at the bar had been unending, but so far, no one was complaining. As long as the home team kept winning, that shouldn’t change. As long as the team kept passing to Tom Hunter, winning was assured.

“Your friend’s got a real gift,” Sal said behind her, quiet approval in his voice.

Eve jumped. For a man with a bad leg, Sal moved with surprising stealth. Then again, the bar was so noisy that she couldn’t hear herself think. Tonight, that was good.

“I know,” she said. She’d known Tom was gifted the first time she’d seen him play on a crumbling blacktop in a poor Chicago neighborhood. She’d been fourteen, Tom ten, both older than their years. She’d been a runaway, and in a different way, so had he.

They’d become friends, raised under the sheltering wings of three amazing Chicago women who had become Eve’s family. But her bond with Tom went far deeper.

Tom was one of the few who truly understood Eve’s nightmares, because the same monster haunted his. Both of them bore scars inflicted by Tom’s biological father, Rob Winters. But now they were both past all that. Reinvented.

Tom was the reason she was here, in Minneapolis. When he’d been awarded a basketball scholarship to one of the country’s top schools, he’d challenged her to come with him, to take her life back. To come out of the dark and start anew.

And she had. Now Tom was on his way to becoming a basketball legend, like his adopted father, Max Hunter. And I’m finally out of the darkness and into the light. “Tom makes it look easy,” she said. “Size fourteen feet should not be able to move like that.”

“I’m not talking about his game,” Sal said. “I’m talking about his talk to Josie’s kids.”

Eve glanced up at him, puzzled. Sal’s wife, Josie, was a high school guidance counselor in one of Minneapolis’s tougher neighborhoods. “When was this?”

“Last week. He said he planned to go to all the high schools, to tell kids to stay in school. Promised Josie’s kids he’d be back to play a game with their team, for the ones that stuck it out. The kids are still talking about him,” he said and Eve smiled, touched.

“It’s like Tom to do something like that without bragging. He comes from good stock.”

Sal lightly knocked his shoulder against hers. “You come from the same place.”

“Not exactly.” Tom’s mother, Caroline, was one of the amazing women who’d raised her. Eve had no idea where her own mother was, doubted she was still alive. “But I’ve been lucky enough to be taken in by good folks everywhere I go.”

She finished filling a second pitcher, lifting both into the customer’s hands. She’d stopped gritting her teeth against the pain. It was a constant throb now, but she thought she’d been hiding it pretty well. Until Sal nudged her aside.

“Ice your hand,” he said, then shot down her protest with a warning look. “Do it.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly and filled a bag with ice, wincing as she placed it on her hand. “Why are you here?” she asked. “Rich was supposed to be on with me tonight.”

“He called in sick.” Sal’s hands made quick work of the waiting orders. “Why are you here? Callie was on tonight.”

“She had a date.” Who’d finally shown up with a dozen roses and a story of a client who’d gotten himself arrested in an afternoon hockey brawl.

Sal frowned. “You worked every day last week.”

“I need the money. The leak in my roof is worse,” she said, but he shook his head.

“No, you need to go out on your own dates. You’re too pretty to hide in this bar.”

Being called “pretty” still startled her. Being accused of hiding, however, could not be borne. “I don’t hide,” she said more sharply than she’d intended. “Not anymore.”

She knew Sal studied her face even though she kept her eyes averted. For years people had stared at her face when they thought she didn’t see, but she’d always been aware of the horrified stares and the whispers. At least people didn’t do that anymore and for that reason alone her plastic surgeon should be a nominee for sainthood.

“I’m sorry,” Sal said. “It’s just that you work so hard here, then you go home and study, then go to school. And any moment you have free you spend in that Fantasy Island computer game of yours, what with its aviators and orgies. It’s not natural.”

That “Fantasy Island” computer game was really called Shadow-land, an online virtual playground. There was no Mr. Roarke in a crisp white suit, but like the old TV show, it was a place where adults could pretend to be anyone they wanted to be, interacting with millions of players all over the world while pursuing virtual fantasies.

Eve discovered Shadowland’s lure after the assault that had taken her life, literally and figuratively. The virtual world had been more than a game. It was a vital link to the outside world from which Eve, scarred and ashamed, had hidden for too many years.

Thankfully those dark years were gone. Like Tom Hunter, she’d reinvented herself. Shadowland was no longer an escape, but a tool for her graduate research.

At least it had started out that way. But the tool of her research had become a glitzy, gaping black hole, sucking her subjects into its virtual world of fantasy faster than she could grab them. The research that started out with such therapeutic potential had somehow become a trap, luring and endangering the very people she’d sought to help.

“It’s not ‘aviators,’ ” she said to Sal, irritated. “It’s ‘avatars.’ The characters are avatars. And where are you getting this orgy stuff?”

Sal’s eyes twinkled and she knew he’d poked at her on purpose. “I imagine that would be a lot of men’s fantasy. But not mine,” he added quickly. “Josie wouldn’t like it.”

“I’m sure,” Eve said dryly. Then she shrugged. “Besides, I’m not wasting my time playing computer games. Shadowland’s for my thesis, and you know it.”

Sal’s eyes stopped twinkling. “Exactly my point. Even when you play a game, you’re working. When was the last time you went on a date?”

Five years, eleven months, and seven days ago. That the amount of time should come back to her so quickly, after all this time, was… terrifying.

“I thought so,” Sal said quietly when she said nothing. “You’ve been under so much stress lately. This project of yours is putting dark circles under your eyes. I want you to take some time off. Take a vacation. Go to Florida and get some sun.”

Eve tossed the ice bag into the sink and started mixing a martini, the usual drink of the next customer in line. “Vacations take money, Sal. I don’t have any.”

“I’ll loan you some,” he said simply. “Tell me what you need.”

Abruptly she put the shaker down, her heart in her throat. “Damn, I hate it when you’re nice. Why can’t you be a mean boss?” Swallowing back what would have been embarrassing tears, she patted his beefy shoulder. “Keep your money. I’m fine.”

He shook his head. “You’re not fine. You’re worried. I see it in your eyes.”

She finished the martini and started with the next order. “I wish everyone would stop looking into my eyes,” she muttered, Callie’s observation about Noah Webster still fresh. She looked for a subject change and found it in the magazine Callie had left behind. “Jack Phelps was in here tonight, but he left before I could ask him to sign the MSP cover.”

“I heard it was more like he got called out,” Sal remarked mildly. “By Webster.”

She turned and stared at his profile. “How did you know that?”

His sideways glance was almost amused. “I know what goes on in my own bar, Eve. I’m surprised it’s taken Webster this long. There was a pool, you know-how long Web would put up with Phelps before he requested a transfer or cleaned Jack’s clock.”

The mental image of such an altercation left Eve disturbingly aroused. “Who won?”

“Nobody. Webster’s outlasted all of our predictions. Man’s either a saint or a fool.” He slanted another glance her way, this one annoyed. “Maybe both.”

Eve thought of the parting words Noah had uttered with grim resignation, more a good-bye than a thank-you. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

Which was for the best. She didn’t have time for anything more than work, school, and her Fantasy Island computer game. Not true. It wasn’t the time she didn’t have. It was the heart. And various other internal organs that made a huge difference.

Sal sighed. “I’m sorry, honey.”

She made herself smile. “Don’t be.” She poured the martini and reached for an olive, relieved to find the canister empty. She needed a minute to herself. For just a moment or two, she needed to hide. “We’re out of olives. Hold the fort. I’ll get them.”

Sunday, February 21, 9:10 p.m.

Finally. The Hat Squad finally knew they had a homicide. It had taken them long enough. Three homicides, carefully staged. At least they’d seen it with Martha Brisbane.

He hadn’t realized how impatient he’d grow, waiting for them to engage. But as frustrating as the wait had been, the Hat Squad’s ineptitude better furthered his goal-to see them humiliated, degraded, their stature in the community obliterated.

To see stripped away that infuriating self-importance they wore along with their badges and guns. And their hats. He wanted each of those hat-wearing, knuckle-scraping Neanderthals to see themselves for what they really were. Worthless failures.

Which was precisely why he’d staged these murders as suicides.

He’d known they’d miss the first victim, perhaps even the second. That they’d be so eager to close a suicide that they’d miss the clues he’d left behind. He didn’t know what had finally tipped them off, whether it was that they’d finally seen the clues or because they’d finally connected Martha to the other two. Regardless, they would soon know that there had been others, that through their carelessness they had missed two homicides.

Now they were on victim three of his six, halfway through the game already.

Because they had God complexes, they would blame themselves. They would know that if they’d been smarter, quicker, competent, they would have seen victim number one hadn’t killed herself. That they might have prevented the deaths of the others.

They’d begin to second-guess themselves, and each other. And as the body count climbed, all that they believed they were, the mirage of strength they’d built of their own hubris would disappear. Because their strength had never been.

He would move on, stronger through their weakness. And he alone would know the truth, because they’d never find the one who’d brought demise to their public façade.

But enough of that for now. They’d finally discovered Martha Brisbane, aka victim number three of his six, aka Desiree. The game had officially begun.

On to victim four. He opened his laptop and logged in to his new hunting ground. There was a great deal to be said about the supposed anonymity of Shadowland’s virtual “world.” His victims were there to play, their guard down. In the virtual world they could say and do things they’d never dream of doing in the real world. He could earn their trust more easily because they believed he didn’t know who they really were.

But he knew. It was why he’d chosen these particular six out of the millions online.

He knew their names, addresses, occupations, marital status, and-of great personal value-their phobias, their worst fears. He’d tailored each experience to the victim, so although he hadn’t put his hands around their throats or allowed himself release, he’d been able to stoke the first three to more intense terror than he’d ever achieved with his hookers.

In the past, the fears had been only in his victims’ minds, a byproduct of the ketamine he’d used to sedate them. Not so with these six. They played in the virtual world, but he’d make certain they died terrified in the real one.

His first of six had been so terrified of small spaces. After minutes in a box, Amy had been hysterical. Pulling that twine around her neck as her heart had thundered, her body unable to flee… It had taken real discipline to keep from losing control.

He’d managed to conjure the memory of her terror later, when he was back at home, alone. But his climax was only a pale shadow of what it would have been had he taken it as his first of six gasped her last. But one had to make sacrifices for the greater goal.

Samantha, his second of six, had been afraid of being buried alive. He’d had a bad moment when he thought she’d passed out, lying under feet of dirt, a snorkel her only access to air. He wanted her conscious when he killed her, completely aware. To his relief she’d struggled like an animal when he’d unearthed her. It had been magnificent.

Martha… not so much. She hadn’t been that afraid of water. So he’d made her pay in other ways. One had only to look at her apartment to know she was obsessive about the stuff she’d accumulated. Excepting her computer, nothing was of value, but its loss induced nothing less than sheer panic. So he’d forced her to throw it all away.

And she’d loved her cat. Those threats had resulted in extreme disturbance.

When he put Martha back in the water, he finally achieved terror. By the end, she’d begged him to kill her. He rolled his eyes. By the end, he’d been happy to oblige.

Christy Lewis would be number four of six. He had high hopes for Christy. Oh, yesssss. He chuckled aloud. Christy’s phobia was especially intense.

“Gwenivere, are you online tonight?” Of course she was. She always was. Christy wasn’t Gwenivere any more than Martha had been Desiree. But Shadowland’s motto said it all. Sometimes you want to go where no one knows your name. “Except me.”

Gwenivere was at Ninth Circle, the virtual club she visited every night. Here she was a former Miss Universe, a pianist as well as an avid dancer and witty conversationalist.

Shadowland was truly a fantasyland. Gwenivere, he typed. I’ve missed you.

Christy’s avatar smiled at him. Her avatar had one of Pandora’s nicer faces. He also had invested in a quality face and body-builder physique for his own avatar. Pandora’s Façades Face Emporium had good stock and wasn’t nearly as expensive as some of the other avatar designers.

After all, one had to look one’s best when hunting shallow, narcissistic fantasy addicts. But one also had to save a little cash for expenses. Like his Ninth Circle bar tab or his account at the Casino Royale’s most elite poker table.

Long time no see, Christy typed back. Where have you been?

Waiting for someone to find Martha Brisbane, he thought.

His avatar took the bar stool Christy had saved, his long legs easily allowing his feet to touch the floor. He’d chosen Pandora’s tallest, most muscular model because that’s what would most easily attract his prey. As the hunter, he had to choose the best bait, even when it sickened him.

Off on business, he typed. You know, bought an island, built a resort, made a million. Can I buy you a drink?

Christy’s avatar smiled again. Oh, maybe just one.

He’d chat with her awhile, get her talking. It never took more than a few minutes for Christy to abandon her Gwenivere persona and become herself. Once he’d “slipped,” telling her he lived near Minneapolis. She’d been surprised, revealing that she did, too.

Of course she did. That’s one of the reasons he’d picked her.

She’d suggested they meet several times, but he’d always put her off. He’d still been waiting for Martha to be found. Tonight he’d suggest they meet, just for coffee.

Just to talk. They always fell for it. Every single time. So why change what worked?

Sunday, February 21, 9:55 p.m.

“Normally we don’t allow visitors this late,” the nurse said.

“We’re sorry. It took longer to find Mrs. Brisbane than we expected,” Jack said.

“If Mrs. Brisbane is asleep, you’ll have to come back tomorrow. Department policy.”

“We understand,” Noah said. Martha Brisbane had chosen a nice place for her mother, he thought. Must’ve run Martha a pretty chunk of change.

Noah thought of his own mother who wintered in Arizona because of her health. Between his dead father’s police pension and a sizable percentage of his own salary, he’d settled her pretty comfortably. It was a financial sacrifice, but she was his mom and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He imagined Martha had felt the same.

“Will getting this news about her daughter’s death affect her heart?” Noah asked.

“It might, if she had one,” the nurse said, then sighed. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” She opened the door, revealing a woman who nearly disappeared against the white sheets. “Mrs. Brisbane, these men are detectives. They’re here to talk to you.”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “What about?” she demanded sharply.

Noah had lost the toss. “I’m Detective Webster and this is my partner, Detective Phelps,” he said, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. “We’re here about your daughter, Martha. She’s dead, ma’am. We’re very sorry for your loss.”

Mrs. Brisbane’s mouth pinched as if she’d eaten something sour. “How?”

They’d agreed to keep Martha’s death a suicide until the ME filed his report. That said, they were questioning witnesses assuming Dr. Gilles would confirm a homicide.

“It appears she killed herself,” Noah said.

“Then she got what she deserved. The wages of sin is death, Detective. It’s as simple as that.” And with that Mrs. Brisbane closed her eyes, dismissing them.

“Whoa,” Jack mouthed silently, then cleared his throat. “Ma’am, we have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Mrs. Brisbane snapped, not opening her eyes. “Make them leave. Now.”

“You have to leave.” In the hallway the nurse shrugged. “That was pretty mild.”

“ ‘She got what she deserved,’ was mild?” Jack asked, incredulous. “Hell.”

“Mrs. Brisbane didn’t approve of Martha,” she said, “and I have no idea why.”

“Was this disapproval something new?” Noah asked.

“No. It’s been that way since she got here, about six months ago.”

“When was the last time Martha came in to visit her mother?” Jack asked.

“At least a month ago. Martha would leave looking like a whipped pup. I tried to help but Mrs. Brisbane complained. I got a warning not to ask again. I wish I knew more.”

“ ‘The wages of sin is death,’ ” Jack mused when they were back in the parking lot.

“The Bible, book of Romans,” Noah said. “My uncle was a minister.”

Jack frowned. “Your uncle’s a retired cop.”

“That’s Brock’s father, on my father’s side. My minister uncle was my mother’s older brother.” He’d been dead five years now and Noah missed his guidance. Missed him.

“Whatever. Brisbane’s mother knew something. We have to try her again tomorrow. Assuming whoever did this did it once before, it stands to reason they’ll do it again.”

“So let’s see what Martha and Dix’s vic had in common before he has a chance.”

Sunday, February 21, 10:55 p.m.

“Lindsay?” Liza Barkley locked the front door. No one answered. She so hoped Lin would come tonight. It was only a high school play, but she’d worked hard on her role.

But Liza knew her sister was working her ass off to pay the rent. And the gas and the groceries, all the while insisting Liza spend her time studying. Keep your grades up. Get a scholarship. They had no savings left for college, every dime gone to doctors who hadn’t been able to save their mother anyway. After a year, it still hurt. I still miss her.

Now Lindsay had cleaned office building toilets all night, every night so they could survive. One day it’ll be my turn to pay the bills.

She shivered. It was so cold in their apartment she could see her breath. But heat cost money, so she pulled on two more sweaters and snuggled under a pile of blankets, setting the alarm for five-thirty. She still had a little homework to finish and Lindsay would just be getting home by then, tired and hungry. I can do trig and fry eggs at the same time, she thought sleepily and drifted off.