The Best American Mystery Stories 2010

Doug Allyn An Early Christmas from Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

Jared snapped awake to the sound of laughter. On the bedside TV, Jay Leno was yukking it up with a ditzy blond celeb. Jared sat up slowly, dazed and groggy from too much brandy, too much sex. Fumbling around, he found the remote control and killed the tinny TV cackling, then looked around slowly, trying to get his bearings.

A bedroom. Not his own. Sunny Lockhart was sprawled beside him, nude, snoring softly with her mouth open, her platinum hair a tousled shambles. At forty-nine, Sunny had crow’s-feet and smile lines, but her breasts were D-cup and she made love like a teenybopper. Better, in fact.

Gratitude sex. The best-kept secret in the legal profession. After settling cases involving serious money, clients were often elated, horny, and very, very grateful to the guy who made it happen.

Thanks to Jared’s legal expertise, Sunny Lockhart was financially set for life, a free and independent woman of means. Unfortunately, she was also crowding fifty. Too old for Jared by a dozen years. And he had to be in the office to meet with a client at nine sharp.

Damn. Time to go.

Stifling a groan, Jared slid silently out of Sunny’s rumpled bed and began gathering up his clothes.

Roaring down the shore road in his Mercedes SL500 through a gentle snowfall, Jared set his radio on scan, listening to the momentary snippets of songs flashing past. Mostly Christmas carols or country. Finally caught a tune he liked. “Back in Black,” AC/DC. Cranking the volume, he slapped the wheel on the back beat, getting an energy surge from the music.

Couldn’t stop grinning, wondering if he could arrange a weekend getaway with Sunny. Getting hot and bothered again just thinking about it.

He paid no attention to the rust-bucket pickup truck rumbling down the side road to his left. Until he realized the truck wasn’t slowing for the stop sign. The crazy bastard was speeding up, heading straight for him!

Stomping his brakes, Jared swerved over onto the shoulder, trying to avoid a crash. Knowing it was already too late.

Blowing through the intersection at eighty, the pickup came howling across the centerline, sheering off at the last second to slam broadside into Jared’s roadster, smashing him off the road.

Airbags and the windshield exploded together, smothering Jared in a world of white as the Benz plowed through the massive snowdrift piled along the highway, then hurtled headlong down the steep embankment.

Wrestling through the airbag’s embrace, Jared fought the wheel, struggling to control the roadster in its downhill skid. He managed to avoid one tree, then glanced off another. For a split second he thought he might actually make it — but his rear fender clipped a towering pine, snapping the car around, sending it out of control, tumbling end over end down the slope.

Bouncing off tree trunks like a pinball, the Benz was being hammered into scrap metal. The side windows shattered inward, spraying Jared with glass fragments. For a heart-freezing instant, he felt the car go totally airborne, then it slammed down nose-first into the bottom of the gorge with stunning force.

A lightning strike of white-hot agony flashed up Jared’s spine, driving his breath out in a shriek. Freezing him in place. Afraid to breathe, or even blink, for fear of triggering the godawful pain again.

Christ. He couldn’t feel his legs. Didn’t know what was wrong with them, but knew it was serious. Total numbness meant his back might be broken or—

“Mister?” A voice broke through Jared’s terrified daze. “Can you hear me down there?”

“Yes!” Jared gasped.

“Hey, I saw what happened. That crazy bastard never even slowed down. Are you okay?”

“I — can’t move,” Jared managed. “I think my back may be broken. Call nine-one-one.”

“Already did. Hang on, I’ve got a first-aid kit in my car.”

Unable to risk turning his head, Jared could only catch glimpses in his shattered rearview mirror of a dark figure working his way down the steep, snowy slope, carrying a red plastic case. Twice, the man stumbled in the roadster’s torn tracks, but managed to regain his balance and press on.

As he drew closer, the mirror shards broke the image into distorted fragments, monstrous and alien... Then he vanished altogether.

“Are you there?” Jared gasped, gritting his teeth. Every word triggered a raw wave of pain.

“Almost. Stay still.” The voice came from somewhere behind the wreck. Jared couldn’t see him at all.

“You’re Jared Bannan, the real-estate lawyer, right?”

“Do I know you?”

No answer. Then Jared glimpsed the twisted figure in the mirror again. Climbing back up the track the way he’d come.

“Wh— where are you going? I need help!”

“I can’t risk it.” The figure continued on without turning. “Your gas tank ruptured. Can’t you smell it? Your car could go off like a bomb any second.”

“But—” Jared coughed. My God. The guy was right! The raw stench of gasoline was filling his nostrils, making it hard to breathe.

“Wait! Come back, you sonofabitch! Don’t leave me! I have money! I’ll pay you!”

At the mention of money, the climber stopped and turned around. But in the tree shadows, Jared still couldn’t make out his face.

“That’s more like it,” Jared said. “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars. Cash. Just get me out of this car and—”

“Ten grand? Is that all you’re worth?”

“No! I mean, look, I’ll give you whatever you want...” A flash of light revealed the climber’s face for a split second. Definitely familiar. Someone Jared had met or... His mind suddenly locked up, freezing with soul-numbing horror.

The flash was a flame. The climber had lit a cigarette. “Oh, Jesus,” Jared murmured softly, licking his lips. “What are you doing? Wait. Please.”

“Jesus?” the climber mimicked, taking a long drag. “Wait? Please? Is that the best you can do? I thought shysters were supposed to be fast talkers.”

Jared didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He watched in growing terror as the smoker tapped the ashes off, bringing the tip to a cherry glow. Then he flipped the cigarette high in the air, sending it arcing through the darkness, trailing sparks as it fell.

Jared’s shriek triggered another bolt of agony from his shattered spine, but he was beyond caring. He couldn’t stop screaming any more than he could stop the cigarette’s fiery fall.

Leaving his unmarked patrol car at the side of the highway, Doyle Stark trotted the last hundred yards along the shoulder to the accident scene. A serious one, by north-country standards. A Valhalla County fire truck was parked crossways across one lane of the highway, blocking it. Two uniformed sheriff’s deputies, Hurst and VanDuzen, were directing traffic around the truck on the far shoulder. Van flipped him a quick salute and Doyle shot him with a fingertip.

Yellow police-line tapes stretched from both bumpers of the fire truck to stakes planted in the roadside snowdrifts. The tapes outlined a savage gap in the snowy embankment, over the top and on down out of sight.

Detective Zina Redfern was squatting at the rear of the fire truck, warming her mittened hands in the heat of its exhaust pipe. She was dressed in her usual Johnny Cash black: black nylon POLICE parka over a turtleneck and jeans, a black watch cap pulled down around her ears. The woman took the term “plainclothes officer” literally. Even her combat boots were the real deal, LawPro Pursuits with steel toes. With a Fairbairn blade clipped to her right ankle.

“Sergeant Stark,” she nodded, straightening up to her full, squared-off five foot five, one forty. “Whoa, what happened to your eye?”

Six foot and compactly built, with sandy hair and gray eyes, Doyle was sporting a white bandage over his left brow.

“Reffing a Peewee pickup game,” Doyle said. “Ten-year-olds watch way too much hockey on TV. What happened here?”

“A car crashed through the embankment, tumbled all the way to the bottom, then blew up and burned down to the frame. What’s left of the driver is still inside. Beyond that, I’m not sayin’ squat. I need you to see this with fresh eyes.”

“Fair enough.” Doyle nodded, picking up the edge in her tone. Zina had worked in Flint for four years before transferring north to the Valhalla force. She was an experienced investigator, and if something was bothering her about this...

He swiveled slowly, taking in the accident scene as a steady stream of traffic crawled past on the far shoulder. Wide-eyed gawkers, wondering what was up. Doyle knew the feeling.

Two sets of broad black skid marks met in the center of the lane, then followed an impossible angle to the torn snowbanks at the side of the road. “Who called this in?”

“A long-haul trucker spotted the wreckage as he crested the hill, around ten this morning. We caught a real break. The wreck’s not visible from the roadside. If we’d gotten a little more snow during the night, the poor bastard might have stayed buried till spring. I marked off a separate trail away from the skid track,” she said, leading him to a rough footpath up and over the berm. “There are footprints that... well, take a look for yourself.”

Clambering to the top of the drift, Doyle stopped, scanning the scene below. A ragged trail of torn snow and shattered trees led down the slope to a charred obscenity crouched at the bottom of the gorge. A burned-out hulk that had once been an expensive piece of German automotive engineering.

The charred Mercedes Benz was encircled by a blackened ring of torn earth and melted slush, its savagery already softening beneath a gentle gauze of lightly falling snow.

Joni Javitz, the Joint Investigative Unit’s only tech, was hunched over the car, dutifully photographing the corpse. Even at this distance, Doyle could see the gaping mouth and bared teeth of the Silent Scream, a burn victim’s final rictus. A few patches of skull were showing through the blackened flesh...

Damn. He hated burn scenes. The ugly finality and the vile stench that clung to your clothing for days. In Detroit, cops called them Crispy Critters. But here in the north, no one in Doyle’s unit joked about them. There’s nothing funny about a death by fire. Ever.

Working his way warily down the slope, Doyle noted the uneven footprints in the snow of the roadster’s trail. “Did the trucker climb down to the car?”

“The trucker didn’t stop,” Zina said. “He spotted the wreck and a little smoke. Wasn’t sure what it was, but thought somebody should take a look.”

“It was still smoking at ten o’clock? Any idea when this happened, Joni?”

“My best guess would be around midnight, boss, give or take an hour,” Javitz said without turning. Tall and slender as a whip, she had to fold herself into a question mark to shoot the wreck’s interior. “The car and the body are both cool to the touch now, but they’re still ten degrees warmer than the ambient temperature. The State Police Crime Scene team is already en route from Gaylord. They should be here any time.”

“Okay...” Doyle said, swiveling slowly, taking in the scene. “We’ve got a hotshot in a Benz roadster who runs off the road at midnight, crashes and burns. Tough break for him. Or her?”

“Him, definitely,” Joni said.

“Fine. Him, then. And why exactly am I here on my day off?”

Wordlessly, Joni stepped away from the car, revealing the charred corpse and the deep crease in the driver’s-side door.

“Wow,” Doyle said softly, lowering himself to his haunches, studying the dent more closely. “Metal on metal. Red paint traces. No tree did this. Which explains the second set of skid marks on the highway. Somebody ran this poor bastard off the road...” He broke off, eyeing a small circle of dark red droplets, scattered like a spray of blood near the trunk.

“Plastic pellets?” Doyle said. “Any chance they’re from the taillights?”

“Nope, the taillight lenses are Lexan,” Joni said. “These pellets are definitely polypropylene, probably from a plastic gas container. A small one, a gallon or two. Like you’d use for a chainsaw or a lawnmower. The can was definitely on the ground outside the vehicle. I’ve already bagged up some residue to test for accelerants.”

“I didn’t see any skid marks from the other vehicle until the last second, just before it struck the Benz,” Doyle mused. “From the depth of these dents, both cars must have been traveling at one hell of a clip. So car number two runs the stop sign at high speed, nails the Benz dead center, hard enough to drive it through the snowdrifts...”

“He’s damned lucky he isn’t down here too,” Zina said.

“Maybe it wasn’t luck,” Doyle said, staring up the incline toward the highway. “If he hadn’t hit the Benz, he definitely would have blown through the berm himself. And there’s not much traffic out here at night. So, either he ran that stop sign, drunk, asleep, whatever, and the Benz had the million to one bad luck to get in his way or...?”

“He wasn’t out of control at all.” Zina nodded, following Doyle’s gaze up the hillside. “You think he drilled him deliberately?”

“Tell you what, Detective, why don’t you hoof it back up the hill and check out that side road for tire tracks or exhaust stains in the snow. See if car number two was sitting up there, waiting for the Benz to show.”

“Jesus,” Joni said softly. “You mean somebody rammed this poor bastard on purpose? Then climbed down with a gas can and lit him up?”

“I don’t like it either, but it works,” Doyle agreed grimly. “Have you identified him yet?”

“The car’s registered jointly to Jared and Lauren Bannan, Valhalla address.”

“Jared Bannan?” Doyle echoed, surprised. “Damn. I know this guy. I’ve played racquetball against him.”

“A friend?”

“No, just a guy. He’s an attorney, a transplant from downstate, works mostly in real estate.”

“A yuppie lawyer?” Zina said. “Should I cancel the Crime Scene team?”

The door to the classroom was ajar. Doyle raised his fist to knock, then hesitated, surprised at the utter silence from within. Curious, he peered around the doorjamb. A tall, trim woman with boyishly short dark hair was addressing the class. Soundlessly. Her lips were moving, the fingers of both hands flickering, mediating an animated discussion with a dozen rapt teenagers, who were answering with equally adept sign language, their lips miming speech, but with no sound at all.

It was like watching an Olympic fencing match, silvery signals flashing too quickly for the eye to follow.

The woman glanced up, frowning. “Can I help you?”

“Sorry to intrude, ma’am. If you’re Dr. Bannan, we need a few minutes of your time.”

“I’m in the middle of a class.”

“This really can’t wait, ma’am.”

“My God,” Lauren said softly, “are you absolutely sure it’s Jared?”

“The identification isn’t final, but he was carrying your husband’s identification and driving his car.”

“Jared wore a U of M class ring on his right hand,” she offered. “Did the driver...?”

Doyle nodded. They were in Dr. Bannan’s office, a Spartan ten-by-ten box at Blair Center, the county magnet school for special-needs students. Floor to ceiling bookshelves on three sides, Dr. Bannan’s diplomas and teaching awards neatly displayed on the fourth wall. No photographs, Doyle noted.

“I didn’t see a wedding ring,” Zina said. “Did he normally wear one?”

“We’re separated,” Lauren said. “God. I can’t believe this.”

“Are you all right, Dr. Bannan?” Doyle asked. “Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

“No, I’m... just a bit shaken. Do you have any idea what happened?”

“Your husband was apparently sideswiped on the shore road a few miles outside of town. Hit and run. His car went over a steep embankment, probably late last night. Midnight, maybe. He was pronounced dead at the scene. We’re very sorry for your loss.”

Lauren’s mouth narrowed as she visibly brought her emotions under control. An elegant woman, Doyle thought. Slender as a willow, with dark hair, a complexion as exquisite as a porcelain doll.

But not fragile. She took the news of her husband’s death like a prizefighter rocked by a stiff punch. Drawing within herself to camouflage the damage.

After a moment, she took a deep breath, and carefully straightened her jacket.

“You said someone ran Jared off the road. What happened to the other driver?”

“We don’t know yet, ma’am. Do you know why your husband might have been on that road last night?”

“No idea. Jared and I separated last year. Except for conferences with our attorney, I rarely see him. Why?”

Zina glanced the question at Doyle, who nodded.

“Judging from the skid marks, the collision may not have been accidental,” Zina said. “Do you know why anyone would want to harm your husband?”

“Whoa, back up a moment,” Lauren said, raising her hand. “Are you saying someone deliberately rammed Jared’s car?”

“We aren’t certain yet, ma’am,” Doyle said. “But the evidence does lean that way. At this point we’re treating it as a possible homicide.”

“For the record, would you mind telling us your whereabouts last night?” Zina asked.

Lauren glanced up at her sharply. “I was at home all evening. Alone. What are you implying?”

“Nothing, ma’am,” Doyle put in. “It’s strictly routine. We’re not the enemy.”

Lauren looked away a moment. “All right then. If you have questions, let’s clear them up now.”

“You said you separated last year?” Zina asked. “Have you filed for divorce?”

“We filed right after we separated. Last spring. March, I think.”

“Do you have children?”

Lauren hesitated. “No. No children.”

“Then help me out here, Dr. Bannan. Without children involved, you can get a no-fault divorce in sixty days, and I’m speaking from experience. Was your husband contesting the divorce?”

“Only the property settlement. Jared earns more than I do, so he felt he was entitled to more. He kept coming up with new demands.”

“Michigan’s a community-property state,” Doyle put in. “A wife’s entitled to half, no matter who earns what.”

“My husband is an attorney, Sergeant, though most of his work is in real estate. Fighting him in court wouldn’t be cost-effective. We had our final meeting last Tuesday. He made an offer and I took it.”

“But you weren’t happy about it?” Zina said.

“Divorce seldom makes anyone happy.”

“You’re newcomers to the area, right?” Doyle asked. “When did you move north?”

“A little over two years ago.”

“Why was that? The move, I mean?”

“Why?” Lauren blinked, but didn’t answer.

That was a hit, Zina thought. Though she had no idea what it meant.

“I knew your husband in passing,” Doyle offered, easing the silence. “I played racquetball against him a few times.”

“And?” Lauren said, with an odd smile.

“And what? Why the smile?”

“Jared was the most competitive man I’ve ever known. Did he beat you, Sergeant?”

“As a matter of fact, he did. Twice.”

“And did he cheat?”

“He didn’t have to. He was quicker than I am. Why do you ask that?”

“Jared could be a very sore loser. I beat him at tennis once and he smashed his racquet to splinters in front of a hundred spectators. I filed for divorce a week later.”

“Over a tennis match?” Zina asked, arching an eyebrow.

“It was such a childish display that I realized Jared was never going to grow up. And I was tired of waiting. I wanted out.”

“And now you are,” Zina said. “Will the accident affect your financial settlement?”

“I have no idea. Money always mattered more to Jared than to me.”

“Money doesn’t matter?” Zina echoed.

“I was buying my freedom, Detective. How much is that worth? Can we wrap this up? I have a class in five minutes.”

“You might want to make other arrangements, Doctor,” Doyle suggested. “Give yourself a break.”

“Working with handicapped kids is a two-way street, Sergeant. It keeps your problems in perspective. The last thing I need is to sit around brooding.”

“You’re not exactly brooding, ma’am,” Zina noted. “If you don’t mind my saying, you’re taking this pretty calmly.”

“I deal with problems every day, Detective. Kids who will never hear music or their mother’s voices, kids with abusive parents. Last week I had to tell an eight-year-old her chemotherapy regimen had failed and she probably won’t see Christmas. So this is very hard news, but...” Lauren gave a barely perceptible shrug.

“That would be a lot harder,” Zina conceded, impressed in spite of herself.

“And yet the sun also rises,” Lauren said firmly. “Every morning, ready or not. Are we done?”

“Just a few final questions,” Doyle said quickly. “Your husband had a string of traffic citations, mostly for speeding. Was he a reckless driver?”

“Jared never hit anyone, he had great reflexes. But every trip was Le Mans for him. I hated that car.”

“Was he ever involved in conflicts with other drivers?”

“Road rage, you mean? His driving often ticked people off, but he seldom stopped to argue. It was more fun to leave them in the dust.”

“Which brings us full circle to question number one,” Doyle said. “Can you think of anybody who might wish to harm your husband?”

Lauren hesitated a split second. Another hit, Zina thought, though not as strong as the first.

“No one,” Lauren said carefully. “Jared was a charming guy, as long as you weren’t playing tennis or facing him in court. If he was having trouble with clients, his office staff would know more than I do. He’s with Lehman and Greene.”

“How about you, ma’am?” Doyle asked. “The Benz is jointly owned, so it’s at least possible your husband wasn’t the intended victim. Have you had any problems? Threats, a stalker, anything like that?”

“No.”

“What about your students?” Zina asked. “Your schedule includes mentally challenged students as well as hearing-impaired. Are any of them violent? Maybe overly affectionate? Seems like there’s a lot of teacher-student hanky panky in the papers.”

Lauren met Zina’s eyes a moment, tapping on the desk with a single fingernail.

“You two are really good,” she said abruptly. “Usually the male plays the aggressive ‘bad cop,’ while the female plays the sympathetic sister. Reversing the roles is very effective.”

“Thanks, I think,” Zina said. “But you didn’t answer the question.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, Detective Redfern, some of my students have behavioral problems that keep them out of mainstream schools. But none of them would have any reason to harm Jared. Or me. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like a minute alone before my next class. Please.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Doyle said, rising. “I apologize for the tone of our questions. We’re sorry for your loss.” He handed her his card. “If you think of anything, please call, day or night.”

Zina hesitated in the doorway.

Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Something else, Detective?”

“That kid you mentioned? What did she say when you told her the cancer had come back?”

“She... asked her father if they could celebrate an early Christmas. So she could give her toys to her friends.”

“Good God,” Zina said softly. “How do you handle it? Telling a child a thing like that?”

“Some days are like triage on the Titanic, Detective,” Lauren admitted, releasing a deep breath. “You protect the children as best you can. And at five o’clock, you go home, pour a stiff brandy, and curl up with a good book.”

“And tomorrow, the sun also rises,” Zina finished. “Every single day. Ready or not.”

In the hallway, Doyle glanced at Zina. “What?”

“I hate having to tell the wives. The tears, the wailing. Rips your freakin’ heart out.”

“The lady’s used to dealing with bad news.”

“She’s also pretty good at dodge-ball. She echoed some questions to buy time before she answered. Or didn’t answer at all.”

“She’s got degrees in psych and special ed. She’s probably better at this than we are. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Her clothes were expensive but not very stylish. She’s a good-looking woman, but she dresses like a schoolmarm.”

“She is a schoolmarm, sort of. What are we, the fashion police now?”

“Nope, we’re the damn-straight real po-leece, Sarge. I’m just saying a few things about that lady don’t add up. If a toasted husband can’t crack your cool, what would it take?”

“You think she might be involved in her husband’s death?”

“I’ll get back to you on that. Who’s next?”

“She said Bannan’s office staff would know about any threats.”

“Argh, more lawyers,” Zina groaned. “I’d rather floss with barbed wire.”

The offices of Lehman, Barksdale, and Greene, Attorneys at Law, occupied the top floor of the old Montgomery Ward building in downtown Valhalla. Old Town, it’s called now. The historic heart of the village.

The new big-box stores, Wal-Mart, Home Depot, and the rest, are outside the city limits, sprawling along the Lake Michigan shore like a frontier boomtown, fueled by new money, new people. High-tech émigrés from Detroit or Seattle, flocking to the north country to get away from it all. And bringing most of it with them.

But Old Town remains much as it was before World War II: brick streets and sidewalks; quaint, globular streetlamps. Nineteenth-century buildings artfully restored to their Victorian roots, cast-iron facades, shop windows sparkling with holiday displays, tinny carols swirling in the wintry air. Christmas in Valhalla.

Harbor Drive offers a marvelous view of the harbor and the Great Lake, white ice calves drifting in dark water out to the horizon and a hundred miles beyond.

Few of the locals give it a glance, but the two cops paused a moment, taking it in. They’d both worked the concrete canyons of southern Michigan, Detroit for Doyle, Flint for Zee, before returning home to the north. Beauty shouldn’t be taken for granted.

Totally rehabbed during the recent real-estate push, the offices of Lehman and Greene were top-drawer now, an ultra-modern hive of glass cubicles framed in oak with ecru carpeting. Scandinavian furniture in the reception area, original art on the walls. Doyle badged the receptionist, who buzzed Martin Lehman, Jr., to the front desk. Mid thirties, with fine blond hair worn long, thinning prematurely. Casually dressed. Shirtsleeves and slacks, loafers with no socks. No tie, either. New Age corporate chic.

“How can I help you, Officer?”

“It’s Sergeant, actually. I understand Jared Bannan works here?”

“He’s one of the partners, yes. He missed a deposition this morning, though. Is there a problem?”

“Maybe we’d better talk in your office, Mr. Lehman. Wait here, Redfern. I’ll call you if we need anything.”

“Hurry up and wait.” Zina sighed, leaning on the reception counter as Doyle and Lehman disappeared down the hallway. “Is there a coffee machine somewhere?”

“Over in the corner, I’ll get—”

“Don’t get up,” Zina said. “You’re on the job, I’m just hanging around. Can I get you a cup?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” the receptionist said.

“My treat.” Zina winked. “If working girls don’t look out for each other, who will?”

“Jared dead? Good God,” Lehman said, sinking into the Enterprise chair behind his antique desk. “We played golf last Saturday, I can’t—”

He caught Doyle’s look.

“We flew down to Flint, there’s an indoor course there,” Lehman said absently. “It doesn’t seem possible. Jared had so much energy... Had he been drinking?”

“Did he drink a lot?”

“Not really. He loved to party, though, and... look, I’m just trying to make sense of this.”

“Join the club, Mr. Lehman. Your partner was apparently the victim of a hit-and-run that may have been deliberate. What kind of work did Mr. Bannan do here?”

“Real-estate cases, mostly. He was a fixer. He brokered deals, arranged financing, resolved legal problems. One of the best in the state. We were lucky to land him.”

“But since at least one party’s unhappy in most business deals—”

“You know that I can’t discuss Jared’s cases with you, Sergeant. Attorney/ client privilege applies.”

“I’m not asking for specifics.”

“Even so, our firm’s reputation for discretion—”

“Listen up, Mr. Lehman! Somebody rammed your buddy’s car off the road, into a ravine. Where he freakin’ burned to death. Get the picture?”

“Good Lord,” Lehman murmured, massaging his eyes with his fingertips.

“I’m not asking you to violate privilege, but I do need a heads-up about any problem cases or clients that could have triggered this thing.”

“That’s not so easy. Jared specialized in difficult cases.”

“Define difficult.”

“Property cases where the parties are in conflict, foreclosures, or the disposal of assets during a divorce. Jared loved confrontations. He’d needle the opposition until they blew, then he’d file a restraining order or sue for damages, generally make their lives miserable until they settled.”

“So he was what? Your hatchet man?”

“The best I ever saw,” Lehman admitted. “The slogan on his office wall says Refuse to Lose. He rarely did.”

“That kind of attitude might make him a lot of enemies.”

“It also made a lot of money. Real-estate law is a tough game, and Jared’s a guy you’d want on your team. Even if down deep, he scared you a little.”

“Were you afraid of him?”

“I had no reason to be, we were colleagues. But in court or in negotiations, he was a ferocious opponent. No quarter asked or given.”

“I get the picture.” Doyle nodded. “Can you give me a quick rundown of any seriously unhappy customers?”

“Butch Lockhart would top the list,” Lehman said, bridging his fingertips.

“The Cadillac dealer? Used to play linebacker for the Lions?”

“That’s Butch. Jared represented Butch’s ex-wife, Sunny, in a suit over their divorce settlement. He got their prenuptial agreement voided on a technicality and Sunny wound up with half of everything. Fourteen million for a six-year marriage.”

“Wow. I’m guessing Butch is unhappy?”

“He threatened, and I quote, to ‘tear Jared’s head off and cram it up his ass’ during a deposition. Looked angry enough to do it, too. Naturally, Jared got the blowup on video. Butch’s lawyers settled the same day. But there’s more. Jared and Sunny Lockhart...”

“Have been celebrating?”

“Banging his clients was almost a ritual with Jared,” Lehman sighed. “And Sunny lives in Brookside. Jared may have been coming from her place last night.”

“Is Butch Lockhart aware of their relationship?”

“I would assume so. Jared and Sunny haven’t been subtle about it.”

“Noted. Who else?”

“He recently brokered a deal for the Ferguson family. The three sons wanted to sell the family farm, the father didn’t. Jared managed to get the old man declared incompetent. Mr. Ferguson threatened to kill him in open court, which clinched the case. Personally, I think the old man was dead serious.”

“We’ll look into it. Any others?”

Lehman hesitated, thinking. “Jared had a divorce case slated for final hearings next week. Emil and Rosie Reiser. They own the Lone Pine Boat Works on Point Lucien.”

“What’s the problem?”

“There’s some... friction over the timing of the closing. Emil Reiser bought the boatyard ten years ago, built it up, married a local girl. They’re splitting up and cashing out, but their daughter is very ill. Emil wanted to put everything on hold, but Jared has a buyer lined up who won’t wait. The wife wants out immediately. Jared promised to make it happen.”

“How?”

“I’m sorry, but that definitely falls under attorney/client privilege.”

“Are you trying to tell me something, Counselor?”

“We both know the rules, Sergeant. I’ve already said more than I should.”

“Fair enough. Lockhart, Ferguson, and Reiser are on the list. Who else?”

“Those are the top three. I’ll scan through Jared’s files, and flag any others that seem problematic.”

“What about Bannan’s wife? She said they’re divorcing. Amicably?”

“No divorce is amicable, but they’re both professional people. The discussions were very chilly, but civil. I’m handling — was handling — the paperwork for them.”

“For both parties?” Doyle asked, surprised. “Isn’t that unusual?”

“The only dispute was the terms of the settlement, and they hammered those out in meetings that I refereed. We wrapped it up last week.”

“To everyone’s satisfaction?”

“Jared was certainly satisfied. Lauren’s harder to read. Jared and I have been friends since college. I could tell you the juicy details on every girlfriend he ever had, up to and including Sunny Lockhart. But I can’t tell you a thing about his wife. He never talked about her. I do know that a few years ago, they had... a serious problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“That I truly don’t know. But Jared had a very successful practice downstate, and we didn’t recruit him, he called me up out of the blue. Said he wanted to make a fresh start.”

“Trying to save his marriage?”

“Jared never took marriage all that seriously.”

“How seriously did his wife take it? Should we be looking at her? Or a boyfriend?”

“Can’t help you there, Sergeant. As I said, I simply don’t know the lady well. I was surprised when I met her. She’s a handsome woman, but not Jared’s type at all. He liked them hot, blond, and bubbly and Lauren’s the opposite. Cool, intelligent, and very private. I’ve seen more of her during the settlement conferences than I did the whole time they... sweet Jesus.”

“What?”

“Their settlement isn’t finalized.” Lehman frowned. “We ironed out the details but nothing’s been signed or witnessed.”

“So? What’s the problem?”

“It’s void. All of it, even Jared’s new will. As things stand, Lauren’s still his wife and sole heir. She gets everything.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“I really shouldn’t—”

“Just a ballpark figure. Please.”

“Very well. Property and investments would be... roughly two and a half mil. And Jared had a substantial life-insurance policy. I’d put the total estate in the neighborhood of five million.”

“Nice neighborhood,” Doyle whistled.

“I’m afraid that’s really all I can tell you for the moment,” Lehman said, rising. “I’ll fax you the information on any problem clients by the end of business today.”

“I’d appreciate it, Counselor. About Bannan’s death being a possible homicide? That stays between us.”

“God. I don’t even like to think about it, let alone tell anyone else.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Lehman. I’m sorry about your partner.”

“So am I, Sergeant,” Lehman said, shaking his head glumly. “So am I.”

Zina was waiting for Doyle on the sidewalk. “What’d you get?” she asked, falling into step as they headed for the SUV.

“A lot. Bannan was having an affair with Sunny Lockhart and half of his other clients, his life’s been threatened at least twice, recently, and his widow stands to inherit five million. How’d you make out with the receptionist?”

“Same basic story. Bannan wasn’t doing her, but he certainly could have. He was a killer negotiator who loved ticking off the opposition. He also got into a major shouting match with his partner last week.”

“With Lehman? About what?”

“The receptionist wasn’t sure; those flashy glass offices may look wide open but they’re soundproof. A couple called Reiser had just left, and Dr. Bannan was waiting in reception. The argument could have been about either of them.”

“Or something else altogether.”

“Whatever it was, she said Bannan and Lehman were shouting loud enough to rattle the glass.”

“Not loud enough, apparently. What else?”

“Bannan’s clients loved him, in every sense of the word, especially the ladies. I’m feeling a little wistful that he never gave me a call.”

“You hate lawyers.”

“Only divorce lawyers. What’s next?”

“One of the threats to Bannan’s life came from Butch Lockhart. Let’s take the Lockharts separately, before they have time to cross-check their stories. I’ll charm Sunny, you dazzle Butch.”

“Can’t I just beat it out of him?” Zina said. “The Lions sucked when Lockhart played for ’em.”

“You’re kidding?” Butch Lockhart grinned hugely, not bothering to conceal his delight. “That mouthy sumbitch is dead? For sure?”

“I’m afraid so,” Zina said, eyeing him curiously. They were in Lockhart’s office, a glass cubicle five steps up from the showroom floor, which overlooked a gleaming row of Cadillacs that stretched the length of a football field. Lockhart loomed even larger than in his playing days, fifty pounds heavier now, a behemoth in a tailored silk suit, tinted glasses, tinted dark hair. A smile too perfect to be real.

“What kind of a car was he driving?” Lockhart asked.

“A Mercedes roadster.”

“Better and better. A smart-ass yuppie buys it in his Kraut car. If he’d been driving a Caddy, he could’ve survived the accident.”

“Actually, we don’t think it was an accident, Mr. Lockhart. He was clipped by a hit-and-run driver. Would you mind telling me your whereabouts between ten and midnight last night?”

Lockhart stared at her, blinking, as the question penetrated his bullet skull. “Whoa, wait a minute, Shorty. Why ask me? What the hell, you think I killed him?”

“You did threaten to tear Mr. Bannan’s head off in front of witnesses—”

“Maybe I would have, if I’d run into him in a bar after I’d had a few. But I didn’t. And if I wanted him dead, I wouldn’t need a car to do it. It’s bad enough I had to take crap from that punk while he was alive, I’ll be damned if I’ll take any more now that he’s toast. Especially from some backwoods taco bender. Get the hell out of my office.”

“Actually, I’m not Latin, sir, I’m Native American,” Zina said, rising. “Anishnabeg. And you’re not required to answer questions without an attorney. No problem. I’ll be happy to clear your name another way. How many red Cadillacs do you have in stock?”

“Red? What are you talking about?”

“The vehicle that struck Mr. Bannan’s car left red paint scrapes on his door. I can just scrape paint samples from every red vehicle on your lots, then ship ’em to Lansing to see if any of them match. I’m sure your body shop can touch them up, good as new.”

“Touch ’em up?” Butch echoed, standing up, towering over her. “Look, you little beaner—” He broke off, staring at the gleaming blade of the boot knife Zina slid out of her ankle sheath.

“I see two red Caddies out on your showroom floor,” she continued calmly. “I’ll just scrape some paint samples on my way out. Unless you’d like to be the sweet guy I know you really are and tell me where the hell you were last night, Mr. Lockhart. Sir.”

“He was banging his new girlfriend,” Zina sighed, dropping into the chair at her desk. “A high-school cheerleader, no less.” They were in the Mackie Law Enforcement Center, a brown brick blockhouse just outside Valhalla, named for a trooper killed by a psycho survivalist during a routine traffic stop.

Covering a five-county area, “the House” is shared by Valhalla P.D., the Sheriff’s Department, and the Joint Investigative Unit. Amicably, for the most part.

“How old is the girl?”

“Eighteen. Street legal, but just barely. She confirmed Lockhart’s story. I politely suggested she might want to try dating guys her own age. She told me to stick my advice in the trunk of her brand new Escalade. Paid-up lease, thirty-six months.”

“She’s eighteen and he’s what? Forty?”

“Men are pond scum. I may have to switch to girls. What’d you get from Lockhart’s ex?”

“Bannan was with her last night. They ate a late dinner, then thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. She fell asleep afterward. Her best guess is, he bailed out sometime after eleven. She has no alibi, but no motive, either. He made her rich and she was in love with the guy.”

“Or in heat,” Zee said. “Scratch both Lockharts then, who does that leave?”

“Old Man Ferguson can’t be too happy about being declared incompetent. And the Reisers, who have some kind of a beef over their scheduling. Plus pretty much everybody Jared Bannan ever met. The guy loved ticking people off.”

“You’re forgetting the widow. Five mil’s a helluva motive, Doyle, and she definitely ducked some of our questions.”

“Lehman said their relationship was pretty chilly. What did you make of her?”

“Same as you. She’s smart, has great legs, and she’s about to have five mil in the bank. Hey, maybe I will switch to girls. You want me to re-interview her while you run down Ferguson?”

“No, let’s try the Reisers first. The boat works will close in an hour.”

The Lone Pine boatyard was on the tip of Point Lucien, an isolated peninsula jutting into Grand Traverse Bay. A narrow, two-lane blacktop was the only access.

“Not much development out here,” Zina noted. “Can’t be many private shoreline sites left.”

“Which should make the Reisers a bundle when they sell,” Doyle said, wheeling the cruiser into the small parking lot. Switching off the engine, they sat a moment, listening to the lonely lapping of the waves and the cries of the gulls.

The yard wasn’t much to look at. The only buildings were a cabin, a curing shed stacked with drying lumber, and the boat works itself, a long warehouse surrounded by a deck that extended out over the water, built of rough-hewn timbers culled from the surrounding forest.

A young girl was huddled in a lawn chair at the end of the dock, fishing with a cane pole, an ancient Labrador Retriever at her feet. The dog raised its head, growling a warning as the two officers approached.

“Shush, Smokey,” the girl said. “Daaa-ad! The police are here. Have you been bad again?” Her impish grin faded into a spate of coughing. She was muffled in a heavy parka, though the temperature on the point was a full ten degrees warmer than the inland hills. Lake effect. Her head was swathed in a turban against the cold, and to cover her baldness.

“Something I can do for you folks?” Emil Reiser asked, stepping out to meet them. He was a bear of a man, dressed for blue-collar work, red-and-black checked flannel shirt, jeans, and cork boots. He needed a shave and his wild salt-and-pepper mane hung loosely to his shoulders. Two fingertips on his left hand were missing.

“Don’t mind the dog, he’s harmless, mostly. Is this business or pleasure?”

“It’s business, Mr. Reiser.”

“Yeah? Buying a boat, are you? ‘Cause that’s the only business I’m in.”

“Actually, it’s about your wife’s attorney, Jared Bannan.”

“Hell, what does that bastard—” Reiser broke off, glancing at his daughter, who was watching them intently. He flashed her a quick command in sign language and the girl turned away.

“She’s hearing-impaired?” Doyle asked.

“Among other things.” Reiser sighed. “We’d better talk inside. That kid can eavesdrop at fifty yards.”

Reiser’s workshop was like stepping back in time. The long room had four wooden hulls on trestles, in various states of completion. The air was redolent of sawdust, wood shavings, and shellac. Not a power tool in sight. But for the bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling beams, the works could have time-traveled from the last century. Or the one before that.

Zina wandered between the boats, running her hand over the hulls.

“Beautiful,” she murmured. She paused in front of a rifle rack against the wall that held a dozen long guns, scoped Springfields and Remingtons, plus a pair of ‘94 Winchester lever-action carbines. “Expecting a war, Mr. Reiser?”

“They’re hunting guns, miss.”

“What do you hunt?”

“I don’t, anymore. I build boats. And don’t be wanderin’ around back there. Workshops can be dangerous.”

“Is that how you lost your fingertips?” Zina asked, rejoining them.

“My fingers?” Reiser glanced at them, as if he was surprised they were missing. “Yeah. Bandsaw, couple of years ago.”

“Looks like it hurt,” Doyle said.

“Compared to what?” Reiser snapped. “Your eye don’t look so hot either, sport. Can we get on with this? I got work to do.”

“I understand you had a beef with Jared Bannan?” Doyle said.

“My wife and I are breaking up. God knows, we’ve had enough trouble the past few years to wreck anybody. I got no beef with Rosie taking half of everything, though she’s been doing more drinkin’ than workin’ lately. When this is over, I’ll probably get drunk for a month myself.”

“When what’s over?”

“Our daughter is dying,” Reiser said bluntly. “Cancer. You’d think being born deaf would be enough grief for any child, but...” He trailed off, swallowing hard.

“I’m sorry,” Doyle said. “Truly.”

“It can’t be helped,” Reiser said grimly. “All I asked from Bannan was a few extra months, so Jeanie could be at home until... her time. Rosie was okay with it, but Bannan said he had a big-bucks buyer lined up who wouldn’t wait. Then Rosie’s drunk-ass boyfriend put in his two cents. If Marty Lehman hadn’t broken things up I swear I would’ve pounded ’em both to dog meat. But I never laid a hand on either of ’em. If Bannan claims I did, he’s lying.”

“Mr. Bannan isn’t claiming anything,” Doyle said mildly, watching Reiser’s face. “He’s dead. His car was run off the road last night.”

“Jesus,” Reiser said, combing his thick mane back out of his face with his shortened fingertips. “Look, I had no use for the guy, but I had no cause to harm him.”

“Not even to get the extra time you wanted?” Zina asked.

“We already worked that out. My wife’ll tell you.”

“Where is she?”

“Stayin’ at the Lakefront Inn, in town. On my dime. With her speed-freak boyfriend, Mal La Roche.”

“We know Mal.” Doyle nodded. “Would you mind telling us where you were last night?”

“Here with Jeanie, where else? You can ask her if you want, just don’t upset her, okay? She’s got enough to deal with.”

“We’ll take your word for it, Mr. Reiser. No need to bother the girl. Thanks for your time. And we’re very sorry for your trouble.”

Zina craned around to take a long look back as they pulled out of the boatyard. Reiser was at the water’s edge, standing beside his daughter, his hand on her shoulder. Talking intently on a cell phone.

“We’ll take your word for it?” she echoed, swiveling in her seat to face Doyle.

“As sick as that kid is, she probably goes to bed early, and she’s hearing-impaired. How would she know whether Reiser went out? What did you make of him?”

“An edgy guy with a world of trouble. Given his state of mind, I wouldn’t want to get crossways of him right now. You think his daughter’s the kid Dr. Bannan mentioned? The one who wanted an early Christmas?”

“She’s deaf, and the Blair Center is the only school for special-needs students. Check with the school when we get back to the House. Meantime, we’ll talk to Reiser’s wife, confirm his story.”

“Or not,” Zina said.

“Rosie don’t want to talk to you,” Mal La Roche said, blocking the motel-room doorway, has massive arms folded. Shaggy and unshaven, Mal was a poster boy for the cedar savages, backwoodsmen who still live off the land, though nowadays they’re more likely to be growing reefer or cooking crank than running trap lines. Mal has two brothers and a dozen cousins rougher than he is. Every cop north of Midland knows them by their first names.

“This isn’t a roust, Mal, it’s a murder case,” Doyle explained. “We need to ask the lady a few questions, then we’re gone.”

“Or we can pat you down for speed,” Zina added. “You look jumpy to me, Mal. Been tootin’ your own product again?”

“I ain’t—”

“It’s all right, Mal, I’ll talk to them.” Rosie Reiser pushed past Mal. Bottle blond and blowsy, in a faded bathrobe, she looked defeated. And half in the bag. “Out here, though, not inside. Things are a mess in there. Is this about Bannan?”

“Your husband called you?” Doyle asked.

She nodded. “He said you might be by.”

“Did he also tell you what to say?”

“I don’t need him for that!” Rosie said resentfully. “I’m here, ain’t I?”

“So you are,” Zina said, glancing pointedly around at the rundown motel cabin, “though I can’t imagine why. Your daughter—”

“Is where she needs to be! With her father, by the damn lake. His little princess. It’s always about her! Has been since she was born. Never about me.”

“Okay, what about you?” Zina said coolly. “Is this dump where you should be?”

“Just ask your questions and git!” Mal put in. We don’t need no lectures.”

“What was the beef between your husband and Jared Bannan?” Doyle asked.

“It’s over and done with.”

“I didn’t ask if it was settled. I asked what it was about?”

“It...” Rosie blinked rapidly, trying to focus through a whiskey haze. “I don’t know. Something about... Emil wanted to wait until after Jeanie... you know.”

“Dies?” Zina prompted coldly. “And Bannan had a problem with that?”

“He had some big-shot buyer lined up, but they wanted to break ground right away,” Mal put in. “It’s taken care of now, though. Jared and Emil worked it out.”

“How?” Doyle asked.

“I don’t know the details.”

“Who was the buyer?”

“We don’t know!” Rosie snapped. “I just know it’s settled.”

“Because your husband said so?”

“Screw this, I don’t have to talk to you. You want to arrest me, go ahead.”

“Why would we arrest you?” Doyle asked, puzzled.

“That’s what you do, ain’t it? So get to it or take a hike.” She thrust out her wrists, waiting for the cuffs.

“We’re sorry for your trouble, ma’am,” Doyle sighed. “Have a nice day.”

Zina started to follow him to the car, then turned back.

“Mrs. Reiser? It’s none of my business, but losing a child must be incredibly difficult. You might want to wait a bit before you throw away your marriage for the likes of Mal La Roche.”

“Hey,” Mal began, “you can’t—”

“Shut up, Mal, or I’ll kick your ass into next week. Mrs. Reiser—”

“Butt out, Pocahontas,” Rosie said, clutching La Roche’s arm protectively. “At least Mal can show me a good time. Just because Emil’s got no life don’t mean Igotta live like a damn hermit.”

“No, I guess not.” Zee shrugged. “You’re right, ma’am. You’re exactly where you belong.”

“It’s the same kid,” Zina said, hanging up her phone. “Jeanie Reiser is enrolled at Blair Center. Or was. A special-needs student, hearing-impaired. She was taken out of school a few weeks ago, because of health issues.”

They were in their office at the House.

“Which means Dr. Bannan knows Emil Reiser,” Doyle mused. “Interesting.”

“Interesting how?” Zina snorted. “Like Strangers on a Train? He kills her husband and... Who does she kill? Mal La Roche? Besides, neither one of ’em has an alibi.”

“Maybe they aren’t as tricky as the guys in the movie.”

“Yep, that sounds like the doc all right. Dumb as a box of rocks.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Glad I caught you,” Captain Kazmarek interrupted, poking his head in the door. Fifty and fit, “Cash” Kazmarek bossed the Investigations unit. An affable politician, he was also a rock-solid cop, twenty-five years on the Tri County Force. “I got a call from the sheriff’s department at Gaylord. They have your truck. Red Ford pickup, passenger’s-side front fender damaged, reported stolen yesterday. Found it an hour ago, abandoned in a Wal-Mart parking lot. What the hell happened to your eye?”

“Hockey game,” Doyle said. “Did the security cameras catch anything?”

“Nope. The driver dumped it behind a delivery van to avoid the cameras. No prints, either. None. Wiped clean, they said.”

“A professional?” Zina asked.

“Could be,” Kazmarek said, dropping into the chair beside Doyle’s desk. “Or maybe some buzzed-up teenager with more luck than brains. Where are you on this thing?”

“We’ve got suspects, but it’s a fairly long list,” Doyle said. “Bannan majored in making enemies. Why?”

“Actually, a matter of overlapping jurisdictions has come up. I want you to drop a name to the bottom of your list.”

“Let me guess,” Zina said. “Dr. Lauren Bannan?”

“Lauren?” Kazmarek asked, surprised. “Is she a suspect?”

“The wife’s always a suspect. Why, do you know her?”

“We’ve met. She’s done some counseling for the department.”

“No kidding? Who’d she shrink?” Zee asked.

“None of your business, Detective. And Lauren’s not the name we need to move anyway. According to my sources, Emil Reiser has an ironclad alibi for that night.”

“What alibi?” Doyle asked. “He claimed he was home alone with his sick kid. There’s no way to verify that.”

“Consider it verified,” Cash said, rising briskly. “As far as we’re concerned, Mr. Reiser was at the policemen’s ball, waltzing with J. Edgar Hoover in a red dress.”

“Hoover?” Zina echoed. “Are you saying the Feds want us to lay off Reiser?”

“I didn’t mention the Feds, because a snotty FBI agent in Lansing asked me not to,” Cash said mildly. “That crack about Hoover must have been a Freudian thing. Forget you heard it. Clear?”

“Crystal. Does this mean Reiser is totally off limits, Captain?”

“Not at all, this is a murder case, not a traffic stop. Just make sure you exhaust all other avenues of investigation before you look at Reiser again. And if you come up with solid evidence against him, I’ll want to see it before you go public. Any questions?”

“You’re the boss,” Doyle said. “What about Mrs. Bannan?”

“I’d be surprised if Lauren’s involved,” Kazmarek said, pausing in the doorway. “But I’m obviously a lousy judge of character. I hired you two, didn’t I?”

Zina and Doyle eyed each other a moment after Cash had gone.

“Federal,” Doyle said at last.

“There’s no way Reiser can be an informant,” Zina said positively. “That boatyard’s in the middle of nowhere and he’s been out there for years.”

“Which leaves WITSEC,” Doyle agreed. “Witness protection.”

“So Reiser gets a free pass just because he testified for the Feds once upon a time?”

“No way, in fact it makes him more interesting. But since he’s officially at the bottom of our list now, let’s see how fast we can work our way back down to him. Ferguson’s the only suspect we haven’t interviewed. We might want to look at Mal La Roche, too, just on general principles—”

“That’s the second time you’ve done that,” Zina said.

“Done what?”

“Left the foxy doc off the list. She’s got five million reasons to want her husband dead, Doyle. She’s connected to Reiser and she definitely ducked some of our questions. Or maybe you didn’t notice? Because you’re a guy and the doc definitely isn’t.”

“That’s crap!” Doyle snapped. “I’m not...” He broke off, meeting Zee’s level gaze. Realizing there might just be a kernel of truth in what she said. As usual.

“Okay.” He nodded. “Straight up, do you seriously think she killed her husband? Or had it done?”

“I don’t know. Neither do you. But she was definitely holding something back. Maybe it’s connected to her husband’s death, maybe not, but if we’re crossing names off our list, I think I should question her again. Alone, this time. Girl talk. Unless you’ve got some objection? Sergeant?”

Doyle scanned her face for irony. He’d been partnered with Zina Redfern since she transferred north. Nearly four years now. And he still had no idea how her mind worked. Nor any other woman’s mind, for that matter.

“Hell, go for it, Zee. Seeing a shrink might do you some good. Just be careful she doesn’t have you committed.”

“Screw that. I’m more worried about getting torched in my car.”

Lauren Bannan delayed making the phone call as long as she could. She meant to make it after lunch, but wound up working at her desk well into the afternoon.

So she swore to make it the last call of the business day. Then forgot again. Sort of.

But when she stepped into the kitchen of the small lakefront cottage she’d leased after her separation, she knew she couldn’t delay any longer. And like most tasks we dread, it wasn’t as difficult as she’d feared.

Nearly eighty now, Jared Bannan’s mother had been in a rest home in Miami for years. She was used to receiving bad news. In the home, it came on a daily basis.

“Don’t make a big fuss over the funeral, Lauren,” she quavered. “Jared never cared a fig for religion and I won’t be coming. I’m sorry, but I’m simply not up to it. Hold whatever service you feel is appropriate, then send his ashes to me. He can be on the mantel, beside his father. I’ll be seeing them both before long. How are you holding up, my dear?”

And Lauren started to cry. Tears streaming silently as she listened to words of comfort from an elderly lady she hardly knew. And would never see again.

“I’m all right, Mother Bannan,” she lied. “I’ll be fine.”

Afterward, she washed her face, made herself a stiff cup of Irish coffee, then sat down at her kitchen table to scan the Yellow Pages listings for funeral homes.

The doorbell rang.

Padding barefoot to her front door, Lauren checked the peephole, half expecting Marty Lehman. He’d been hinting about offering her a shoulder to cry on—

But it wasn’t.

“Detective Redfern,” Lauren said, opening the door wide. “What can I do for Valhalla’s finest?”

“Sorry to bother you at home, Dr. Bannan, but a few things have come up. Can you spare me a minute?”

“Actually, your timing’s perfect, Detective. I have to choose a funeral home for Jared’s service. Can you recommend one?”

“McGuinn’s downtown handles the department funerals.” Zina followed Lauren through the living room to the kitchen, glancing around the small apartment. It was practically barren. She’d seen abandoned homes that looked friendlier. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”

“I’m still living out of boxes in the garage,” Lauren admitted. “I took the place for the view. The back deck overlooks the lake. Sit down, please. I’m having Irish coffee. Would you like some?”

“Coffee’s fine, but hold the Irish, please.” Zina took a chair at the kitchen table. “This isn’t a social call.”

“Good,” Lauren said, placing a steaming mug in front of Zina, sitting directly across from her. “I wouldn’t know how to deal with a social call. Our friends were mostly Jared’s business buddies. What do you need, Detective?”

“You sure you’re up for this? You seem a bit... distracted.”

“This hasn’t been a day to relive in my golden years, but I’m not a china doll, either. Cut to the chase, please.”

“Fair enough. We’ve got an ugly murder on our hands, and you’re screwing up our case.”

“In what way?”

“By lying to us or withholding information.”

“Holy crap,” Lauren said, sipping her coffee. “That’s pretty direct.”

“You’re not a china doll.”

“No, I’m not,” Lauren said, taking a deep breath. “I’m a special-ed teacher and counselor, licensed by the state and prohibited by federal law from divulging information obtained in my work. To anyone.”

“Are you trying to tell me you know who killed your husband?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“But you know something?”

“Nothing that directly relates to Jared’s death. And nothing I can discuss with you in any case.”

“Reality check, Doc. A fair amount of evidence points directly at you. Shut us out and you could end up in a jackpot that can wreck your life, guilty or not.”

“I’ll help you in any way I can.”

Leaning back in her chair, Zee sipped her coffee, reading Lauren’s face openly. “All right. Let’s hit the high spots. In our first interview, Doyle asked why you moved north. You ducked that question. Why was that?”

Lauren glanced away a moment, then met Zina’s eyes straight on. “Jared and I needed a fresh start after the death of our son,” she said flatly. “Jared Junior was born with a congenital heart defect. He lived five months. We hoped a new place might help. It didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was four years ago. I didn’t become a counselor because I’m a good person who wanted to help others, Detective. I was only trying to save myself.”

“How’s it going?”

“A day at a time. Next question?”

“The big one. When Doyle asked who might have cause to hurt your husband, you hesitated.”

“Did I?”

“You just did it again. Are you protecting someone?”

“I’m sorry,” Lauren said, shaking her head slowly. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?I can’t believe you’d protect a killer over some damned technicality. Give me a name! Hell, give me his initials!”

“I just told you, I can’t!”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Zina said, rising from her chair, leaning across the table. “In Flint I worked gangland, lady. The east side. I’ve known some hardcore bangers, but I’ve never met a colder case than you. The guy may have killed your husband!”

“You’d better go, Detective.”

“Damn right I’d better, before I slap the crap out of you. But I’m warning you, Doc, if anybody else gets hurt because you held out on us? I’ll burn you down, swear to God!”

Doyle was at his desk when Zina stormed in.

“She definitely knows something, but won’t give it up,” Zina said, dropping into her seat, still seething. “What did you get?”

“More than I wanted to,” Doyle said absently.

“About who? Ferguson?”

“The old man’s been in the county psych ward for a week, for evaluation. Twenty-four seven observation. He’s totally clear. So I ran Reiser through the Law Enforcement Information Net.”

“Cash told us to lay off him.”

“I didn’t run his name, just his general description and those missing fingertips. Got a dozen possibles, but only one serious hit. A case I actually remembered, from twelve years ago in Ohio. I was a rookie on the Detroit force then. A Toledo hit man called The Jap rolled on the Volchek crime family, busted up a major drug ring. They wiped out his wife and kids as a payback.”

“Nobody in our case is Japanese.”

“Neither was the hit man. He got that nickname because he had some fingertips missing. Japanese Yakuza gangsters whack off their fingertips over matters of honor.”

“Hell, Doyle, half my backwoods relatives are missing fingers or toes because they swing chainsaws for a living. That doesn’t make ’em hit men.”

“There’s more. After the trial, the Jap disappeared. No mention of prison time, no updates on his whereabouts. Zip, zilch, nada.”

“You think the Feds put him in the witness protection program?”

“Probably,” Doyle agreed. “Let’s say you’ve got a witness with a contract out on him. You can give him a new identity, even plastic surgery. But you can’t grow his fingers back...”

“They stashed him in chainsaw country,” Zina finished, “where nobody notices missing fingers. You think Reiser’s this Jap?”

“I can’t think of any other reason a backwoods boat builder would be waltzing with J. Edgar Hoover.”

“And this hit man’s daughter is in Dr. Bannan’s school, so they almost certainly know each other. Do you think she knows who he really is?”

“I know they’ve been talking a lot,” Doyle said. “I pulled her telephone LUDs. She calls the parents of her students occasionally, probably to discuss problems or progress. But over the past few months she’s been talking to Emil Reiser several times a week.”

“His daughter’s dying.”

“And as her teacher, the doc would naturally be concerned,” Doyle nodded. “But they usually talk during business hours. She calls the shop or he calls the school. Except for last Tuesday. She called him at ten p.m. And two days later...”

“Somebody greased her husband,” Zina whistled. “Wow. But can we move on this? Cash told us to lay off Rieser unless we had rock-solid evidence. All we’ve got is a possible connection between the doc and a possible hit man. And I guarantee she won’t give anything up. That’s one tough broad.”

“Cash ordered us to give Emil Reiser a pass. He didn’t say anything about Mrs. Reiser.”

“Rosie was already half in the bag this afternoon,” Zina agreed. “By now she’s probably sloshed and looking for a shoulder to cry on.”

But Rosie Reiser wasn’t at the Lakefront Inn. Her boyfriend told them she’d been called to the hospital. An ambulance had brought Princess Jeanie to the emergency room an hour earlier.

D.O.A.

They found Rosie Reiser in the E.R. waiting room, alone and dazed, her hair a shambles, cheeks streaked with mascara like a mime’s tears. Her eyes were as vacant as an abandoned building.

“Mrs. Reiser,” Zina said, kneeling beside Rosie’s chair. “We’re very sorry for your loss. Can you tell us what happened?”

“Emil called. Said Jeanie was gone. She was fishin’ off the end of the dock, that kid loved bein’ outdoors... But she dropped her pole. And when Emil checked, she was...” Rosie took an unsteady breath. “He called the ambulance, they brought her here. They let me see her before they took her downstairs.”

“Where’s your husband now?” Doyle asked.

“He split. He knew when Jeanie died, the doc would give him up. Figured you’d come for him.”

“You mean Dr. Bannan knows who he is?”

“Hell, she was the one that warned him. That bitch almost got me killed!”

“Warned him about what, Mrs. Reiser? What happened?”

“Our final hearing was coming up, Jared had a buyer lined up for the business, we could cash out and be gone. But Emil kept stalling, wanted to wait because of Jeanie. Him and Jared had a big blowout about it. After Emil stormed out, I told Jared about Emil being in witness protection, hiding out up here. Jared planned to out him in court, make Emil run for his damn life. That way I’d get everything, not just half.”

“Clever plan,” Zina said, her tone neutral.

“Marty Lehman didn’t think so. He argued with Jared about it. Claimed Jared was an officer of the court, shouldn’t give Emil up. Jared told him to screw himself. I thought we’d won. Then the doc tipped Emil what was up and he took Jared out. Told me if I opened my mouth, he’d do me and Mal the same way.”

“How did Dr. Bannan find out about Emil?” Doyle asked. “Are they involved?”

“Involved?” Rosie echoed, puzzled.

“Are they lovers, Mrs. Reiser? Are they friends?”

“Hell, Emil’s got no friends. We had to live like goddamn hermits out there.” And she began to sob, great gasping yawps of self-pity.

“Mrs. Reiser, do you know where your husband might have gone?” Zina pressed.

“He went with Jeanie when they took her down. He didn’t want her to be alone in that place.”

“What place — whoa, you mean the morgue? Doyle, the morgue’s in the basement. Reiser’s still here!”

But he wasn’t. They found the morgue attendant sitting on the floor, in a daze, his skull bloodied. He said Reiser clipped him with a gun butt. He was gone. And he’d taken his daughter’s body.

Lights and sirens, flying through town pedal to the metal, Doyle driving, Zina hanging on to the dashboard crash bar.

Turning onto the Point Lucien road, he switched off the sirens without slowing. Not that it mattered. Reiser would be expecting them.

“Eavesdropping,” Zina said suddenly.

“What?”

“When we were out here before, the girl was fishing. Emil signed for her to turn her back. He said she could eavesdrop at fifty yards. But she was deaf.”

“He meant she could read lips.”

“That’s right. And where would a kid learn to do that?”

Doyle risked a quick sidelong glance, then refocused on the road. “In school,” he nodded. “Dr. Bannan teaches hearing-impaired kids and she was in the anteroom when her husband and Lehman were arguing about outing Reiser.”

“In an office with glass walls,” Zee finished. “The secretary couldn’t hear them, but the doc could have picked up the gist of their argument. And warned Reiser.”

“And Reiser killed her husband to — Sweet Jesus!” Doyle broke off. “What the hell is all that?”

Ahead of them, the sky was glowing red, dancing shadows flickering through the trees as Doyle whipped the patrol car around, skidding broadside into the Lone Pine parking lot.

The boat works was engulfed in flame, a seething, crackling inferno fueled by the stacks of dried wood. Black smoke and sparks roiling upward into the winter night. Backlit by the blaze, Emil Rieser was calmly watching the fire consume years of his work. And his daughter. His whole life.

As Doyle and Zina stepped out of the car, Reiser turned to face them, his work clothes blackened with soot, his shaggy mane wild. Holding a hunting rifle cradled in his arms.

Doyle carefully drew his own weapon, keeping it at his side.

“Mr. Reiser, we’d appreciate it if you’d put that gun down, and step away from it.”

“Not a chance, Stark. Just give me a few minutes. Jeanie wanted her ashes scattered out here, this is my last chance to do for her. Let the fire go a bit longer, then we’ll get to it.”

“To what?” Zina asked.

“You know who I am, and what I’ve done.”

“You killed Jared Bannan?” Doyle asked.

“I did the world a favor with that one. I only wanted another month or so. Less, as it turned out. He was gonna wreck the little time Jeanie had left just to squeeze a few more dollars out of the deal. If anybody ever had it comin’, that sonofabitch did.”

“Was Bannan’s wife a part of it?”

“Part of what?” Reiser asked, glancing absently at the fire, gauging its progress.

“Did she know you were going to kill her husband?” Doyle pressed.

“She phoned me, warned me he was going to blow my cover. Tell her I said thanks.”

“You can tell her yourself.”

“No,” Reiser said. “It’s too late for that. Fire’s about done. Let’s get to the rest of it.”

“Please don’t do anything crazy, Mr. Reiser,” Zina pleaded quietly. “Do you think your daughter would want this?”

“All Jeanie ever asked for was an early Christmas. She didn’t even get that. Maybe it’s an early Christmas where she is now. Hell, maybe it’s Christmas every damn day. We’ll see.”

Zina and Doyle exchanged a lightning glance, reading the vacancy in Reiser’s eyes. Knowing what it meant.

“Hold on, Mr. Reiser,” Zee said, drawing her automatic. “Please, don’t do this.”

“Funny, that’s what Bannan said. Don’t. Please. Something like that. It didn’t work for him, either.” Reiser jacked a shell into the chamber of his rifle. “It’s on you two now, lady. You can send me over. Or come along for the ride.”

And he raised the rifle.

Doyle fired first, spinning Reiser halfway around, then all three of them were desperately exchanging fire as the boatyard blazed madly in the background, flames and smoke coiling upward, smothering the stars of the winter night. A funeral pyre worthy of a princess.

“Do you think he was really trying to kill us?” Zina asked, fingering the rip in the shoulder of her black nylon POLICE jacket, the only damage from the fatal shootout.

“I don’t think he cared. He sure as hell didn’t leave us any choice.” They were in the car, roaring back through town with lights and sirens. Leaving the smoldering boatyard to the firemen and the crime-scene team. And the coroner.

“What’s your hurry?” Though she already knew.

“Like the man said, it’s time to settle up. Any problem with that?”

“Nope. I told the doc if anyone else died, we’d be along.”

“All right then.”

It was past midnight when they skidded into Lauren Bannan’s driveway. Doyle left the strobes flashing. Wanting the neighbors to know. He hammered on the door. No answer.

“I’m out here,” Lauren called.

They circled the house to the rear deck. Lauren was standing by the rail, in black slacks and a turtleneck, looking out over the lake. Slivers of early ice floating ghostly in the dark waters, as far as the eye could see.

“Reiser’s dead,” Doyle said bluntly. “His daughter too.”

Lauren nodded, absorbing it, showing nothing. “Did Jeanie go easily?”

“I... suppose so,” he said, surprised by the question. “She died in her chair, on the dock.”

“That’s good. It can be far worse, with cancer. What’s the rest of it?”

“Emil Reiser killed your husband, Dr. Bannan. He admitted it. Before we had to kill him.”

“I’m sorry it came to that.”

“It didn’t have to! You could have stopped it! Warned us. The way you warned him. You knew what he’d do.”

“No. I didn’t know that. Not then.”

“But you damn sure knew after the fact! And you still didn’t tell us.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Because of some damned regulation?”

“No. Not because of the law. I would have broken it. But my obligation wasn’t to you, Sergeant, or even to my husband.”

“Triage,” Zina said quietly, getting it. “You told me the first day. It was too late to save your husband. Or Reiser. You were protecting the child.”

“Jeanie’s mother is a hopeless alcoholic, drowning in self-pity, with a violent boyfriend. If I’d warned you about her father, it would have destroyed the little time Jeanie had left. She was already dealing with so much, I simply couldn’t do that to her.”

“But you knew Reiser was a murderer!” Doyle raged.

“Actually, I didn’t, but it wouldn’t have mattered. You saw them together. She worshiped him. And he treated her like...”

“A princess,” Zina finished.

“What?” Doyle said, whirling on her. “You can’t be buying this crock?”

Zina didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

“Are you going to arrest me?” Lauren asked.

Doyle eyed his partner, then Lauren, then back again.

“It’s your call,” Zina said.

“No,” he said slowly. “Not tonight, anyway. But you’re not clear of this, lady. You’ll be answering a lot more questions before it’s done.”

“I’m terribly sorry about what happened, Sergeant. I hope you can believe that.”

“I don’t know what I believe,” Doyle said, releasing a ragged breath. “Let’s go, Zee.”

In the car, he sat behind the wheel without starting it, staring into the snowy darkness.

“I know what’s bugging you,” Zina said quietly.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a helluva coincidence. That warning Reiser, for the sake of his daughter, just happened to make the doc a very rich woman.”

“You think she’s capable of that?”

“I know she’s awfully bright, Doyle. She has the degrees to prove it. So it’s at least possible. But given her choices? I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Nor do I,” he admitted. “I just wish...”

“What?”

“I wish that kid had gotten her early Christmas, that’s all.”

“Hell, maybe she did,” Zee said. “Maybe her father was right. Where she is now, it’s Christmas every day. Start the damn car, Doyle, before we freeze to death.”

Doyle nodded, firing up the Ford, dropping it into gear. But as he pulled out, he realized Zina was still eyeing him. Smiling. “What?”

“My grandfather Gesh once told me he’d killed many a deer with one perfect shot,” she said. “Right through the heart. But sometimes a buck will keep on running, a hundred yards or more. He doesn’t realize he’s been hit, you see. Right through the heart.”

“I don’t follow you,” Doyle said.

“I know,” Zina grinned, shaking her head. “I’m just sayin’.”