Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

First published in the USA in 2018 by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

Copyright © Plot Line, Inc. 2018

Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photograph © Valentino Sani/Arcangel Images; Shutterstock.com (back)

Faye Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008148898

Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008148904

Version: 2018-08-09

Dedication

To Jonathan

And to Lila, Oscar, Eva, Judah, Masha, and Zoe

—with love from Nana

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Faye Kellerman

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

IT WAS A mob, but not yet a full-fledged riot. Over a dozen retirees, dressed in housecoats and robes, had taken to the streets, demanding action at eight in the morning. The call had come through twenty minutes earlier, just as Decker was knotting his blue tie, putting the finishing touches on his typical uniform: a dark suit over a white shirt. He skipped checking in at the station house, going immediately to the crime scene—seven smashed mailboxes, metal poles uprooted, letters and flyers strewn into the street.

White-haired Floyd Krasner led the charge. “It’s the third time in what … three months?”

“Less than that,” Annie Morris chimed in. She was in her seventies and wore a terry-cloth robe over floral pajamas. “Third time in two months. Not a good way to start the summer.”

“I’ll say,” Floyd added.

Janice Darwin tightened her own coral robe and added, “I didn’t give up my life in the city just to find crime here, you know.”

Decker wasn’t sure what city she was from. Not that it mattered. He smoothed his mustache—silver with hints to its once red color. It matched the hair on his head. “I know you’re frustrated—”

“Y’think?” Floyd blurted out.

Grumbling from the masses.

Decker looked at the old man—stoop shouldered with angry eyes. He and Floyd were around the same age. Decker had the advantage of a strong back and broad shoulders, although he suspected that gravity had shoved his spine down an inch or so. Still, he had plenty to spare, always the tallest kid in the crowd. People often asked if he had played basketball.

Nope. Too much weight and too slow.

He said, “Anyone hear anything last night? This much damage must have made noise.”

No response. That was expected, since half of them wore hearing aids that they took out at night. Decker’s eyes drifted upward to the roofline, then back at Floyd. “What happened to the CCTV camera that we installed on your property?”

Krasner bit his lip. “I took it down.”

“Why?” Decker asked.

A pause. “It was interfering with my gutter.”

“Floyd, I installed that myself. It was nowhere near your gutter. I made sure of that.”

The man looked down. “The missus didn’t like it. She said it made the place look like a fortress.” His eyes flashed. “Who cares? You know who these punks are anyway.”

“Probably, but without evidence, I can’t arrest them, right?” Decker shook his head. “That camera cost over two hundred dollars. What did you do with it?”

“It’s in the garage.”

“It still works?”

“Yeah, it still works.”

“Could you get it for me?” Decker turned to Anne, who lived next door to Floyd. “Do you mind if I install it on your roof?”

“Be my guest. You could have asked me in the beginning.”

“Floyd volunteered. I didn’t know he took it down.”

“It was interfering with the gutters,” Floyd said again.

“No, it wasn’t.” Decker looked at the sea of faces. “Everyone, go home. I’ll take pictures of the mess, and we’ll get someone out here to reinstall the mailboxes.”

Karl Berry spoke up. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to get us all PO boxes?”

Janice said, “I don’t want a PO box. I like having a mailbox.”

“Why? All I ever get is junk.”

Decker said, “Karl, you’ll have to take that up with the city council. I just do crime.”

“And not very well,” Floyd said.

“That was uncalled for,” Annie said. “If you hadn’t taken off the camera, we might have caught them in the act.”

Floyd muttered under his breath. Then he said, “I’ll get the damn camera.”

Decker said, “Go home, people. I’ll start at the end of the block and work my way up.”

As people slowly started filing back into their houses, Decker walked down the street. Greenbury was a rural eastern upstate town, but some places were more rural than others. This particular road—Canterbury Lane—backed up into woodlands, now green and leafy with the advent of summer. The days were longer, the sun was brighter, the sky was brilliant, and despite the uprising, Decker was in a good mood.

The warmer nights also brought out the local teenaged punks. They loitered in the streets, smoked weed in the back alleys, and when they really wanted privacy, they met up in the forest to get high, have sex, and do whatever crazy rituals underdeveloped frontal lobes do. Decker figured the kids entered the street through the woodlands, full of meth and Satan, and decided to vandalize for fun.

The last house on the block—surrounded by the wilds on two sides—belonged to Jeb Farris, a retired money manager who usually summered in Greenbury. He had yet to arrive, so Decker didn’t have his permission to tromp around the yard, but he figured Jeb wouldn’t mind. He was looking for evidence of teenage delinquency—cellophane wrappers with white powder, pills, ashes from crack pipes, marijuana butts. He didn’t find that, but what he did find took him aback.

It took Decker a few moments to regroup his thoughts. Then he took out his phone. The first call was to McAdams, who said, “How’s the walker brigade doing?”

“Harvard, I just found a body.”

“What?”

“At the mouth of the forest where Greenbury bleeds into Hamilton. The north side of Jeb Farris’s place. I need two uniforms with tape to cordon off the area, the Scientific Investigative Division, and a coroner. His head was bashed in on the right side, and next to him there’s a bloody bat.”

“How old?”

“Early to midtwenties. A male with facial hair, although not much of it. Send out Kevin Butterfield if he’s available. He can direct the procedure.”

“Any ideas who the victim is?”

“No. He’s lying on his side, face partially hidden, and I’m not touching him until the coroner gets here. Call up Hamilton. They should have someone qualified in their ME’s office. Are you writing this down?”

“Every word.”

“After you get the cops, Kevin, and the SID guys, I need you to round up the following dickheads: Riley Summers, Noah Grand, Chris Gingold, Erik Menetti, and Dash Harden. I want to know where each and every one of them was last night and what they were doing.”

“Don’t those guys live in Hamilton?”

“The body is in Greenbury.” Decker thought a moment. “I’ll run it by Radar. Let him handle Hamilton PD. But we need to talk to them.”

“The dickheads.”

“Yes. How are you doing, by the way?”

“What?”

“How are you settling in? Everything okay?”

“I’d prefer to stay with Rina and you.”

“Not happening.”

“It’s just for the summer, Old Man.”

“Still not happening. But you can have dinner with us tonight … if we’re done by then. And even if we’re not, Rina can make us sandwiches.”

“Okay. It sounds better than what I had in mind.”

“Which was?”

“Canned tuna served on a bed of self-pity.”

THE BIGGER MUNICIPALITY of Hamilton abutted the college town of Greenbury, but the two places had entirely different demographics. Hamilton had the big box stores, the supermarkets, the fast-food chains, and a real city government with real problems and real crime. Greenbury and its university village was a town filled with boutiques, farmers’ markets, cafés, gastropubs, and a quaint little city hall—a Beaux-Arts wannabe—around a hundred years old. The station house sat in the center of the village—a rectangular brick building as modern as a one-room schoolhouse. But it did have Wi-Fi, and the HVAC had been recently renovated, so it was comfortable in all seasons.

Decker looked up the names on the computer. The Hamilton boys had multiple citations for tagging and vandalism, but none had ever been charged with a violent felony, let alone murder. The boys’ MO seemed to be to create as much havoc as they could in Greenbury, then run back to the safety of their own city. Decker had every right to haul them in, but it would be much easier to get to the little buggers if he greased the skids. If he wanted full access to Hamilton PD files, he needed Hamilton PD cooperation, and that was always a delicate dance. Mike Radar could help, and Decker pleaded his case to the captain.

Decker said, “Certainly Hamilton hasn’t been very successful at curbing their activities.”

“I’m sure Hamilton would love hearing that.” Radar was nearing his second retirement. His first was leaving the big city to take on the captain’s job in Greenbury. Decker had echoed his path, leaving Los Angeles for something quieter and less time consuming. But in the past three years, he had dealt with three very unusual homicides. Like the noir title, trouble followed him.

Decker said, “I don’t want to walk in and make demands. I wouldn’t want that done to me, but I need those boys.”

Radar was wiry with thinning gray hair. He was sharp and insightful, but sometimes a little too cautious. He looked at his watch. It was a little after nine in the morning. “Who’s at the scene right now?”

“Kevin Butterfield. Maybe McAdams. We’re waiting on the coroner.”

“Do you have any officers from Hamilton?”

“The crime was in Greenbury. It’s our territory. It has the earmarks of these punks, and all I want is a little interdepartmental cooperation.”

“What makes you think that any of the boys committed the murder? You told me that none of them have violence in their criminal histories.”

“Vandalized mailboxes are their signature.”

“They could have done the vandalizing without doing the murder.”

“If they found the body, they didn’t call it in.”

“Maybe the murder happened after the mailboxes?”

“Or maybe one of them did it. Or maybe they didn’t do it, but they saw who did. The smartest thing would be to call them in as witnesses and see what they have to say.”

Radar agreed. “I’ll make a couple of phone calls. But without proof of what and who was involved, it gets sticky.”

“Like you said, the body may not have anything to do with the teens.”

“And we don’t know who it is?”

“The body? No idea. I’m waiting for McAdams or Butterfield to call me.”

“Maybe we should wait for an identity before I made the calls.”

“Tell Hamilton I just want to find out if the boys saw anything. Keep it simple.”

“And when it gets more complicated?”

“Not a problem.” Decker grinned. “I do complicated very well.”

CHAPTER 2

GREENBURY IN JUNE was a month of seesaw weather from cool to warm and muggy and back to cool again. The Five Colleges of Upstate had just started summer sessions, and there was life on the streets. Graduation had been a couple of weeks ago and every inn and B and B had been booked, meaning that lots of seniors on Social Security had rented out a room for a little extra cash. Neither Decker nor his wife, Rina, wanted strangers paddling around the house in a bathrobe and slippers. Paddling was strictly his domain.

He had dashed out of the house earlier than usual. When he did that, he often came home for a morning coffee break, especially if Rina wasn’t working. Today he went home and found her out in the garden planting pots of mums, delphiniums, sunflowers, and gladioli bulbs that would make up her cutting garden. Next week would be the vegetables.

She looked up and then got up, brushing dirt off her denim skirt. Rina was five five and slim. She was now in her fifties. Life had softened her once angular face and features. She had small wavy lines on her forehead and laugh lines around her radiant jewel-blue eyes. Her hair was still thick and, for the most part, it was still dark. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Decker answered. “Time for a cup of coffee?”

“Sure. Everything okay?”

“Fine. Why do you ask?”

“You look like something unexpected happened and you’re waiting for the right moment to tell me.”

“Found a body. Male. Young. Don’t know who it is.”

“Ugh! The handiwork of the boys from Hamilton?”

“Don’t know. Am I interrupting you?”

“I’ve got all day. Let’s go inside. You can make the coffee while I wash up.”

Once seated with a caffeine fix a sip away, Decker described the scene in detail.

Rina said, “If the victim caught the boys vandalizing the mailboxes, don’t you think that murder would be an extreme reaction?”

“I’ve seen odder things.”

“Yes, but more likely, they’d just take off. And if they murdered the victim first, why bother knocking down the mailboxes afterward?”

“I don’t know who the victim is. I’m just wondering if it’s one of the boys, in which case I’d need to talk to the others anyway—” His cell rang. He glanced at it as he extracted it from his pocket. “It’s Tyler.”

“Go take it.”

“Thanks.” He walked into the living room and depressed the button. “Yo.”

“We’ve got a wallet and a driver’s license. Brady Neil. Twenty-six, five eight, one hundred fifty-five pounds.”

“A little guy.”

“Everyone to you is a little guy.”

“Address?”

“It’s in Hamilton.” McAdams gave him the street and the numbers.

“Okay. Does the face look like the picture on the license?”

“Do you ever look like your picture on your driver’s license?”

“McAdams—”

“His face was distorted by the blow, but it’s him. I’ll take a picture of his face and of the license and text them both to you.”

“Good. If there are parents in the picture, they can ID him from pictures. Save them a trip to the morgue. What did the coroner say about the time and cause of death?”

“Last night around blah to blah.”

“That specific, huh. What about the cause? Anything other than what I saw with the naked eye?”

“His skull was bashed in, but she wouldn’t commit to a cause until she’s done an autopsy.”

“Who is she?”

“Fiona Baldwin. Do you know her?”

“No.”

“That makes two of us. Let me text you those pictures. I can’t do it and talk at the same time.”

McAdams hung up. A moment later, Radar had buzzed in.

“Where are you?”

“Home having a cup of coffee before I head out to the scene.”

“Come to the station house. We need to talk.”

“This doesn’t sound good.”

“See you in five.” Radar hung up.

Decker sighed, came back into the kitchen. “The captain wants to talk.”

“About what?”

“Probably about me not getting what I asked for.”

“Permission to round up the boys and look at their files?”

“On the money.”

“Well, there are plenty of cats in trees and little old ladies and gents crossing streets to keep you busy.” When Decker bit his lip, Rina stood up and kissed him. “Radar is a good guy. If he doesn’t want to confront Hamilton, I’m sure he has a good reason. Go. I’ll see you tonight. Or maybe I won’t if you get what you want for this case. Either way, it’s a win-win for you.”

“VICTOR BACCUS IS a reasonable guy,” Radar told Decker. “I think he’s more than happy to have an experienced homicide detective take over.”

Decker paused. “Obviously you could have told me that over the phone. What’s the catch?”

“He has a daughter on the force—”

“No way. I’m not babysitting someone until I know what’s going on.”

“She was with Philadelphia PD for five years, two of them as a detective.”

Decker made a face. “She goes from a major city to Hamilton? She screwed up something.”

“Well, she’s coming over, so you can ask her yourself.”

“Mike!”

“Look, Baccus is a good man, Pete. His wife has been sick for a while, so maybe that’s why the daughter came back. Don’t prejudge until you know what’s going on.”

“It sounds like I don’t have any choice.”

“You don’t if you want the case.”

Decker’s phone rang. “It’s McAdams.”

“Take it.”

Decker said, “What’s going on?”

“Put it on speaker,” Radar said.

Decker complied. “Go ahead, Tyler. Captain is listening.”

“Hi, sir.”

“Good morning, Tyler,” Radar said. “I know you found a wallet. Brady Neil. He’s twenty-six and lives in Hamilton.”

“Do you know him, boss?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do we know if the kid has a record?”

Decker said, “We do, and he doesn’t. But I still want to talk to those boys.”

“Are we getting cooperation with Hamilton?” McAdams asked.

“This is the deal,” Radar said. “Chief Baccus wants full cooperation between the two police departments. No one has any problem with that. But Baccus wants us working with his daughter, Lenora: Lennie Baccus. She’s twenty-seven and was with Philadelphia PD for five years, including two as a detective, where she broke a very sophisticated GTA ring.”

Decker said, “What GTA ring was that?”

“I don’t know,” Radar answered. “If you and McAdams take her on, it will definitely grease the skids. And you both know that the murder could have happened in Hamilton and the dump was here. If they find a crime scene, it isn’t going to be our case anyway.”

“Sounds reasonable,” McAdams said. “We have an address from his license.”

“I’ve already looked it up. It seems that Brady lives—or lived—with his mother,” Decker said. “I’ll do the death notification after I’m done talking to this person.”

“Officer Baccus, Decker.”

“Officer Baccus, excuse me.” Decker took the phone off speaker.

McAdams said, “What do you need from me?”

“You can stay at the scene and help Kevin direct. Unless you want to do the notification.”

“You’re much more adroit with these things, boss. As hard as I try, I just don’t have the soul sensitivity.”

“McAdams, only you could saddle me with an onerous chore and make it sound like a compliment.”

“That’s me in a nutshell. I’m terrible at feelings but good with words.”

SHE WAS A beautiful woman with short blond hair surrounding a serene face. Her features were strong—defined chin, full lips, and almond-shaped, bright blue eyes. She appeared to be around five ten but more lanky than muscular. Dressed in a black suit and white shirt, she looked more executive than cop. Decker found her to be self-effacing, but not shy. They were talking in one of Greenbury’s four interview rooms because the detectives’ squad area was a big room of open desks and everyone could hear everyone else’s business. It was a good layout insofar as information sharing, but not so good for privacy.

About ten minutes into the conversation, Decker said, “I heard that you broke a very sophisticated GTA ring in Philadelphia.”

“My dad told you that?” Her laugh was nervous. Lennie had long red nails. She clicked them against one another before she spoke. “He exaggerates. More to make himself feel good, I think. He always wanted boys.”

“Tell me about the operation.”

“First of all, I was one of four. But we were all women, including the sergeant who led the operation. We worked really well as a team. The sergeant was a tough taskmaster, but she was fair. We got results. It turned out well for all of us.”

“Why’d you leave Philly, then?”

“Philly?” She smiled. “Are you a native?”

“No, but I know a few people there. Why’d you leave?”

A pained look came across her face. Click, click went the nails. A nervous habit.

She said, “This is going to sound very bad, but the truth is, I was smart enough but not mentally strong enough. I couldn’t stand the harassment from the guys.”

“Did you file suit?”

“I thought about it. I talked to my sergeant, and she said she’d support me. But we all know the drill. Once you file, you’re finished. Word gets around that you’re not a team player and no one wants to work with you anymore.” She shook her head. “I should have powered through it. But then Dad offered me a position here—more money, less stress.” She shook her head again. “I suppose I took the easy way out.”

“It’s good to know your limits.” He regarded her face. “I was told that your mother is ill. Not that I’m getting personal, but was that also a factor in your returning to Hamilton?”

“Mom has multiple sclerosis. She’s been ill for a long time. And I suppose maybe I considered her illness when I came back. I’m certainly helping Dad out with the care.” A pause. “I would love to work on a real homicide. The cases I’ve been getting aren’t very challenging.”

“You want big-city cases, you have to work in a big city. Most of what I do is routine and not interesting. And that’s why I came here. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Of course, you’re right,” Lenora said. “When you’re part of a team, nothing is too little or too menial.” Decker was quiet. She smiled and looked down. “I’d be happy getting the coffee and doughnuts.”

“I don’t like doughnuts,” Decker answered. “Look, Officer Baccus, Homicide is nasty. We deal with the worst parts of humanity, and it stays with you for a long, long time. I have no idea if you’re up for the job, and nothing you’ve told me convinces me one way or the other.”

“Call up my former sergeant. She’ll tell you that I really am very good at my job. Her name is Sergeant Cynthia Kutiel. If you give me your cell number, I’ll text you her number right now.”

“Do that.” When he heard the text beep on his phone, Decker said, “I’ll give her a call. I’ll also want you to talk to Detective McAdams and Detective Kevin Butterfield. They’ll be working with me. We all have to get along for this to be successful.”

“Of course.”

“Anything you’d like to ask me?”

“Nothing right now. I’m sure I’ll ask you lots of questions when we work together.” She made a face. “I mean if we work together.”

Decker regarded her again. “You know, it’s good to show confidence even if you don’t feel it. Nobody likes people who feel sorry for themselves.”

Instead of wilting, she said, “Point taken. I really want to learn, and I’m a workhorse. I’ll be a good asset to you.”

“Good. Detectives McAdams and Butterfield are with SID at the crime scene.” Decker gave her the address. “Go out there and have a look-see. I’ll tell McAdams that you’re coming.”

“Absolutely.” She stood and offered a hand. “Thank you very much.”

“This is a trial period, you know.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” Decker paused. “McAdams is studying to be a lawyer—at Harvard. He’s a good detective, but he’s young and brash. He doesn’t choose his words carefully. He can be very rude, but he thinks on his feet, and that’s important. You’ve got to be able to deal with that. The good news is he won’t come on to you, Lenora. That’s not him.”

“Then we’ll absolutely have no problem. And you can call me Lennie, by the way.”

“Fine, Lennie. And you can call me boss.”

CHAPTER 3

SO NOW I have to babysit a spoiled brat!”

“Ahem. Pot … kettle.”

“Spoiled I will agree to, but you can’t be a brat if you’ve been shot in the line of duty. That is just not right.”

“She worked five years with Philadelphia PD. She was in GTA as a detective.”

“GTA Philadelphia? As in your daughter?”

“The very same city. Cindy was her detective sergeant.”

“Wow. Did you tell her?”

“Baccus? Of course not. But I will call up Cindy after I get the death notification done. I just wanted to give you a heads-up about Baccus. She should be with you shortly.”

“Did she tell you why she quit Philadelphia PD?”

“Sexual harassment.”

“Ah, c’mon! You can’t be serious!”

“She’s beautiful, Harvard. I can completely believe it, but I’ll ask Cindy about it. At least, in Hamilton, no one is going to mess with the chief’s daughter.”

“But it does show a certain lack of resilience.”

“Yes, it does. She’s on her way. Be nice, Harvard. We need her on the team to get into Hamilton’s files.”

“If I’m too nice, then she’ll think I’m coming on to her.”

“Hmm, a valid point,” Decker admitted. “You’re right. Don’t be nice. Just be your usual obnoxious self.”

JENNIFER NEIL IDENTIFIED her son, Brady, from one of the photographs taken by the police photographer, saving her the agony of coming down and seeing the body in person. She was five foot two and thin as a reed. A little thing with a weathered face, making her look older than her forty-nine years. Her thin lips could have passed for another crease in her wrinkled face. Blue wet eyes were rimmed in red. She wore baggy jeans and a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt with a concert tour dated twenty years ago.

The woman looked utterly lost.

“Do you have someone I can call to be with you?” When she didn’t answer, Decker said, “A relative or friend?”

Slowly she shook her head. “When can I see him?”

“You don’t have to see him, Mrs. Neil. It’s best to remember him as he was.” She didn’t speak. “Are you sure there’s no one I can call?”

“No husband, if that’s what you mean.”

“Do you have other children?”

Her lip quivered. “A daughter. We don’t talk.” A pause. “I suppose I should call her.”

“I can do that for you if you want me to.”

She nodded.

“What’s her name?”

“Brandy.”

Decker thought, Brandy and Brady. Or maybe it was Brady and Brandy. “How old is she?”

“Thirty.”

Brandy and Brady. Jennifer had been just nineteen when she had her first child. “Do you have a phone number?”

“Gotta look it up. I don’t know if it’s current or not.” She left the living room. It was a small house, neat and clean but unadorned. The faux-leather furniture matched, the end tables were dusted, and the brown carpet was vacuumed though thin in some parts and stained in others. A moment later, Jennifer came back with a slip of paper and a number. Decker pocketed the paper and took out his notebook. “I know this is a horrible time to ask you questions, but it would be helpful if I knew a little bit about Brady.”

She said nothing. Just wiped her eyes.

“Brady was twenty-six?”

“Yes.”

“Did he live with you?”

“Yes.”

“Did Brady work or go to school?”

“Both.”

“Where is work and where is school?”

“He worked at Bigstore in the electronics department.”

“He’s good with computers?”

“No idea.”

Her apathy took Decker aback. “No idea?”

“No. He was secretive about his life.”

“Okay. Secretive as in …”

“We just didn’t talk about anything personal. Truth be told, we hardly talked at all. He’s a single male in his twenties. We don’t have anything in common.”

“Got it. Do you know how long he worked at Bigstore?”

“About a couple of years. He must have gotten a promotion because Brady always had money.”

“He had money?”

“Always.”

“What kind of money are we talking about?”

“He had a car and all the gadgets—y’know, the Xbox and the iPhones and that kind of stuff. It kinda pissed me off that he had money for that shit and never offered to help out with the food and rent until I asked him for it.”

Store managers didn’t make that kind of expendable money. The kid was probably dealing, and something stronger than weed. Opiates were an issue upstate. He said, “Did he give you money when you asked?”

“Couple of hundred here and there.”

“And he lived with you even though he had money?”

“Maybe that’s why he had money. Anyway, I never bothered him and he never bothered me. He lived in the basement. It’s a big basement with two rooms and a bathroom. If he ever got his own place, I was gonna rent it out.” She bit her lip and wiped her eyes. “Guess that’s not a problem now.”

“How did he behave with you?” When Jennifer looked confused, Decker said, “Was he rude or apathetic or physical—”

“No, he never got physical with me even when he was out of control.”

“Out of control?”

“Typical teenage stuff—drinking, smoking marijuana, not going to school, not coming home at night. He still goes out at night on occasion, but in the morning, he’s sober enough to go to work.”

“And you said he’s also in school?”

“Night school. That’s what he told me. Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not. The kid used to lie for the hell of it. Shades of his father.”

“Did Brady ever have problems with the law?”

“Not that I know of.” She looked at him. “Can’t you look that up?”

“I did. No record as an adult, but juvenile records are sealed.”

“He used to be truant. Couple of times, cops brought him back home. But then he dropped out of high school so truancy wasn’t a problem. He went through some low-paying jobs—fast-food counter, things like that—until he got a job at Bigstore. Like I said, it must pay well, because he has spare money.”

Decker thought about Brady, working in the electronics department. He could also have been involved in warehouse theft. Working for a bigger ring and it caught up with him? Both sidelines—dealing and theft—were dangerous enough to explain his corpse.

“And you don’t know where he went to college?”

She continued talking. “A year ago, he said he was taking some classes at community college. Like I said, don’t know if that was true or not.”

“Do you know if his money may have come from something other than a job?”

“Wouldn’t know that, either. You mean like drug dealing?”

“Do you think he was dealing drugs?”

“I don’t know, Detective. When are you going to release the body?”

“I’ll call you as soon as I know.” Decker waited a beat. “Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt Brady or held a grudge against him?”

“No.” A quick response. “Is that all?”

“I’d like to take a look at his basement room, Mrs. Neil. Would that be okay?”

“I don’t have the key.”

“Can I bust open the lock?”

Her eyes started to water. “Sure.”

“Thank you.” She was quiet. Decker said, “Mrs. Neil, would you know the names of any of Brady’s friends?”

“No. The basement has a private entrance. He came and went as he pleased. I know that occasionally he had people down there. I could hear voices. But that’s all I know.”

“Male? Female?”

“Mostly male, but a woman now and then.”

Decker mentioned the names of the thugs who were probably responsible for the mailbox vandalism. “Any of those names ring a bell?”

Jennifer shook her head no.

“How about friends from when he was a teenager?”

She gave the question some consideration. “You might try Patrick Markham or maybe Brett Baderhoff. Those are the only two I can think of. You also can try his sister. I’m not on speaking terms with her. But that don’t mean that the two of them didn’t talk.”

HE NEEDED A pair of bolt cutters to break open the padlock. Once Decker was inside, he wondered why all the secrecy. It was an ordinary living area, only much neater than he had expected from a young adult living at home.

The space was divided into a small living room with a kitchenette. It had a two-burner cooktop and an apartment fridge. No oven. Brady had a sofa, a couple of big chairs, and a big-screen TV. Jennifer was right. He had a massive game console set. No photographs of himself or anyone else. Off the living area was a shower, toilet, and sink.

The bedroom was taken up by a queen bed. It had two doors, one from the living area and the other that emptied into a one-car garage that also held a washer/dryer. The sole vehicle inside was a maroon Ford Focus that was around five years old. Brady may have owned the car, and that may have put him a step ahead of his mother, but it wasn’t exactly a showpiece.

Decker went back inside and began his search in earnest. He checked drawers and cabinets. He looked inside the pillows’ cases and pockets. He peered under the mattress and did find a half-dozen photographs of a much younger Brady with a girl. He looked around fifteen, the girl a few years older. The boy had dark brown hair and intense dark brown eyes. The girl was a blonde with blue eyes. The boy’s stare pierced through even though the couple was mugging for the camera.

The inspection took about thirty minutes because Brady kept a spare apartment. He wasn’t much of a drinker—a couple of six-packs in the fridge. And not much of a doper except for a dime bag of weed. No hidden pills. No hidden powders and no drug paraphernalia. There were no closets brimming with electronics and no stash of phones. If he was involved in illegal activity, he was operating elsewhere.

Jennifer was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. She said, “Find anything?”

“A little marijuana.” Decker climbed the steps. “Nothing that makes me think he’s dealing.”

She nodded. “What does it look like down there?”

“It’s pretty tidy. If he was having wild parties, he cleaned up after himself.”

“I don’t think I can go down there just yet.” Her eyes watered up. “I suppose I’ll have to do it eventually … especially if I’m gonna …”

Her words drifted off. Decker filled in the blanks: if I’m gonna rent it out. Jennifer was a little short on maternal feelings, but there didn’t seem to be open hostility between mother and son as far as he could tell. He took out a photograph. “Mrs. Neil, could you tell me who’s in the picture with Brady?”

“That’s my daughter.”

“Brandy?”

“Yes.” A pause. “I remember this picture. It was during the summer, and we were visiting a corn maze. I took the photo on Brandy’s phone.”

“How old were they?”

“Sixteen and twelve. Shortly after that, Brandy ran away after a blowout fight. I didn’t even try to stop her.”

“Where’d she go?”

“No idea.”

“What about her dad?”

“Not likely. He’s been in jail for the last twenty years. He’s up for parole soon, but he probably won’t get it. The family still lives in town.”

“The family of the victim?”

She nodded.

“What’s he in for?”

“Murder.” A pause. “Double murder. A man and his wife who owned a jewelry store. They weren’t supposed to be there when he did the job. I mean, robbery is wrong no matter what, but he didn’t go in with the idea of murdering the old folks.”

“I understand. Do you know if either Brandy or Brady have visited their dad in jail?”

“No idea.”

“Okay.” A pause. “And you don’t know where Brandy lives?”

“No. Out of the blue, she called me about five years ago just to tell me she was okay. She gave me her phone number. Told me not to call unless it was an emergency. I don’t know if this is an emergency, but I think she’d want to know. I’d want to know.”

“I’ll call Brandy.”

“Thank you again.”

Decker paused. “Do you remember the names of the victims your ex murdered?”

“Lydia and Glen Levine. Levine’s jewelry store. The business was taken over by the son. He was there during the robbery, hiding in the closet, and was the key witness against Brandon and his partner.” A pause. “I know this is going to sound stupid, but I’m going to tell you anyway. My ex and his partner, Kyle, swore up and down that all they did was tie up the couple, that they both were alive when they left. They swore up and down that someone else must have fired the shots after they left. It’s probably bullshit, but I don’t know … Brandon was a lot of things. I never pictured him a killer.”

“What did the witness say? The son?”

“That he was there and he saw my ex and Kyle shoot his parents.”

“But you don’t believe him?”

“He could have shot them after Brandon and Kyle left. And, on the stand, it came out that the son was a party kid, that he spent a lot of money, and there was even talk about his parents cutting him off. But since Brandon and Kyle were caught with the stolen goods, it was pretty much open and shut for conviction.”

“What was the son’s name?”

“Gregg Levine. Like I said, he still runs the place.”

“Okay. Were you married to Brandon Neil at the time of the robbery?”

“My last name is Neil. He’s Brandon Gratz. Yes, we were married. That’s why I couldn’t be made to testify against him.”

Decker nodded. “Twenty years is a long time in jail. But it’s a light sentence for a double murder. Was that the recommendation of the jury?”

“Jury recommended life without parole, but the judge gave them twenty each with a possibility of parole. But like I said, they probably won’t get out.” She caught his eye. “You think there’s something to what Brandon was saying, about him being set up?”

“I have no idea.” Decker smiled. “I might want to come back and search Brady’s room again. Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, but not forever, you know. I got plans.” She looked down. “I need the money.”

“I understand, Ms. Neil. Thank you for your time and help.”

“Detective, I may seem a little hard, but please find out who hurt my boy. We weren’t close. Still, no one should get away with murder.” She looked down. “I didn’t rat out my ex-husband. It was my constitutional right not to say anything against him and I didn’t. But once he was convicted, I was secretly glad he didn’t get away with it.”

CHAPTER 4

HOW ARE YOU and Officer Baccus working out?”

McAdams said, “Let me call you right back.”

Decker hung up. He bought an espresso at an independent coffeehouse, and as he was walking back to the car from the café, his phone rang. “You okay, Harvard?”

“Just wanted privacy.”

“How’s the new kid doing?”

“She’s quiet. I appreciate that.”

“Anything else?”

“The coroner just left.”

“Anything else about Baccus?”

“She takes copious notes. She was probably a good student. Have you called your daughter yet to find out who we’re working with?”

“Haven’t had time. The coroner didn’t say anything else other than blunt force trauma?”

“Two blows. Either one would have knocked him cold, so the second one was for good measure. She didn’t find any obvious bullet or stab wounds. She’ll know more once she gets him on the slab. How’d the death notification go?”

“Jennifer Neil wasn’t close to her son even though they lived together. She’s also estranged from her daughter, but she told me that Brady and Brandy might be in communication.”

“Brandy and Brady?”

“You heard me correctly. I’m going to set up a date to meet with her. See if she might be more useful to rounding out her brother. Their father, Brandon Gratz—Jennifer’s ex—is serving a sentence for double homicide.”

“Now we have Brandon, Brandy, and Brady.”

“Just be sure to write the names properly when we’re identifying the cast of characters. Brandon’s sentence is twenty years, so he will be up for parole soon. Jury recommended life without parole, but the judge overruled them. It’s odd.”

“Uh-oh, you’ve got that tone in your voice.”

“What tone?”

“The tone that says, ‘Even though this isn’t my case, I’m curious about it.’”

“I am.”

“It’s not only not your case, it’s not even in your jurisdiction, plus it’s been adjudicated.”

“I realize that. I’m just wondering if Brady’s death might have anything to do with the sins of the father.”

“It was twenty years ago.”

“Twenty years ago, you were eight. Twenty years ago, I was a very good homicide detective. It was a long time ago for you, but not for me. It’s worth checking out.”

“But not in the immediate.”

“I agree with you there. It sounds like Brady Neil may have done some dealing in the past. Also, he works in the electronics department. Theft and drugs could also be motives for murder. Anyway, I have a phone number for Brandy Neil. I’m going to call her up and break the news—hopefully in person.”

“Now?”

“Sometime today. He and his sister were close at one time. I found pictures of them together when they were younger.”

“Where’d you find the pictures?”

“In Brady’s basement room. There was nothing there to indicate that he was involved in something illegal, but his mom claims that he always had money. She has no idea where he got it from. I’ll tell you all the details when I see you.” A pause. “When will I see you?”

“Two of the punks you asked me about this morning are coming to the station house—four in the afternoon.”

“Which ones?”

“Uh, hold on. Here we go. Dash Harden and Chris Gingold. Riley Summers will come in tomorrow morning at ten. I haven’t heard from Noah Grand or Erik Menetti. When I’m done over here at the scene, I can drop by their houses and see if the lads are home—ask for their cooperation.” A pause. “Do I have to take the girl?”

“Officer Baccus. Yes, take her with you.”

“Decker, I’m an only child. I don’t share well.”

“Then here’s a chance for some on-the-job training. Go find the lads, but be back at the station house when the punks come in. You and Kevin can take one, and Baccus and I will take the other.”

“She’s not going to be any help to you, boss.”

“I don’t need help, Harvard. I could use a little luck. And if I don’t get luck, I’ll just have to rely on my backup plan.”

“Which is?”

“Lots and lots of hard work.”

ON THE STATION house computer, Decker plugged in “Homicide Lydia and Glen Levine.” As expected, there were hundreds of references in the general media as well as in-house police information. The original files were probably now archived. Plus, it was going to take time to go through all of it, and since he had a genuine homicide to deal with, Decker knew where his obligations lay.

He picked up the phone and called Brandy Neil. A few rings, and then it went to her message line. He left his name, his rank, and his phone number—cell and station house—and then hung up. He was about to phone his daughter when something on his computer screen caught his eyes.

One of the papers—the Hamilton Courier—had offered up a quote from the lead investigator of the Levine double murder case.

Victor Baccus.

Decker stared at the twenty-year-old article. Nabbing two murderers responsible for a double homicide could make a career in a town the size of Hamilton.

It’s not only not your case, it’s not even in your jurisdiction, plus it’s been adjudicated.

He realized he was still holding the phone. He put in a call to Cindy’s cell. When she answered, he said, “Do you have a moment?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Decker waited a beat. “Do I sound worried?”

“You don’t usually start out a call with ‘Do you have a moment?’”

“You’re right. Hi, princess, I love you. Do you have a moment?”

Cindy laughed over the line. “Around five minutes. What’s up?”

“We found a body here in Greenbury, but it’s possible that the murder took place in Hamilton—”

“You want to know if you should cede jurisdiction?”

“Does that sound like me?”

Another laugh. “Go on.”

“Of course, I’d like full access to Hamilton’s files. The police chief was willing, but he had an arm-twisting request.”

“Which is?”

“Introduce his officer daughter into the wonderful world of Homicide—”

“Oh, wait. I know where this is heading. Hamilton Police. Lenora Baccus.”

“Yes. Apparently, she worked with you.”

“She did. Did she tell you why she left the department?”

“Sexual harassment. I’m not calling to debate the validity of the charge, but I would like your opinion of her. She told me she was on your team that took down a major GTA ring.”

“That is true.”

“What did you think of her?”

“Hard worker, very diligent, willing to learn, good firearm skills, good skills with people, and a great team player.”

“That’s an endorsement. Anything to add?”

“Like is there anything negative?”

“Whatever you want to add.”

“As an original thinker? Not so much. And, truthfully, not the most robust personality on the force. No woman should have to take any kind of sexual harassment, including rude comments, but there are realities of life. She’s very good-looking. I would have thought she might have been a bit more prepared. The constant comments were obnoxious, but they seemed to blindside her. Like she’s never had unwanted male attention.”

“Maybe she was sheltered.”

“Could be, but c’mon. Like I said, we women shouldn’t have to put up with this crap, but it helps if you’re the type of person who can ignore the shit and just get on with the job. Life is not one big safe space.”

“I’m surprised about that, especially since Baccus came from a police family.”

“I don’t think her father was Mr. Supportive about her career choice.”

“Sounds like someone else we know,” Decker said.

“Daddy, once you were reconciled to my stubbornness, you were not only supportive, you were a wonderful source of information and knowledge. You were tough on me at times, but I always knew where the criticism came from. Whenever these jerks get to me, I hear your voice in my head. Just do the friggin’ job.”

“You’re still having to deal with jerks?”

“All the time, Dad. But the good news is, I’m starting to outrank all of them.”

Decker beamed. “What do you think my approach with Baccus should be?”

“Give her specific assignments—look up this, call that person, check out this alibi.”

“Questioning a suspect?”

“Never seen her do it. My intuition is it’s not her natural forte. But you’re a great teacher. She’s lucky to have you as a mentor.” A pause. “I’ve got to go.”

“Thank you, princess. I love you to death.”

“Right back at you, Daddy.”

DECKER DECIDED TO try Brandy’s number again. This time, the line clicked in with a human voice. He said, “Brandy Neil?”

“Who is this?”

“Detective Peter Decker, Greenbury Police. Is it possible that we could meet in person?”

“Why? What’s this about? How’d you get my number?”

“From your mother.”

“Why?”

“It’s about your brother, Brady.” A long pause over the line. Then a longer pause. “Ms. Neil?”

“It has to be bad news.”

“Could we meet?”

“Is he dead?”

“I’m afraid so, yes.”

“Murdered?”

“It looks that way.”

“Ah, Jesus!” Swearing over the line. “How?”

“I’ll tell you everything I know. But it would be helpful to meet in person.”

“Where? Hamilton police station?”

“Uh, if you could, I’d rather meet at the Greenbury station. Your brother died in our jurisdiction, so we’re running the investigation. I don’t want to intrude on Hamilton’s space. If it’s too far for you to travel, I’ll come to you.”

“I almost never go to Greenbury. It would take me like a half hour to get there.”

“Like I said, I can come to you.”

“No, I’d rather meet at a police station, no offense. I don’t know who you are.”

“I think that’s prudent of you. When can you come down?”

“Not now. It’s two o’clock. I’m still at work. I suppose I can make it around seven.”

“That would be fine.” He gave her the address of the station house and his cell number. “I’ll see you around seven. Please call if there’s any change of plans. And thank you very much.”

She spoke before he could hang up. “Where is my brother now?”

“He’s still at the morgue.”

“And if you got my number from my mother, she must know, right?”

“She does.”

“Ah, Jesus! This is just horrible … just terrible.”

“It is terrible. I’m very sorry.”

“Did he suffer?”

“No,” Decker told her.

Not a lie, not the truth. He didn’t know one way or the other, and since he didn’t know, there was no reason to cause her any further misery.

CHAPTER 5

DASH HARDEN SAT in the chair. His manner said defiance while his face said fear. He was used to vandalizing—a nonconfrontational crime—and now, he was face-to-face with the enemy. He was eighteen and stood about five eleven, his body slowly turning into a man’s, with the wiry arms giving way to actual muscle. Light brown hair and a face spangled with freckles and acne. His hair was cut short, his features more bulldog than eagle. He kept insisting he had been home all night. Since Decker didn’t have any proof that Dash had vandalized, he told Lennie Baccus that he’d be stretching the truth a little. Her job was to listen and take notes, especially the nonverbal reactions, because the interview was being recorded. Concentrating on things like the kid’s posture, his fidgetiness, what he did with his hands, eye contact with Decker, eyes looking up or looking down or away. While words were easier to understand superficially, gestures almost always told the truth.

“Dash, it’s the third time those mailboxes have been overturned,” Decker said. “We installed a closed-circuit TV camera after the second time.” That part was true. “You and your friends were caught on tape.”

Shaking leg. “I wasn’t there.”

Decker had yet to tell the kid about Brady Neil. He and Dash had been at it for twenty minutes, so it was time to turn up the heat. “Do you really think I’d go through all this trouble to interview you here if it was just about a couple of broken mailboxes? Well, more than a couple of broken mailboxes. Anyway, that’s not what I’m after.”

Harden continued to squirm. “I wasn’t there.”

“Yes, you were.”

Sweat on his forehead. “I swear I wasn’t.”

“You were there.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“I saw you on CCTV.”

A long pause. “It wasn’t me.”

“Okay, it wasn’t you.”

The kid’s face brightened. “I can go?”

“No, you can’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Because I saw you on tape, and what I saw matters more than what you say.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Dash, your buddies and you have been vandalizing mailboxes, walls, street signs, and buildings in Greenbury for a long time. Then you run back to Hamilton, where you think you’re safe. Not this time. Just tell the truth and you’re done here.”

“I wasn’t there.”

“Yes, you were.” Decker poured the kid a drink of water. “Son, the first one of your gang to tell the truth gets the most leniency, because you’re all going to be charged. I know that you know about the dead body. That means I bump up the charges from destruction of property—federal property—to murder—”

The kid jumped out of his seat. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“I believe you, Dash.” The kid was quiet. “Come on. Sit back down.”

The kid cooperated.

“Tell me what you know about it.”

More sweat on his pimply forehead. “Sir, I don’t know anything about a dead body.”

Decker looked at Lennie and gave her a slight eye roll. “Dash, I think you’re a good kid. You’re the first one who came in to talk to us. And that’s why you’ll get leniency if you start telling me what really happened. If you don’t talk, you’ll force my hand. Then I go over to the next interview room, where my colleague is making the same offer to Chris Gingold.”

“I don’t need an offer.” He bounced his leg up and down. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Okay, you didn’t do anything. Tell me what you know.”

“I know my rights. I can ask for a lawyer.”

“I haven’t charged you with anything. But if I do charge you and you get a lawyer, he or she is going to tell you the same thing. Start talking. It’s your best chance. Otherwise all of you will be charged with murder. You were on the tape; you were all there.”

“If there really is a tape, then you’d know that we had nothing to do with it.”

Decker’s thoughts whirled around for a split second. “How would I know that?”

A long pause. “That’s all I got to say.”

Decker sighed. “I’m a good guy, Dash, so I’m going to be honest with you. And it’s just between you and me.”

The kid was silent.

“There are gaps in the tape. We can see you swinging at the mailboxes, but we didn’t get a clear picture of what happened to the body.”

“Then you have no evidence against me.”

“We have circumstantial evidence. We have you boys swinging at anything upright, and with a track record like yours, it’ll carry weight. It doesn’t take a whole lot of smarts to infer what else you did with those baseball bats.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” His voice cracked.

“I believe you, son. But you’re not giving me much to work with.”

The wheels were turning in his peabrain. “What happens to me if I tell you that we saw the body and then we all got spooked and took off?”

“Is that the truth?”

Harden nodded.

“You need to answer yes or no for the tape. Did you see the body while you were on Canterbury Lane while you and your friends were vandalizing mailboxes?”

The kid nodded again.

“Dash, you need to answer yes or no.”

“Yes. Okay … okay.” He exhaled, sighed, exhaled again. “We were … you know.”

“I do know, but you need to tell me for the tape.”

“Having a little fun.”

“What do you mean by having a little fun, Dash?”

“Okay … okay. We were just, you know …”

“Dash, let’s get this moving. Just say what you were doing, okay?”

“Whopping down mailboxes. I mean, it’s no big deal. It’s not like we were busting headlights or something.”

Decker had had calls about busted head- and taillights. Be easy to goad him into talking about that, but right now, all he cared about was Brady Neil. “Go on.”

“Life is so fucking boring! My mom smokes pot all the time, my stepdad drinks, and whenever they get mad or drunk or stoned, which is all the time, I’m the fucking punching bag. And don’t tell me to go to Social Services. I’ve smoked that doobie. It’s useless. I got no choice but to live at home. I get a bed, food, and heat in the winter. I’m working toward a car. Once I get a set of wheels, I’m never coming back.”

“You won’t have a job if the courts find out what you’ve been doing.”

“Meaning I’m fucked no matter what.”

“Not necessarily, Dash. If you promise to stop whacking the mailboxes, you can walk out of here. But, first, you have to tell me about the dead body.”

Harden looked down. “I saw it first—at the corner house with the woods in back.” His eyes got a faraway look. “Scared the shit out of me. I came back and told the bros and we all went over to look. Then we heard something and took off.”

“Heard what?”

“I dunno. It sounded like it was coming from the woods. We just took off.”

“What time was this?”

“Around three.”

“Three in the morning? As in today?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you identify the body?” No answer at first. “Dash, do you know who the dead—”

“Yeah, Brady Neil.”

“You knew that the body was Brady Neil?”

“Not at first. When I got there, the body was lying facedown. Riley turned him over.”

“Why’d he do that?”

“To see who it was. To see if he was alive. He wasn’t. That’s when I saw it was Brady. His head was … caved in.” A long pause. “We took off.”

“How’d you know Brady?”

“Just from hanging around.”

“Did Brady sell you drugs?”

“No.”

“His mom says he had cash. What do you know about that?”

The kid averted his eyes. “Nothing.”

“What do you know, Dash? It’s all going to come out anyway. I might as well hear it from you first.”

“I don’t know anything!”

Decker didn’t speak. He exchanged glances with Lennie. She had been calm throughout the interview and had been taking a lot of notes. If Brady Neil wasn’t a dealer or a poker champ or hadn’t made a lucky bet on the horses, there was only one other way where a kid could get easy cash.

Decker said, “By any chance, did Brady pay you for stolen property?”

“No. I never stole nothing.”

Most probably a lie. Decker said, “Did Brady pay you to fence stolen property?”

“It wasn’t stolen.” Dash realized his mistake and shut his mouth.

“What kind of stuff did he ask you to fence?”

“It wasn’t stolen.”

“What was it, first of all?”

“Shitty stuff—mostly old and broken electronics. Told us he got it dumpster diving.”

“What kind of electronics?”

“Old phones, laptops, and broken game systems. There’s a market for that—recycling old shit. I went where he told me, met a guy on the street, and gave him the crap. A couple of days later, Brady slipped me some cash.”

“How much?”

“Around ten to twenty bucks for the load.”

“Why didn’t Brady fence it himself? Why use you as a middleman?”

Dash said, “I have no idea. But it was easy money for me, so I didn’t ask questions.” He had averted his eyes. “And really it looked too crappy to be hot stuff.”

Again, the kid was probably lying. Decker said, “And that’s the only thing you did for Brady? Give this man junk?”

“Yep.”

“What about your pals?”

“Brady didn’t trust them. Said they were too stupid.”

Dash was the smart one, then. The world was in serious trouble. Decker said, “Occasionally was there was a new iPhone or a new laptop?”

“I don’t remember. Whatever. Brady said he got all the stuff from dumpsters.”

“And I bet Brady also told you that you couldn’t get into trouble because you’re underage. Not true, you know.”

“It was only junk,” Harden insisted. “If he was jackin’ swank, I didn’t know about it.”

“How long were you selling junk for him?”

“A couple of months … maybe six months.”

Decker said, “And you never tried to run your own scam?”

“It wasn’t a scam. He had the contacts and he found the stuff in the garbage. Me? I don’t dive in shit for twenty dollars. Once he cleans it up, I’ll run errands. What the fuck?”

“You stay right here, Dash. I’ll be back.” Decker got up and Lennie followed.

Once they were out of earshot, Decker said, “What do you think?”

“The scheme sounds plausible.”

“Yes, it does, but do you think he’s being truthful?”

Lennie paused, then said, “I don’t think he killed Brady Neil.”

“Why?”

“I believe he may be hiding something—like peddling stolen property. He’s nervous—like shaking his leg and looking everywhere but at you. But I don’t think he’s hiding murder. He isn’t acting nervous enough.”

“Maybe to him, human life is expendable.”

She thought a moment. “Would he really stick around if he had just murdered someone twelve hours ago?”

“He might if he was a dumb kid, which he is … despite being the smart one.”

Lennie smiled. “Smart is a relative term.”

“It is indeed.” Decker shrugged. “I agree with you. I don’t think he murdered Brady Neil, but he’s not telling the entire truth. Let’s see how his story lines up with what Chris Gingold says. Go into the other interview room and pull out McAdams and Butterfield.”

It turned out that Gingold mostly verified what Harden told them. Dash was the first one to find the body, and Dash told them that he knew Brady Neil. As for Chris, he denied knowing Neil. That was probably a lie, but with nothing definitive to keep the boys locked up, they were released after promising to be good citizens and stop whacking mailboxes.

Decker said, “We have Riley Summers coming into the station tomorrow at ten, correct?”

“That’s what he told me,” McAdams said.

“Let’s see what he has to say.” Decker turned to Lennie. “You do the interviewing.” He turned to Kevin Butterfield, a seasoned former detective who, like Decker, had semiretired. He was tall and bald and had a professorial gaze, as if giving each question its due deliberation. “Do you mind sitting in with Officer Baccus?”

“Not at all.” He turned to Lennie. “We should talk before—say nine-thirty tomorrow, after you’ve thought about what you want to ask?”

She said, “That would be great. Thank you.”

McAdams said, “What’s the plan now?”

Decker was reading a text on his phone. He looked at the time: six minutes to six. “Uh, it looks like Brady Neil’s sister has decided I’m legit. She wants me to come to her apartment at seven-thirty instead of her coming here.” He looked up at Tyler. “As long as you’re getting a salary, you might as well come with me.”

“Want me to check up on the canvassing?” Butterfield said.

“They didn’t hear the mailboxes being whacked right in front of their houses, so I’m not too hopeful on that regard,” Decker said. “On the other hand, the elderly have insomnia. Maybe someone peeked through their shades and saw a car drive off.”

“I’m gonna grab a sandwich and then I’ll go back to Canterbury,” Butterfield said.

“Fine.” To McAdams, Decker said. “You should grab some dinner also.”

“You’re not eating?”

“Pick me up a toasted bagel and cream cheese at Bagelmania. And a cup of coffee. The station’s stuff is swill.”

“I can do that,” Lennie said.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Have you ever interviewed before?”

“A few times.”

“Prepare some questions, then.”

“I’ll do it as soon as I come back with your bagel.”

“Get yourself one on me.”

“I brown-bagged it.” A half smile. “Working in Homicide for the first time, I guess I figured it would be a long night.”

CHAPTER 6

BEFORE INTERVIEWING BRANDY Neil, Decker hoped to glean some background, looking over the numerous articles online on the Levine double murder case. Eventually, he was able to flush out a story.

Over two decades ago, at four in the morning, Gregg Levine had made a 911 call from Levine’s Luscious Gems. In a panicky and stunned voice, he explained that his parents—Lydia and Glen—had been robbed, tied up, beaten, and shot in the head. Police were immediately dispatched. Arriving at the bloody, gruesome scene, the officers took an initial statement from Gregg. He and his parents had been working through the night, taking annual inventory, when two men with ski masks charged into the store. Gregg had been in the back and peeked out, long enough to see his parents whacked over the head and kicked and beaten by the robbers. Fearing for his life, Gregg hid inside a utility closet behind the water heater as he heard the sound of screams and finally two gunshots. Those sounds were followed by the clang of broken glass and muffled voices. He did not open the door until two hours later, after he was fairly positive that the intruders had left the store.

What he saw was pure horror: his parents, bound, gagged, and dead, sitting in their own vomit, blood, and filth. Although Gregg had only a quick look at the killers, he was able to offer a vague description of one of the men. Apparently, one of them got hot and whipped off his mask. Gregg made a guesstimate as to the heights and weights of the men, and he was pretty certain that the man he saw was Caucasian. If asked if he could identify that man if he saw him again, Gregg said probably.

After investigating layers of known criminals, snitches, and fences, the police narrowed down their options. They found as persons of interest Brandon Gratz and Kyle Masterson. The two of them had been long gone from Hamilton since the robbery/murder, and a BOLO was sent out for the men and their missing vehicles. Warnings were issued: the men were “armed and dangerous” and “do not approach” without sufficient backup. After an exhaustive manhunt, the two men were found in Nashville with the stolen items on their persons. Based on the jewels in their possession and Gregg’s eyewitness testimony, they were charged, jailed, extradited, tried, and finally sent to prison. Most of the items were recovered, but a few very valuable stones and statement pieces remained missing at the time of their sentencing.

Victor Baccus had been the lead homicide investigator, but he had a team behind him. When interviewed by newspapers, Baccus was quick to pass around the credit. He was also spent time raising money for the Levines’ five orphaned children. At twenty years old, Gregg Levine, a party boy, was forced to leave his cushy college life and take over the business to support his siblings and himself.

There was nothing unusual in the reporting, and in his reading, Decker didn’t smell anything other than good, dogged police work. A crime was committed, there was an intensive and time-consuming investigation, and two very bad felons were apprehended. Everything made perfect sense.

Still, Decker wondered about an alarm. There was no mention of anything going off, which usually points to an inside job, and it didn’t seem plausible that the Levines would be working late without the alarm being set. He wrote down the word, ALARM?, in his notebook and would check on it if he ever looked at the original files.

McAdams walked into the station with Lennie Baccus. He said, “We got your bagel.”

Decker looked up from the screen. “Thanks. You guys have dinner?”

“A new café on Princeton Street. Indian-Thai fusion. That means everything they served kills your taste buds while causing excruciating pain in your gut.”

Lennie laughed. “I liked it. In Hamilton, we don’t have anything like it. It reminded me of Philly. The restaurants there are phenomenal.”

“You two went together?”

“By chance,” Lennie said. “Tyler was already seated. The place was tiny with a sizable line for tables. He was kind enough to offer me a chair.”

“I’ve done my good deed for the summer.” McAdams looked over Decker’s shoulder. “What are you reading?”

“Lennie, go call up Detective Butterfield and ask him if he needs help canvassing.”

“Of course.”

“And thanks for the bagel.” Decker unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Cream cheese oozed out of the sandwich. His eyes went back to the computer.

McAdams made a face. “Why are you reading articles on a twenty-year-old case? I thought we decided that was a dead end.”

“No, you decided it was a dead end.” Decker turned to him. “If I’m going to talk to Brady Neil’s sister, it behooves me to find out all I can about the family.” He pointed to the computer. “Brandon Gratz is family.”

“Brandon Gratz?” Lennie hung up the phone. “Why are you looking up Brandon Gratz?”

“Good question,” McAdams said.

“He’s Brady Neil’s father. His mom changed the surnames of her children after Brandon Gratz was arrested and convicted.”

“Oh my God! I’m so stupid!” Lennie hit her head and clicked her long nails. “Wow! Of course!”

“Why of course?” McAdams asked.

“Because Brandon Gratz and Kyle Masterson dominated my childhood.”

Decker said, “What do you remember about the case?”

“I was seven when the news broke on the double murder. It scared the crap out of me and all my classmates. That something so terrible could happen. I remember I had this babysitter I adored. After the murders, she wasn’t allowed to watch me anymore. Her mom didn’t want her out alone at night. I was heartbroken, but I understood. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t let my parents go out at night for a long time.”

“Did you know the family?”

“No, I didn’t. Hamilton’s population at that time was maybe eighty thousand. Now it’s over a hundred. The town has three high schools. Brady and I are about the same age, but we didn’t live in the same school district so I never really knew him. He grew up in the Bitsby neighborhood—working class and welfare poor. Lots of the parents drank. Some were on drugs. Some were in jail. Lots of lost kids. It’s still that way. I grew up about six miles away in the Claremont area. Blue-collar working class but positively Beverly Hills compared to Bitsby.”

“Did you happen to know the family of the victims?”

“The Levines? They lived on the border between Claremont and Bellweather. Their house looked like a mansion to me when I was growing up, but in fact it’s just a two-story brick house probably not more than twenty-five hundred square feet. Which isn’t small, but it’s far from Lower Merion.”

“That’s the posh area in Philadelphia,” McAdams said.

“I’m aware,” Decker said. “And you didn’t know the Levines?”

“Actually, I knew the youngest daughter, Ella. She was a grade older than me, and after it happened, they pulled her out of Hamilton, and she went to live with relatives for about a year.”

“How many kids were there?” McAdams asked.

“Five. The oldest was Gregg, who I thought was really old. In fact, he was only twenty or twenty-one when he was a state’s witness against the accused. It must have been horrible for him.”

“Really horrible,” McAdams said. “Not more than a kid himself.”

“Yeah, but he pulled it together. He quit school and took over the family business. After a few years, he brought them all back under one roof. There were grandparents in the mix, but Gregg and the next oldest, his sister Yvonne, continued on with the business while looking after the remaining three kids. Ella was the youngest, but the other two were in high school, so they must have been teenagers. The community helped out as well. I remember my dad taking me to a special police dinner to benefit the family.”

Decker said, “Hell of a lot of responsibility for a twenty-year-old boy and his teenaged sister.”

“The store is still a going concern, twenty years later. The other three kids don’t live here anymore. I don’t know what happened to them. But Gregg and Yvonne are still in town. They both married locals and have kids of their own. They do lots of charity work with foster care and disaffected youth. Drawing from their own experiences, no doubt.”

Lennie sat down and shook her head. “I haven’t thought about Gratz and Masterson in ages. They should be up for parole soon.”

“Next year.”

“It won’t happen. Not if the family has their say-so.”

“Any idea why Brandon Gratz and Kyle Masterson didn’t get life without parole?”

“You’ll have to ask my father about that. He and the entire community thought it was the biggest miscarriage of justice ever to happen around here. The judge retired after the case and moved out of the area. I don’t remember her name. It was a she. I remember my father ranting about the bleeding-heart liberal justice system.”

“Your father was lead investigator on the case.”

“I know he was. He worked it night and day. I don’t think he slept a wink until Gratz and Masterson were apprehended, charged, and convicted.”

Decker nodded. “I was looking over the articles on him. He and his solid police work were credited for the convictions.”

“Like I said, he worked day and night.”

To Lennie, McAdams said, “Kinda strange he didn’t tell you that Brady Neil was Brandon Gratz’s son.”

“I’m sure my father just assumed that I knew.” She looked at Decker. “Did my dad tell you about Brady’s father?”

“Not when Radar spoke to him, but at that time, we didn’t know who the victim was. If I ask him about it, I’m sure he’ll tell me what he knows. Whether the double murder had something to do with Brady Neil’s death?” Decker shrugged. “Right now, we’re in the beginning stages and everything should be kept under wraps. Like McAdams keeps saying, it’s best not to get distracted by twenty-year-old cases that may not be relevant.”

The room was quiet. Lennie picked up her backpack. “I’m going to help Butterfield out in the field until it gets dark. Should I come back here?”

“It’ll be after nine. Nothing is urgent. Just go home.”

“Thanks. I want to prepare my questions for tomorrow morning’s interview.”

“Absolutely.” Decker paused. “Lennie, do you live far from here?”

“No. I’m just across the border. Why?”

“If I need help as the case progresses, I’m more likely to ask you to come in if you’re close by.”

“Fifteen minutes. I live in a studio apartment where I can touch the walls if I spread my arms wide enough. So anytime you want help, just call.”

“Thank you. Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Decker waited for her to leave, then shut down the computer. “We should leave if we want to get to Brandy Neil’s place on time.”

“That was an odd question,” McAdams said. “How far she lives from the station house. You never asked me that.”

“You were in the district.”

“No, that’s not it.” McAdams waited.

Decker said, “Tyler, what’s the normal way you ask a question if you want to know where a person lives?”

“Where do you live?”

“And what would she have thought if I asked ‘Where do you live?’”

“She would have thought that you were asking where she lives.”

“Maybe also with whom she lives.”

McAdams thought a moment. “Aha! You want to know if she lives with her parents. You don’t want her yakking about the case to her dad around the dinner table.”

“Victor Baccus is her father, and he’s bound to be interested in anything that has to do with the case that made his career. And until we find Brady Neil’s killer, Chief Baccus is going to be curious if there’s a link. He may ask his daughter a question or two.” Decker stood up and wiped his mouth. “Hopefully she’ll be so busy, she won’t have time for dinner with the folks and a lot of extraneous yakking. Let’s go.”

“Why don’t you just tell her to keep the case confidential?”

“I already told her to keep the case under wraps. She was a detective. She’s a trained police officer. She knows about confidentiality, and so does the chief. If I make a big deal about it, it’ll seem like: (a) I don’t trust her—which I don’t—and (b) I’m suspicious of her dad—which I’m not. If there’s tension between father and daughter, it’ll make my life harder. Let’s go.”

They walked out of the station together toward Decker’s car. McAdams said, “Do you think Chief Baccus put his daughter on the team to keep an eye on the investigation? It was an odd request.”

“Yes, it was. I don’t know what his motivations were. So far, I’ll just take him at his word and concentrate on the case in front of us.”

McAdams climbed into the passenger seat. “I still think it’s weird.”

“Harvard, you’re a cautious guy. I’m a cautious guy. Until we know what’s going on, we’ll keep the conversation between us. Just think about what I said the next time you go out with Lennie for lunch.”

“I didn’t go out with her,” McAdams insisted. “I just offered her a seat at my table.” He paused. “Do you think she was trying to pump me for information?”

Decker turned on the ignition. “What’d you talk about?”

“Just shooting the shit. I talked about Harvard Law, she talked about her time with Philadelphia PD. I didn’t tell her about Cindy, by the way.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Decker edged out of the police lot and onto the street. “It would have been bonehead stupid if you did, and you’re not bonehead stupid. If you talk to her outside of work, keep it neutral. That’s all I’m saying.”

“You don’t trust her?”

“She’s new. I don’t trust anyone new. In reality, I don’t trust anyone unless I’ve worked with them for a very long time.”

“So cynical.”

“No, you’re cynical. I’m just wary.”

“How long before you trusted me?”

“About a year. After you got shot.”

McAdams was shocked. “I needed a hit with a lethal weapon before you trusted me?”

“I would have trusted you eventually, Harvard.” Decker smiled. “Taking a bullet for me just sped things up.”

CHAPTER 7

THE BITSBY AREA was one step above blighted. It had an oversupply of bail bond houses, twenty-four-hour convenience stores with bars on the windows, seedy motels, OTB outlets, deep discount electronics stores, and pawnbrokers. There were blocks of weed-choked lots and junkyards secured by chain link. The uneven roads were pocked with potholes, and the sidewalks were tattooed in graffiti. Streetlights looked few and far between. Decker had no idea how bright the lamps shone because the sun was still out when he and McAdams arrived at Brandy Neil’s apartment.

The woman who answered was thirty with a thin face that bordered on emaciated. She wore no makeup, her filmy blue eyes looking tired and sad. Oddly, her face was framed with luxuriant chestnut-colored hair that had been set in waves and curls. She wore denim jeans and a black T-shirt. Her feet were bare. After Decker made the introductions, Brandy invited them in; her voice was soft and sober.

Stepping over the threshold, Decker thought about Lennie’s description of an arm’s-span apartment. This one was made even more claustrophobic because the ceiling was low—an acoustical, popcorn top, which meant the place was probably built in the ’60s or ’70s. It was spare in furniture and spare of personal items. The couch was floral in yellow and blue, the material torn and worn. She invited them to sit on it, and the men complied.

“Coffee?”

“Water, if you wouldn’t mind,” Decker said.

“And you, Detective?” She was looking at McAdams.

“Water as well. Tap is fine.”

“Times two.” Decker pulled out his notepad.

She got up and went to a back counter that held a two-burner cooktop and a microwave oven. The fridge was bar sized and sat under the cabinets. She took out glasses and filled three cups from the tap. She handed out the water, and then she sat down. “I don’t know what I can tell you that will help. I don’t know a lot about Brady’s life. I mean, about his life after I left. When we lived as a family under one roof, it was hell.”

“How so?” Decker said.

“Well, I’m hoping you know about my dad so I won’t have to get into all that shit.”

“I do know. You were shunned after he was jailed?”

“We were terrorized. We had to move thirty miles north to Grayborn—a little shit town with a nice name. We lived there for about three years until Mom brought us back to Bitsby and enrolled us in school under her maiden name, Neil. By then I was around fourteen. Of course, my classmates knew who I was, but now we were all teenagers. They fell into two categories about me. In the first group, I was a total pariah. In the second one—the bad kids—having a parent in prison for murder was cool. Guess which group I fell into.”

“Not hard to understand.”

“I dropped out at sixteen. I was a druggie and a groupie and a horrible influence on Brady. Mom and I fought all the time, but I never expected her to kick me out.” She looked down. “But she did, and things worked out well. Being self-reliant made me get my act together very quickly. I got a job with a very kind boss who knows who I am and what I went through.”

“What do you do?” McAdams asked.

“I’m a bookkeeper, believe it or not. I was always good with numbers. So was Dad, and that’s probably what got him in trouble initially. Dad gambled. Mom used to tell me he had a system. It worked for a while, but then it failed and he got into debt. Real bad debt. Hence the robbery—robberies. The Levines were probably not the first.”

McAdams said, “Forgive me for saying this, but you must have a very unusual boss.”

“Every week, I go over everything with his wife or with him. All invoices, payments out and payments received. I leave nothing up to chance.”

“What business is your boss in?” Decker said.

“Paper supplies. He wholesales out everything from typing paper and lined notebooks to high-quality stationery. I’ve turned my life around. I’ve got a little money in an IRA and a little money in the bank. I live in this shithole place in this shithole area because it’s cheap and all I want is somewhere to rest my head at night. I’m not saying my party days are over. If someone else foots the bill, I’ll go out. But I’m not paying for drinks that are pissed out in an hour and leave me with a bad headache. Most of the time, I live like a monk.”

“And you’re still on nonspeaking terms with your mother?”

“She is positively toxic. So, no, I don’t talk to her. I do send her a Christmas card with a hundred-dollar check every year, and she always cashes it. That way, I know she’s still alive.”

Decker said, “She didn’t mention that.”

“She wouldn’t. To her, I’m just a bad girl who doesn’t care.” A long sigh. “What the hell happened to my baby brother?”

“We were hoping you could maybe help us out with that. What do you know about Brady?”

“Not a lot. We did talk, but not too often.”

“What did you talk about?” McAdams asked.

“Mostly we talked about how we were coping.”

“How was he coping?”

“He said he was okay. He had a job, he had a few friends. Mom basically ignored him and he ignored her. Plus, he had the entire basement for his living quarters. About four times the space of this apartment and no rent. Mom always favored Brady. Me? Not so much.”

“Did you know any of Brady’s friends?”

She paused and shook her head. “I knew a few of his school friends, but that was a long time ago.”

Decker paged through his notes. “Patrick Markham and Brett Baderhoff.”

“Yeah. Wow, haven’t heard those names in a while.”

“Anyone of a more recent vintage?”

Brandy smiled. “Yes, come to think of it. He had a pal from work. Boxer. He was a warehouse worker. I never met him, but Brady told me that he and Boxer would go out drinking sometimes. He was an older guy—around thirty-five or so. Sounds like loser company, but I’m not one to judge.”

“Is Boxer his first or last name?”

“Don’t know. Brady just called him Boxer.”

“It sounds like a nickname,” McAdams said.

“It might be.”

“What about girlfriends?” Decker asked.

She shrugged ignorance. “He never mentioned anyone specific.”

“I have to ask you this. Did you know of any activities that might have compromised Brady in some way?”

“If he was dealing, I didn’t know about it.”

“Your mom said he always had cash.”

“Then ask my mom about it.”

“I did. She had no idea how he got it.”

“Neither do I.”

Decker wondered how much he should say to her. Brandy appeared to be truthful. Maybe it was worth the chance. “I pulled in a couple of punks this afternoon. Both of them told me that Brady was selling used and out-of-date electronic equipment to recycling dealers.”

She waited. “Okay. Is there something wrong with that?”

“No. The kids said he found the stuff dumpster diving. Does that sound like the kind of thing your brother might do?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Brady could be … entrepreneurial. But his business wasn’t always legal, to put it mildly.”

“He dealt drugs?”

“Nothing big, but yes, he sold pot and pills in high school.”

“And that’s all?”

“He didn’t peddle tar or crack, if that’s what you’re asking.” A pause. “At least, if he did, I didn’t know about it.”

“So it’s possible he could have dealt harder stuff.”

“Maybe.” She looked at the ceiling. “Something got him murdered.”

“True enough,” McAdams said. “Was he good at computers?”

“I’ve never known him to be a whiz or geeky or anything like that. But he did work in the electronics department at Bigstore, and he was promoted to manager. So maybe he was more adroit than I knew.”

“Was Brady good at numbers like you and your dad?” Decker asked.

“Yes, he was, come to think of it. He was no abstract math genius, but he could add and subtract in his head. I imagine that a gift like that would come in handy working in retail. Today, with calculators and computers, his skill doesn’t bring much to the table. But it’s a great party trick.”

“How about if you’re betting and the odds keep changing?”

“I don’t think Brady was a gambler. We both had our fill of that life from Dad.” Brandy checked her watch. “I’m sorry to be rude, but I have to meet my mom at the mortuary tomorrow and I’m just dreading it. I need a little time to relax. If you have more questions down the road, I’m fine with it. Just not now.”

The men got up and gave Brandy their cards. “Call if you can think of anything else,” Decker told her. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Have I?”

“Very much. Thanks for your time, Ms. Neil.”

“Just call me Brandy. It’s kind of a stripper name, but I like it. It’s about the only thing I’ve kept from my old life.”

AFTER THEY GOT into the car, McAdams said, “If Brady was a gambler like his old man, it could explain how he wound up dead. Maybe he borrowed money from the wrong person.”

“It’s a thought, but a true gambler usually doesn’t have cash lying around. They spend it as soon as they get it.”

“A professional poker player?”

“Living in the basement of his mother’s home?”

“A mediocre professional poker player?” When Decker didn’t answer, McAdams said, “Well, what do you think?”

“I don’t have any definite theories right now. But what do you think about a manager of the electronics department of Bigstore keeping company with a warehouse worker?”

“He was stealing from the inventory?” McAdams said. “Don’t they keep meticulous records?”

“I’m sure they have records … how meticulous?” Decker shrugged. “If he was dealing in broken-down parts, what’s to say that a box here and there didn’t get accidentally dropped and ruined?”

“Then Bigstore would return it to the manufacturer.”

“Yes, if it was a really big, expensive item. But Bigstore sells a lot of glasses, decorative pots and vases, and kitchenware and small appliances and food in jars. Stuff they wouldn’t ship back because it’s too little. If it was a smaller item—a phone or a cheap game system—maybe the store would elect to lump it all together under its breakage insurance policy.”

“Okay. Suppose Neil and Boxer were occasionally lifting broken items. That’s a good theory for explaining Neil’s extra cash. But it doesn’t explain how he got whacked in the head and ended up dead.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Decker’s phone rang and Butterfield’s voice emerged on Bluetooth.

“Hey, Deck.”

“Hey, Kev. How did the canvassing go?”

“Between that and CCTV, I have a few things. I’m at the station house. Where are you?”

“We’re just coming back from talking to Brady Neil’s sister. We’ll be right over.”

“Is the kid with you?”

“The kid is right here,” said McAdams. “When do I lose the moniker? I mean, is it really proper to call someone a kid if he’s been shot two times in the line of duty?”

Over the line, Kevin Butterfield said, “You’re right. You are now officially Harvard. The girl can be The Kid. Because I’m sure you can’t call any female a girl anymore without getting into trouble by the PC police.”

Decker smiled. “Okay, Lennie Baccus is officially the kid.”

“Good to have the rules down,” Butterfield said. “See you both later.”

After he disconnected, McAdams said, “You didn’t tell him about Lennie’s supposed sexual harassment.”

“It’s not supposed, it’s real. My daughter confirmed it. I didn’t tell Butterfield because I don’t want to bias his opinion of her. She needs to be judged on her own merit.”

“Even though she’s a spy for her father.”

“I never said that. You did.”

“But you did tell me that you don’t trust her.”

“That has nothing to do with who she is. It has everything to do with who I am. I’m very cautious.”

“Indeed,” McAdams said. “I started out cynical. You’ve turned me suspicious. If I keep going at this rate, I’ll be downright curmudgeonly before I hit thirty.”

CHAPTER 8

THERE WAS A woman.” Butterfield was flipping through his notes. He was wearing a white shirt under a light blue sports coat and tan pants. “She had insomnia. She heard something around three-fifteen in the morning. It might have been a car motor. She peeked through the curtains but couldn’t see because it was too dark and she didn’t have her glasses.”

“Okay. That could mesh with what the punks told me. That they were there around three and the body was already there. Dash Harden also said they heard something a little later and they all took off. Maybe that’s what she heard.”

“Maybe,” Kevin said. “That’s convenient. I’ve been looking at tapes from CCTV close to Canterbury Lane. It took me a while to locate CCTV because not too many businesses have them, and it took me an even longer time to see anything on them, because Greenbury is a ghost town at that time in the morning.”

“Got it. What’d you find?”

“See for yourself. This baby had a time of 3:17:34 and was taken from CCTV perched at the intersection of Tollway and Heart. It’s heading away from Canterbury Lane.”

“Where did you find this camera?”

“It’s mounted on the front of Sid’s Bar and Grille on Tollway. The place is four blocks from the body dump. Sid’s closes at two, and I checked the make and model with the owner. It doesn’t belong to him or any of his employees.”

“What is the make of the car? I can’t tell.”

“From this picture, it’s hard to see. But at 3:23:17, it shows up again blocks away from Sid’s on Tollway in front of the Bank of Northeast. I’d say it’s a 2009 or 2010 Toyota Camry—dark gray or black.”

“I agree. It might be heading toward the highway. You have any more sightings?”

“No, I’d just started looking in all directions when I found these two tapes. Tomorrow, I’ll go pull any CCTV tapes along Tollway and see if I can spot the Camry again. I’ll also try to pull current registries for 2009 and 2010 Camrys from the DMV.”

“Good work.” Decker stared at the screen. “I can’t see the face of the driver.” Another pause. “This blob over here. That might be someone in the passenger seat. Can you enlarge it?”

“I tried already. All it did was make the blurry images even blurrier. We don’t have the proper resolution equipment. I could try Hamilton. They’re a real city.”

“Leave Hamilton out of the mix for the time being.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to impose any more than necessary on Chief Baccus.” The excuse sounded lame to Decker’s ears.

“I’d think he’d want to know about this,” Butterfield said. “The mailbox felons live in his city.”

Decker had to backtrack. “Yeah, you’re right. Give Hamilton a call.”

“Unless you think there’ll be turf issues,” Butterfield said.

McAdams came to the rescue. “Baccus wasn’t too hot on giving us access to their files. Now that things are heating up, I think he’ll want the case back.”

“Really?” Butterfield said. “Even with Lennie on our team?”

Decker said, “Give Hamilton a call. Find out what kind of equipment they have to enhance this tape.”

Butterfield thought a moment. “I have a few buddies in NYPD in Queens and in Brooklyn. They’re way more likely to have the kind of equipment we need. I can give them a call. If it’s there, we can email in the tape.”

Decker said. “I’ll leave it up to you.”

“I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow.”

McAdams said, “It would be interesting if there were five figures in the car—our mailbox felons?”

“I thought about that,” Butterfield said. “I checked out the felons’ cars and the cars of their parents. Only one of them—Noah Grand’s dad—owns a Camry. It’s a 2006 and it’s light silver. That car on CCTV is too dark to be light silver.”

Decker looked at his watch. It was almost nine-thirty. He’d been working for over twenty hours and decided to call it quits for the day. “Kev, continue this in the morning. Let’s go home and get some sleep.”

“I’ve got the Riley Summers interview at ten. Lennie Baccus is doing the questions, remember.”

“Right,” Decker said. “I forgot about that. How about if I prep Baccus. You make the phone calls to the DMV. Then, you and McAdams check out the businesses on Tollway and see which ones have CCTV. See if you can spot the car and where it’s heading.”

“Sure, boss.” Tyler paused. “You know what goes in, must come out. We have a car driving away from Canterbury Lane. How about a car driving toward Canterbury Lane?”

“Too true,” Butterfield said. “I haven’t checked all the tapes. And I’ve just looked for the cars between the time frame of one a.m. and four a.m. If a car came in earlier, I wouldn’t know. Plus, the mailbox felons could be off on their time frame.”

“Or lying,” McAdams said.

“Always a strong possibility,” Decker said. “Get the tapes and we can all watch some TV tomorrow. Right now, let’s go home.”

They all walked out to the parking lot together. McAdams said, “You’re taking me home?”

“Unless you want to walk.”

McAdams said, “What are you going to do after Riley Summers?”

“Well, assuming I let him go, I suppose I’ll go track down Brady’s friend Boxer.”

Butterfield smiled. “Boxer?”

“Apparently he works in Bigstore’s warehouse department.”

“Maybe Brady Neil’s friend is a dog. Or maybe Boxer is the name of his profession? Or his favorite hobby?” McAdams started jumping around feigning punches. One came near Decker’s face, close enough that Decker jerked his head back.

“What is wrong with you?” He was annoyed. “Did you take your Ritalin this morning?”

McAdams looked chastened. “Sorry.”

Butterfield said, “Where’d you learn the moves?”

“I’ve been taking mixed martial arts classes in Boston.”

“Really?”

“No joke. I started with Brazilian jiujitsu. On the first day of class, I grappled with a five-foot, ninety-nine-pound girl and she took me down. After that, I switched to boxing.”

Decker smiled. “There’s got to be a lesson here somewhere.”

“Of course, there is. Don’t get hurt. However, if you do get hurt, you can always sue.”

AT ELEVEN THE next morning—after an hour of interviewing Riley Summers—Decker was having a hard time deciding if the kid was a deft psycho or if he was just another confused and/or stoned teen. The few coherent statements he did make seemed to jibe with the statements given by Dash Harden and Chris Gingold. Perhaps they all colluded, but it was hard to believe that these guys could keep a false story straight without tripping up. In the end, Decker released the kid, giving him the same stern warning that he gave Harden and Gingold yesterday: keep your nose clean and don’t go anywhere too far away.

“Does that mean I don’t have to go to work?” Riley was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and was scratching a pimple on his face.

Lennie looked at Decker for guidance. He said, “You can go to work, Riley. Just don’t go anywhere far. Where do you work?”

“Eddie’s Gas.”

Decker said, “On Milliken, off the highway?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you do?”

“Pump gas. Eddie don’t use automated machines.”

“Why not?” Lennie asked.

“’Cause that way he can charge for full service. That’s why I pump gas. I also wash windows and check oil.”

Maybe Harden was the smart one. “It’s okay for you to work, Riley.”

“Fine. Can I go now?”

“Yes.” To Lennie, Decker said, “Could you see him to the door, Officer Baccus?”

“Of course.”

After they left, Decker picked up his car keys. He met Lennie as she was coming back into the station. “I’m going to Brady Neil’s place of work, specifically to interview a guy nicknamed Boxer who works in the warehouse of Bigstore in Hamilton.”

“There are two Bigstores in Hamilton. Which one?” Decker showed her the address. “That’s near me in Claremont.”

“Where’s the other Bigstore?”

“Right outside Bitsby.”

“The Bitsby one is nearer to Brady Neil. I wonder why he didn’t work there?”

“The Bigstore in Claremont is bigger and has higher-end things.”

“Ah. Do you shop there?”

“I’ll buy food and household stuff. Sometimes I’ll get coffee and a muffin in the café. It’s cheap.”

“Are you there often?”

Lennie thought. “Once a week.”

“And you know some of the employees?”

“A few by name. Most by sight. Do you want me to come with you, boss?”

“Yes. While I interview this guy, Boxer, you ask around. I’m sure by now everyone has heard of Brady Neil’s murder. It made front-page news. There are bound to be some rumors floating around the place, some sotto voce. It’s your area store. It’s in your city. People will feel more natural around you. See what you can pick up.”

“Of course. What do I tell them if they ask me questions?”

“You tell them nothing, but you make it sound like you’re telling them something. You’re going back to Hamilton after this investigation is over. You’ve got to get along with the people you serve. So just dodge their questions. But be really nice about it.”

“HE’S NOT HERE.”

“Okay.” Decker looked around the warehouse. It was enormous, with enough supplies to outfit a third-world nation, and he hadn’t even made it to the food storage section. He was talking to a guy in his late twenties—beefy build with muscled arms. He had pierces in his thick lips and a shaved head that was tattooed except for a natural colored red/orange mohawk running down the middle. He was Phil G. Decker knew this because his green Bigstore name tag told him so. The kid was halfway up a ladder stocking some game systems, when Decker asked, “Do you know when he’s coming back?”

“No idea.” Phil pushed the three boxes he was carrying on an open shelf and climbed down. His forehead was beaded with sweat. No A/C in the place, just a bay with barn doors that were open. He faced Decker. “Boxer didn’t show up yesterday and he didn’t show up today. Tomorrow’s his day off … if he still has a job.”

“Has anyone tried to call him?”

“Wouldn’t know. I didn’t call him. He wasn’t a pal. Ask the manager.”

“And where would I find the manager?”

“In her office.”

“And where is her office?”

“All the way in back. When you get to the barn doors, hook a left, then go past the food warehouse, then hook a right and the offices are there. Her name is Barbara Heiger.”

“Okay. Thanks, Phil. Do you know Boxer’s real name? It’s obviously not Boxer.”

“Nah, it’s not Boxer, but that’s what everyone called him.”

“Did he box?”

“You’ve never seen him, huh?”

“No, I’ve never seen him.”

“Scrawny guy. Around five eight with stringy arms.”

“You didn’t like him.”

“Didn’t like him, didn’t hate him. We didn’t hang. He was Brady’s friend. They hit it off right away.” Phil looked down. “Poor Brady. I talked to him now and then when he came into the warehouse. Once in a while, he’d bring in pretzels and chips for us ghouls to snack on. He said they were leftovers from a party, but the bags were always unopened. What the hell happened to him?”

“That’s what we’re looking into. You thought Brady was a good guy?”

“Yeah, from the little contact I had with him. He worked resale. He’d come in to talk to Boxer but would always acknowledge me … the other guys. It goes a long way, you know.”

“What do you mean goes a long way?”

“To most people, we’re furniture. Brady made you feel human. But like I said, he mostly talked to Boxer.”

“And because Boxer was Brady’s friend, we just wanted to ask him a few questions. Any idea where he lives?”

The lightbulb went off in Phil’s head. “You think something happened to Boxer?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“Oh Jesus! That would be …” Phil’s jaw was working hard. “Is there something going on with this store? I mean, two guys working here. That’s a little coincidental, right?”

“If you’re just doing your job, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“Whadaya mean by that?”

“I mean if you keep out of trouble, you should be okay.”

“Was Brady in trouble?”

“I’m trying to figure that out. And once I do know what’s going on, I’ll tell you. Here’s my card.” Decker handed it to him. “If you think of anything strange or unusual or just something that you think the police should know, call me. I want to find Boxer, if for no other reason just to know that he’s safe.”

“Yeah, I get it. Boxer did his job but isn’t as big as some of us. He’s vulnerable.”

“Nobody is immune to vulnerability, Phil.”

“But some are more vulnerable than others.” Phil scratched his head on his tiger tattoo. “I mean no harm when I say this, but Boxer … there’s something about him. Some people are just born with a Kick Me sign plastered on their asses.”

BARBARA HEIGER WAS out to lunch. Decker wandered over to the next open office. It belonged to C. Bonfellow, Bookkeeper. He appeared to be in his midforties, short and overweight with thinning sandy hair and dark suspicious eyes. He sat behind a scarred desk that was piled with paper in slotted trays. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” Decker showed C. Bonfellow his badge.

“Police? What’s this about?”

“Do you make out the salary checks?”

“Me, personally? No. It’s all done by computer. And if you’re looking for someone in particular, I’m not the guy. You need to talk to Susan or Harold in HR. I just balance the numbers.”

“Where is HR?”

“Three doors down. Who are you looking for, by the way?”

“A guy named Boxer?”

“Don’t know him.”

“You’re not the only one. Thanks.”

Decker was about to go, when Bonfellow said, “If you leave your card, I’ll call if I hear of anything.”

“Sure.” Decker handed the bookkeeper his card. “What kind of things do you usually hear about, Mr. Bonfellow?”

The man turned pink. “Not that I gossip. I don’t. And most of the time, I’m behind a desk. But people don’t notice me a lot. They kind of talk like I’m not there and I pick up things … keep things filed in storage.” He pointed to his head. “I’ll keep my ears open for this Boxer person. I’ll call you if I hear anything juicy.”

“Thanks. Don’t put yourself out. If someone found out you’ve overheard a private conversation, it might make them mad.”

“Oh, I know that, Detective.” Bonfellow smiled. “I’m a very careful man.”

IN HR, THERE were two people to approach. Decker homed in on Susan Jenkins, who was kind enough to look up the name in the company computer. She was in her midthirties, short but with a very long neck. She reminded Decker of a swan. She wore a black T-shirt and jeans. “There is no Boxer assigned to the warehouse, but … there is a Joseph Boch.”

“That’s probably the guy I’m looking for. Do you have his address and phone number?”

“I do, but I can’t give it to you. Company policy.” She smiled. “I’m going to the watercooler. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” Decker said. Once she left, he looked on the screen. Joseph Boch was thirty-five, and by the date of his employment records, he’d been working there nine months. Decker quickly copied the address and phone number in his notebook.

She returned a moment later with a conical paper cup and sipped water. “Is there anything else?”

“Thank you very much, Ms. Jenkins. You’ve been a big help.” He paused. “How long does your average employee work here?”

She looked up at him. “I really couldn’t tell you. What I can tell you is that we have a lot of turnover, specifically because we have a lot of temp teens working in the summer.”

“And you have no idea about the working life span of your permanent employees?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say not more than a few years. It’s barely more than minimum wage unless you’re in management. And most management isn’t from the bottom up.”

“Where do they go—the ones who quit after a year?”

Susan was thoughtful. “I couldn’t tell you personally, but it’s the same old story in Hamilton. I think a lot of them have alcohol or serious drug issues. Or both. When they’re sober, they can hold down a job. But it’s a really boring job, so they start getting high again. And when they’re high, they can’t hold down jobs. It’s a vicious cycle. Sad, but not unpredictable. What else does Hamilton have to offer?”

“You’re here.”

“I grew up here, but I never intended to stay. I went to Clarion College on a scholarship; met my husband, who was at Kneed Loft; and we moved to Phoenix. He came down with an illness that does much better in cold climate. So here we are.”

She brought out a brown bag and unwrapped a sandwich.

“I have my mother and sister here. It’s not so bad now that I’m married with kids. But when I was growing up … geez, all I wanted to do was get out of here.” Biting into her sandwich, she said, “Probably told you way more than you wanted to know.”

“Not at all, Ms. Jenkins, it’s always good to get background.”

“I can tell you’re not from these parts.”

“I work with Greenbury PD. Before that, I was with Los Angeles Police for thirty-five years.”

“Wow, that’s a change of scenery. What drew you to Greenbury?”

“Change of scenery as well as a change of pace. Compared to L.A., even Hamilton seems idyllic.”

“I’m probably making Hamilton more horrible than it is. We have our doctors, lawyers, hospitals, libraries, schools, police, churches, yadda, yadda, yadda. It’s a decent place, but it’s not exceptional. We’re what politicians call God and gun people.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“I don’t know about that, Detective. With God, it’s a round-trip ticket. The Lord destroys, but the Lord also creates. With guns, it’s strictly a one-way fare.”

CHAPTER 9

LENNIE BACCUS WAS eating a muffin and chatting up one of the women who worked behind the counter. When she saw Decker, she stood up, wiped her mouth, and said her good-byes. She took her coffee in her right hand, another to-go coffee in her left, and met up with the boss. “I thought you could use one of these.”

“Thank you.”

“Black, right?”

“You’re a quick study. Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“I think I got Boxer’s address. We’ll talk in the car.”

Silently they walked across a big expanse of asphalt. The parking lot was half full, mostly small cars and pickups. Once in the car, Decker put the keys in the ignition. As soon as he pulled onto the street, he said, “You go first.”

“Not too much.” Lennie pulled out her notepad. “I talked to four people—the two women who work at the café—Marie and Gilliam. Neither of them know Boxer, but they did know Brady Neil. He used to come and buy coffee and a croissant, and he was always friendly. They felt really bad and a little worried, like it has something to do with the store.”

“It might,” Decker said. “Joseph Boch a.k.a. Boxer hasn’t shown up for work in two days.”

“Since Neil’s death. Wow. That’s a little creepy.”

“The guy I talked to in the warehouse—his name is Phil—described Boxer as a little guy and kind of a wimp. If he and Neil were stealing electronics, I can bet who ran the show.”

“If the company found out,” Lennie said, “they’d just fire them. Not kill anyone.”

“No, you’re right about that. But we have to start somewhere, and since Boxer didn’t show up at work, we need to find out why. You said you talked to four people. Who are the other two?”

“Buss Vitali, who worked alongside Brady Neil. Said he had no problems with Brady, that he was a nice guy. Always willing to carry an extra load to help someone out.”

“Could be he was a nice guy. Or it could be because he was a nice guy, his coworkers looked the other way.”

“You really think he was stealing.”

“I think he was pulling off some kind of scam. Especially now that Boxer is AWOL. Who’s the last person you talked to?”

“Well, Buss pointed me toward a girl named Olivia Anderson, who works in clothing. She and Brady went out a couple of times. She didn’t show up yesterday for work, but she was there today. It looked to me like she’d been crying.”

“What’d she say to you?”

Lennie checked her notepad. “They were dating for around two months, but then he broke it off. Neil told her that he had something he needed to work on. But he never told her what.”

“When did he break off the relationship?”

“About six months ago.”

“When you get back to the station house, call her and say that I’d love to talk to her. She can either come to the station or I’ll interview her at her home.”

“She seemed like a nice girl.”

“And by all accounts, Brady was a nice guy. But something got him killed.”

“Can I come with you when you interview her?” Lennie bit her lip. “I think she trusts me. It might make things easier.”

“I’m sure you would help, Baccus, but this isn’t a look-see. I need someone experienced to play off of. It’s going to be McAdams. Did you give her your phone number?”

“I gave her my card, yes.”

“Good. Then she might call you after she’s talked to us. If she wants to talk to you, that would be fine. But do it in an open place. Do not go to her house, okay?”

“Got it.”

“Did she say anything else other than Brady was a nice guy?”

“Just that he paid for everything. Consistent with the mother saying he always had cash.”

“Do you see him earning that much cash from recycled parts?”

“Enough for a dinner at Steaks! and a movie. Not enough to take her on a trip to Paris.”

“Yeah, having an extra fifty bucks qualifies as having lots of cash around here. And it’s certainly possible to make an extra fifty bucks in recycled parts. Especially if you didn’t pay for any of it.”

“True, but would an extra fifty bucks get you killed?” Lennie asked.

Decker said, “I’ve seen people killed for less. Especially if you’re an addict. But addicts don’t usually take a body from the crime scene and dump it in a second spot. They just take the cash and run.”

“And it’s a definite that Brady Neil wasn’t killed on Canterbury Lane?”

“The blood loss at the scene doesn’t fit the severity of the wound. Plus, we have a second person of interest who’s missing. This seems like something more than some random mugging.”

“Maybe Joseph Boch a.k.a. Boxer can shed some light on the situation.”

“One can always hope.” Decker smiled. “And one can always be disappointed.”

THE ADDRESS WAS in an impoverished area on Crane Street. It was a small bungalow with a wraparound porch, the house built around the turn of the twentieth century. The outside lawn was brown even though the weather was no longer cold, but there were a few weeds popping up, giving it spots of green. No planting along the border or the steps, but there was a giant oak tree that shaded a crumbling stone pathway to the front door. Although the place had a dirt driveway, there was no car parked outside. The whitewashed flooring of the porch was missing boards, and what was still there was splintered and looked none too safe to walk on.

When they reached the front door, Decker pulled back a torn screen and knocked on the sash. After announcing himself several times, he closed the screen. He went around to the side yard and peeked over. “Don’t see a car.”

He eased his shoe into a chain link and hopped over the fence.

Lennie said, “Do you want me to follow you?”

“Nah, just going to have a look around. See if there’s any visibility from a back window inside the house.”

The backyard was as brown as the front but with no tree to give it any life. The area was fenced off from its neighbors by chain link alternating with rotted two-by-fours. Spare automobile parts were strewn about—a few rusted hubcaps, a piece of a fender, several spare tires, and three or four wheel-less bicycles. The house had two windows that looked out to the backyard, but the curtains had been pulled. He knocked on the back door.

No answer.

“Detective Decker?” Lennie yelled out.

“Over in the back. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Decker took a last look around, and then he scaled the fence and landed on his feet with a thud. Thank God for rubber-soled shoes. “Quiet as a tomb.”

“Just leave our cards?”

“No, I’m going to try his phone. You call up records and find out who the house belongs to.” Decker punched in the numbers, and the line went straight to voice mail. While he was considering his next move, Lennie interrupted his musings.

“The tax bill goes out to Jaylene Boch. She’s fifty-nine and bought the house twenty-five years ago.”

“Call up the station and ask whoever is there to look her up.”

“Greenbury or Hamilton?”

“Greenbury.” Decker looked through the front windows, which were obscured by curtains just like the back of the house. “If they don’t have anything on her, we’ll try Hamilton. And while you’re talking to someone at Greenbury, find out what they pulled up on Joseph Boch.”

“Right away.”

Decker tried the front-door handle. It was locked, but by jiggling it, he could tell that the spring pin wasn’t very tight. He picked up his phone and called McAdams, who was still pulling CCTV from Tollway Boulevard. After a brief recap of his morning activities, Decker said, “I have Lennie on several calls. Can you get a cell-phone number for Jaylene Boch?”

“If I were at the station house, I could. But not here in the field.”

“Right. Who’s there now?”

“Nickweed might be there. Kev is here with me. I bet Radar’s there.”

“I’ll give him a call.”

“Can’t you jiggle the lock?”

“I could, but that wouldn’t be legal.”

“The guy’s been missing for two days. Can’t you justify a forced entry?”

“He’s an adult. And you’re the law student. What do you think?”

“Your hands are tied, unless you smell something weird.”

“The windows are shut, so if something’s rotting away, it hasn’t leaked out in the open. Lennie just got off the phone. Let me see what she’s come up with. Talk to you later.” He walked over to Baccus. “What’s up?”

“I spoke to the captain. He says he’ll call you back with the background information and the phone numbers. What do we do now?”

“We wait around until Radar gives me a call. Want a cup of coffee or something? I think I saw a place a couple blocks away.”

“No, thanks, I’m pretty coffee’d out.”

Decker said, “I’m going to call my wife.”

“Do you want privacy?”

“I’ll take a walk down the block.” He walked away for a short distance, then phoned Rina. “Hey.”

“Hi, I’m in the car. Can I call you back in ten minutes?”

“It might not work. I have a lull right now, but I don’t want you talking while you’re driving.”

“Everything okay?”

“Just a whole lot of nothing … well, that’s not entirely true.” He told her about Boxer and his disappearing act.

Rina said, “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it doesn’t. Not with Brady Neil being dead. I’m trying to get information on Jaylene Boch from Radar, who’s busy right now. We seem to be a little shorthanded.”

“Have you tried looking her up on the internet on your phone?”

“And what’s that going to tell me?”

“Maybe nothing, but you never know. Hold on. I’ll pull over.”

“Nah, don’t bother.”

“Just hold on. There’s a space right here.” A moment passed. “Okay. What’s the name?”

“Jaylene Boch.” Decker spelled it.

“Unusual name. Let’s see if she has any hits.”

“How are you doing?” Decker asked.

“I’m fine. I just spoke to my mom.”

“How is she?”

“Okay. It’s been a while since we’ve visited either mother. Since they both live in Florida, it should be part of our summer plans.”

“Yeah, you’re right. We’ll go, but not in the summer, please. It’s so hot and humid.”

“Fair enough, but no more excuses.” Rina shook her head. “Okay, here we go with Jaylene Boch. There are six citations, all of them having to do with a car accident eight years ago.”

“Car accident?”

“Yes. I’ll pull up the article …” A pause. “This is sad. She was plowed into by an eighteen-wheeler semi. She got a pretty good settlement. But the poor thing is in a wheelchair.”

“Well, that certainly changes things. If Boxer was her son and he disappeared, I’m wondering who is taking care of Jaylene. And that might justify a welfare check. I’ll call Radar and see what he thinks. Thank you, honey. As usual, you’ve been a big help.”

He hung up and called Radar, who said, “Jaylene Boch is on disability.”

“Yeah, I just found out that a car accident left her a paraplegic eight years ago. If Joseph Boch is Boxer and he’s missing, who’s taking care of Jaylene?”

“I’ve got her phone number. Call it and let me know if she answers. If she doesn’t, go ahead and make a forced entry, just to make sure she’s okay. Knock hard.”

“Got it.” Decker hung up. He called Jaylene’s cell phone. After three rings, there was a beep and Decker left his name and number. But he still didn’t feel comfortable about walking away. He went over to Baccus. “We’re going to do a forced entry for a welfare check. Turns out Jaylene Boch—”

“Is a paraplegic.”

“Looked it up on your phone?”

“Yep.”

“Radar gave me her cell phone. No one is answering. I just want to make sure she’s not in there, lying on the floor and incapacitated. Agreed?”

“Absolutely.”

“All right, let’s do this.” Decker took out a set of lock picks, and then he backtracked and put them away. Instead, he took out a credit card. After working it back and forth, the bolt retracted and the lock popped. As he opened the door, the stench was overwhelming. Involuntarily, he turned his head. Then he brought out a handkerchief. Lennie was a few steps behind him. She had turned ashen.

Decker took out his revolver. “Watch my back. I don’t think this is a fresh kill.” He waited for her to respond. “You do have a firearm, don’t you?”

“Yes, sorry. Of course.” Lennie disengaged her gun from her shoulder holster.

Single file, they walked into a messy living room—paper cups and plates, food wrappers, soiled clothes, dirty towels, all of it scattered on tables, the sofa, and the two chairs opposite the sofa. Off the living room was the kitchen in an equal state of disarray and mess. Dirty dishes and used pots and pans piled in the sink. Ants were crawling in neat little roadways on the counters, down the cabinets, and onto the floor.

Decker said, “These two rooms are clear. I’m going to check out the other rooms. You okay?”

“Fine,” she said.

Slowly he walked down the hallway that had three doors. With his back to the wall, he opened the one closest to the living room. As soon as he did, the stink grew stronger.

He pivoted, gun drawn, and went inside.

She was tied to her wheelchair, head lolling to the side, her eyes closed, her lips parched and cracked. A rag was stuck in her mouth.

“Damn it!” Quickly, Decker checked out the room closet. Empty. He felt for a pulse and was shocked to find something thready and weak. He turned to Baccus. “She’s alive. Call an ambulance!” Carefully, he removed the rag from her mouth. She had defecated over herself, down the chair, and onto the floor. Decker patted her sweaty forehead with his handkerchief. As he did this, she moaned. “Mrs. Boch, we’re the police. We’re taking you to the hospital. Just stay with me, okay.”

Baccus said, “Ambulance is coming. I also called for additional officers and SID.”

“Which police station?”

“Hamilton, sir. It’s in their jurisdiction.”

“It’s related to our case, but you’re right. It’s their call.”

Jaylene moaned again.

Lennie said, “Is she going to be okay?”

Decker put his fingers to his lips. “Just hang in there, Jaylene. Just a few more minutes.” To Baccus. “We’ve got to clear the two other rooms. Otherwise emergency services won’t come in. C’mon.”

“We just leave her alone?”

“You have to protect my back, Baccus. We have no idea who else is in the house.”

“Yes.” Lennie wiped sweat off her brow. “Of course.”

The door across the hall was a bathroom—broken toilet, cracked tile floors, and a browned acrylic tub/shower for the handicapped. He took out his handkerchief, ran it under the faucet, and wrung out the excess water.

“C’mon,” Decker said. “One more to go.”

The last room was all the way in the back and looked over the rear yard. He stood with his back against the wall and threw open the door. The stench was horrible. Blood was everywhere—on the walls, on the floor, on the bed linens, and on discarded clothing. Decker quietly walked over to the closet and opened it. It was the only area of the room not smeared with blood.

Definitely a crime scene, but no body.

He rushed out of the room and back to the old lady and wiped her brow with his damp handkerchief. To Baccus, he said, “Stand guard over the back bedroom. No one goes in without my say-so.”

“Got it.”

The wail of the sirens got louder. Within moments, paramedics were knocking at the door. Decker let them in. “House is clear. Follow me.”

Once Jaylene was being ministered to, Decker walked over to the back bedroom and peered inside. He took off his shoes. “See that over there?”

“What am I looking at?”

Decker said, “He tried to make it to the door. He didn’t get there. You can see a massive amount of spray on the door and on the walls near the door. He runs to the closet—see the footprints? Doesn’t make it to the closet, either. He’s mowed down there. See these smear tracks? They’re dragging the body out …” He looked at the hallway. “Nothing bloody here.” He went over to the windows. Blood was dripping onto the floor even before he opened the drapes. Once he did, he opened the window and saw blood on the bottom of the frame. “They pulled him out the window.”

He paused, then looked outside.

“No real visible blood outside. They might have washed it down. I’ll take a closer look.”

“How could they have dragged him away without leaving blood outside?”

“Someone’s waiting on the other side with a trash bag.” Decker walked back into the first bedroom to check on Jaylene Boch. They had taken off her soiled clothes and were cleaning her body. Decker looked away, but not before noticing an IV was in her arm and an oxygen tube was in her nose. He went back into the hallway as two paramedics were bringing in a gurney. “How is she?”

“Badly dehydrated. She’s conscious but barely so. It’s hard to tell what damage has been done.”

Ten minutes later, they put her on the mobile gurney, leaving the dirtied wheelchair behind, and loaded her into the ambulance.

“Where are you taking her?”

“St. Luke’s.”

The major hospital in Hamilton. “I’ll meet you there,” Decker said.

The paramedics nodded.

Baccus was still guarding the back bedroom. Decker said, “I’ll wait with you until Hamilton police arrive. They should be here any moment.”

“I’m okay by myself.”

“This is a crime scene. Who’s to say someone’s not coming back, or someone could be hiding outside. I’ll wait with you.”

A few moments passed, and then they heard sirens. “Okay,” Decker said. “You wait here and direct Hamilton police to guard the house. No one in or out until you’ve talked to a detective. Don’t tell him or her too much. Just that I’ll call later on. Then you all stand guard until Forensics comes out. If you get lip from the detective—someone tries to throw around weight—you stand your position. If someone gets nasty, tell him your last name is Baccus. That should shut the person up. When SID comes, you take them to the crime scene. And then once that’s taken care of, you give Hamilton PD the case—temporarily. I’ll call later and let them know what’s going on and why we were there.”

“What are you doing now?”

“I’m going to the hospital. If Jaylene becomes conscious and sentient, I’m going to want to talk to her. Unless you want me to stay and help you out?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Thanks for the trust.” She looked at Decker with pleading eyes. Her nails were clicking a mile a minute. “That poor woman. Will she make it?”

“I don’t know, Lennie, and that’s the truth.”

Tears formed in her orbs. She wiped them with her finger. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Just …”

“Don’t apologize for normal emotions. When it stops getting to you, that’s when you need to worry.”

CHAPTER 10

THE WAITING ROOM in the ER was furnished with orange plastic chairs and a ceiling-mounted TV that had settled on CNN news. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, and volunteers went back and forth between two doors, looking very busy with white coats and clipboards. Triage was located behind glass windows with phones constantly ringing. It took a while before Decker made contact with someone who knew about Jaylene Boch’s welfare. ER docs were generally young, and the one who came up to Decker appeared to be in his late thirties, slim build with bags under his brown eyes. His name tag said Dr. John Nesmith.

“You probably found her just in time,” he remarked.

“She’ll pull through?” Decker asked.

“No guarantees, but I think so. She’s sleeping, but even if she were awake, it’d be useless for you to talk to her. She was barely conscious when she was brought in. She didn’t even know her name. But that’s par for the course with extreme dehydration.”

“Could I try to talk to her? Her son’s missing, and there was a lot of blood in her house.”

“She’s sedated, Detective. And if she can’t remember her name, she won’t be able to tell you anything. Stop by tomorrow. Twenty-four hours could make a big difference.”

Decker knew that Nesmith was right, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept. “Could someone call me if she’s up and alert later in the day?”

“Up, yes. Alert?” Nesmith shrugged. “But sure. Give me a number.”

Decker gave the man his card. “We might place someone on her.”

“You mean for her protection? She wasn’t killed the first time.”

“Until we know what’s going on, it’s better to err on the side of caution. Any objection?”

“Not from me, but you’ll probably have to run this by hospital security.”

“Thank you. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

As soon as he left the building, he called up McAdams. “Where are you?”

“At Crane Street, in a pissing contest with Hamilton Police over jurisdiction. Since it is in their city, we don’t have much of a case. On the other hand, if they want our information, it would behoove them to cooperate. I’m trying to impress them with my impeccable logic, but I’m getting mixed results.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Maybe an hour. Detectives and techs from Forensics are all over the place.”

“Who are the detectives?”

“Randal Smitz and Wendell Tran. Do you know them?”

“No.”

“They seem competent. Kevin’s here as well. They’re less proprietary than the uniforms. Radar has a call into Baccus’s office to help smooth the way, but he hasn’t called back. Are you still at the hospital?”

“Yes. Jaylene Boch will probably pull through, but I couldn’t talk to her because she’s heavily sedated. Is SID from Hamilton there?”

“Yep.”

“They’ve got a bigger department and more manpower, so that’s okay. Ask them to take numerous blood samples around the room. It could be Neil’s crime scene as well as Joseph Boch’s. Is anyone canvassing the neighborhood?”

“Hamilton is on it, but Kevin put a couple of our own officers with them. The police know what they’re doing. Judging by the city’s crime statistics, it’s not their first rodeo.”

“What have you told them about Brady Neil?”

“Just that his murder brought you to the house. They pressed for details. I told them I didn’t know the full story yet and that you’d fill them in.”

“Perfect answer. That means they’ll talk to me.”

“That’s my motto, boss. Always leave them asking for more.”

SENIOR INVESTIGATOR WENDELL Tran spoke with a broad southern accent. He was born in Louisiana, the son of a Vietnamese shrimp fisherman, and had come to the Hamilton Police Department about ten years prior. How he got here was anyone’s guess. He was thirty-eight and average height with black, straight hair and brown eyes. He and Decker were doing the five-minute small-talk thing on the rotted front porch outside the house, sizing each other up before getting down to the case. Inside, Forensics was collecting and dusting, but the house was so disorderly it was hard to know what was normal and what might have been tossed.

“How do people live like this?” Tran asked.

“She’s in a wheelchair.”

“Then I reckon her son isn’t much of a housekeeper.” Tran pronounced I as Ah. He shook his head and looked Decker in the eye. “You want to tell me your connection?”

“We found a body dumped in our jurisdiction yesterday morning. He was identified as Brady Neil. He lived in Hamilton with his mom, Jennifer Neil. He and Joseph Boch—a.k.a. Boxer—worked together at Bigstore.” Decker filled him in on the details. “Neil wasn’t murdered where he was dumped. That’s why I asked SID for multiple samples. I think this might be his murder scene.”

“Which would make Neil’s murder in our jurisdiction.”

“Yes, that is true. I’d like to see this through, but it’s your call.”

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