Murder Book

Alan Lee

Murder Book

Book Three

of

The Girl Who Would Be Sheriff

by Alan Lee

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 Alan Janney

First Edition

Printed in USA

Cover by Damonza

Formatting by Vellum

Sparkle Press

Created with Vellum

Prologue

Dr. Raymond Pierce was guided by an asthmatic prison guard to a visitation room inside the Virginia Correctional Center for Women, an hour northwest of the state’s capital.

“You’re a doctor?” said the asthmatic guard.

“I am.”

“What kind of doctor?”

Dr. Pierce forced through a polite smile. “A neurosurgeon.”

“What does—”

“I operate on brains,” he said.

A rattling breath. “I got only about a dozen kin that could use some of that. Haha.”

The linoleum was cracked like a desert floor, and the chair Dr. Pierce lowered onto protested enough that he stood and found another. The prisoner he was visiting would be kept behind the glass, deemed too great a danger to be set free in a general meeting hall. He wasn’t an attorney, which meant the conversation wasn’t confidential and they weren’t afforded a private room.

“Cute, ain’t she,” said the prison guard, intruding again into the doctor’s absorption. “She’s everyone’s favorite. Too pretty for this place, I tell you that much right now. I can’t hardly think straight when she’s eating.” The woman lingered for more from the doctor, but when none came she hobbled back to her desk in the corner, continuing a game of spider solitaire. Dr. Pierce and the guard were the only two souls in the stark room, and her rasping breathing echoed as if in a canyon.

Research indicated that an all-female staff reduced abuse and inappropriate relationships at an all-female prison, but not by much.

In the glass’s reflection. Dr. Pierce considered himself. Always a thin man, he’d put on ten pounds of gristle. Always a meticulous man, his hair was a month late for a trim. He touched his chapped lips and wondered when that’d happened, and if he’d brought any balm. This was the first he’d considered himself in a week. As he did, a tremor welled in his chin and he clamped his teeth to subdue it.

His shirt was buttoned incorrectly, the mistake visible between the lapels of his rain jacket.

What did that matter.

A door opened beyond the glass, a hard sound, hinges desperate for oil. He heard slow shuffling and the clink of restraints. A moment later, the woman he’d come to see appeared.

Like her confines, she looked pale and spare. Unlike her confines, she looked lovely. A flower that bloomed wherever planted. You can’t hide perfect features, he thought. She brushed her blonde hair often, and she ate as well as she could, and she smiled more than the correctional facility gave her reason to, and he saw no trace of self-pity or bitterness in her faint wrinkles. She wore the handcuffs and ankle restraints like homemade adornments.

She sat. The guard who’d brought her left but didn’t close the door.

Dr. Pierce and the lovely woman regarded each other silently, meeting for the first time, and much was said without words. Each waited for the other to speak, and in the lengthening span they realized a common bond.

No one sane waited that long.

Not in a desperate place like this.

In that recognition was recognition itself, inward and outward; with it came a calm comfort.

She tilted her head, like a mother would do, a concerned, loving mother, and he found himself unexpectedly moved. Emotion welled in his chest and sadness weighed down the corners of his mouth but he refused to cry. He was a respected neurosurgeon. He would not weep at the interest of a prison inmate.

The advantage was his. He knew her, not the other way around. At last he cleared this throat, a sound she heard through the metallic grating in the glass. She leaned forward.

“You and I have something in common, Ms. Newton,” he said.

“Yes? What is that?”

“We have the same complicated relationship with an individual who—”

Jane Newton released a small gasp and she pressed a palm against the glass, necessarily dragging the other hand along.

“Andrea. You know Andrea,” said Jane.

Jane Newton had been an active serial murderer in Roanoke City for years, until she took an obsessive interest in patrol officer Andrea Stackhouse. That had been her undoing, deep inside an underground water vault. Andie Stackhouse was too strong to tangle with.

For most people.

Jane asked, “How is she?”

Again a long silence. The emotion welled up in him once more. In his periphery, the prison guard watched them, her video game forgotten, her phlegmatic breathing accelerated.

“She won’t write,” said Jane Newton. “She won’t visit, she won’t call.”

The common lament of all mothers.

“I know the feeling.” Dr. Pierce’s words were soft enough, the guard couldn’t hear.

“She hurt you,” said Jane.

“As I said, it’s complicated.”

Jane Newton’s palm remained pressed against the barrier, and he saw no callouses or cuts or bruises on her hand. Her palmar crease looked soft. “I won’t help you hurt her.”

“Ms. Newton. I read about you. We both know that pain is an instrument. We see things others do not and our purpose is to nurture growth. We don’t have much time so let’s be honest.”

Jane Newton didn’t respond immediately. Her posture was remarkably upright, unbowed by prison.

Finally she nodded. “Tell me everything.”

1

Andie Stackhouse, the newest member of the valley’s inter-agency Fugitive Task Force, clung to the back of a UPS truck at dawn. Despite the early hour, her nerves were on fire, her mind on high alert.

Standing on the thin metal landing next to her was an agent at the FBI’s Roanoke field office, and a TFO (task force officer) from Roanoke County Police. No one spoke. They were spotlighted in the headlights of the trailing vehicle, another UPS truck.

Stackhouse’s hands shook, fear and thrill and adrenaline, and she hoped the FBI agent couldn’t tell.

The trucks decelerated at a house on Lefty’s Ridge, deep inside the hills of south county. The nearest neighbor was a mile removed across the thistle fields and land ugly from deforestation.

A whisper in her ear piece, “All teams, go go go.”

The trucks didn’t stop, but they slowed to five miles per hour. Stackhouse and the others hopped off, shocks squeaking with the release. The FBI agent staggered and Stackhouse grabbed him to keep the man upright. Four more figures detached from the trailing truck, and silently the seven figures infiltrated the overgrown lawn of the dilapidated house. The two UPS trucks accelerated and trundled out of sight.

Today’s mission objective was not fugitive apprehension. It was not negotiation. It was hostage rescue, fast and hard, weapons hot. They knew from infrared intel, two tangos lounged in the front room. Their target was guarded in the kitchen. Two more tangos sat on chairs at the rear, and another slept upstairs.

“Bravo team in position.”

“Alpha team in position.”

“Perimeter secure.”

“Alpha team breaching.”

“Bravo team breaching.”

This was happening so fast.

Roanoke County’s TFO McBride silently withdrew a thirty-five-pound battering ram from the satchel he’d tossed off the truck. Squad leader Davis gave a nod and signaled forward with his left hand. Holding the ram with two hands, McBride stepped onto the squeaky porch, using his momentum to create an exaggerated backswing, and he crushed the door just above the knob. The impact bruised his wrists. He swung out of the way and dropped the ram, withdrawing the Springfield 1911 from his hip holster.

FBI agent Gordon pulled the pin on a grenade, a metallic snap, and tossed it underhand through the doorway.

“Flashbang in.”

“Flashbang in.”

Stackhouse closed her eyes and turned her face away, and still nearly fell over at the twin eruptions. No shrapnel, just disorientation.

“Go go go.” Squad leader Davis entered the house first, wielding a Heckler & Koch HK416D, an assault rifle she wouldn’t feel comfortable carrying without months of training. The FBI agent followed with an identical weapon. Then McBride, and finally Stackhouse, the newest member of the squad at the rear. She carried her service Glock, her most comfortable firearm, the granular grip digging into her fingers.

Inside the house, Davis’s weapon burped loud, his HK set to burst. “Tango down!”

To catch the house asleep, the task force had assaulted before dawn. They wore image intensifying goggles to see in the dark, and Stackhouse had only three hours training with them. She felt like she moved on the moon, heartbeat out of control.

Hot laser dots sweeping the walls.

More assault rifle chatter.

“Tango down!”

“Clear!”

Checking corners, she followed her squad leader into the next compartment of the house, a long dining room, once grand. Her at the back, missing the action and grateful for it, this her first—

Movement in her periphery. A man emerging from behind the door.

“Tango spotted, dining room doorway!” she shouted. She spun and closed.

The man grabbed her arm, pointing her gun to the ceiling, and he hefted her up and over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. The world turned upside down and her goggles jarred loose.

She landed hard, her shoulder wrenched, and her attacker placed a knife at her throat. Hot breath against her cheek.

“Bad news, Stack. You’re dead.”

More assault rifle bursts, and the man was kicked off her with a boot. “Dining room, officer down! Tango down!”

She lay on the rough wood without moving, staring upward at the rotten ceiling, her chest rising painfully against her tactical vest. Her gun lay on the floor nearby but she didn’t reach for it, nor her goggles.

Crud.

Crud crud crud.

Her first mission, already dead.

Thirty minutes later, debriefing at the UPS trucks on the street, the sun had risen but not enough for warmth. Stackhouse worked her shoulder, watching the footage on the monitors with the others—two teams of four, and their instructors, as well as the hostage team of eight.

On the mounted screen, Stackhouse watched her blunder.

“Stack’s toast. What’d she do wrong?”

“She got too close,” said Carpenter, the man who’d flipped and killed her.

I was already too near.

“Bingo, too close. She should’ve backed and fired, not closed. She screwed up and she died and now we all attend her funeral because she was a dumbass.”

Stackhouse nodded without comment. She felt the criticism as though her father uttered it, an odd, painful sensation.

Instructor Kendra Burns from SWVA SWAT tapped the big monitor. “Keep your distance, Officer Stackhouse. Use your firearm. Call for help.”

Call for help! It happened so fast!

The other instructor, an older evaluator she didn’t know, said, “Tell me why you didn’t fire, Stackhouse.”

“I’m not sure,” she said.

“You closed instead of firing. Why?”

“I screwed up.”

“I know that. We know that. We see that. Why?” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“I do. You’re new. It’s damn hard to fire at another human being. This is why we drill,” said the man.

Stackhouse nodded again. She was nodding too much.

“She thought she could kick my ass,” joked Carpenter and the group laughed. She detected her father laughing, a hallucination. Only Kendra Burns didn’t laugh, the other woman.

“She brought a gun to a knife fight but she didn’t even use it,” said Agent Gordon, and they all laughed again.

Alpha leader Davis said, “She saved your ass, didn’t she, FBI?”

“Yeah she did.”

“That’s right,” called the evaluator. “Let’s talk about why this corner didn’t get cleared, the primary reason we lost a man today.”

Afterward, her ears still burning, loading into cars, Kendra caught up with Stackhouse. “I died my first exercise, too.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“It’s clear to me why you were invited onto the fugitive apprehension team,” said Kendra.

“To check a box?”

“Hell yes. It’s 2008, so of course to check a box. But why you. Because you’re a fighter. A brawler. To get your reputation, you have to be. In there, though, you’re part of a team. It’s hard for girls like us to wait for backup.”

Stackhouse felt punchy and bruised and her shoulder hurt, and she was tired of talking. “What if I’m alone?”

“You might go the rest of your career without being asked to subdue a bigger man by yourself. Even if that happens, and you’re alone against a bigger man? Use your weapons. Little guys always lose to big guys in fights. But not if she uses her weapons and waits for backup.”

Stackhouse pushed the vest up over her head. She’d been in several fights without weapons or backup. Too many, but she didn’t want to push the point. “I hear you, ma’am.”

Over Kendra’s shoulder, she saw the guys exchanging money and laughing. There’d been a bounty on the new girl’s head. Carpenter was collecting.

Stackhouse dropped into the Roanoke County car and rubbed her face. Her day was only beginning.

2

Sergeant Detective Val Farmer was leaning against her unmarked Chevy Impala. “You missed roll call, lady.”

“I know.” Stackhouse shouldered her satchel, slammed the trunk of her Nissan, and ran for the Barn.

“It’s your first day, and you’re late.”

Stackhouse shouted over her shoulder, “Ease up! It’s not my fault.” She hustled into the station’s changing room. Her shoulder ached from Carpenter’s body slam, and she watched herself wince in the mirror over the sinks as she changed out of her tactical fatigues and into the business casual outfit of a plainclothes detective.

The cop shop simmered with cleanup—the dayshift was combing through paperwork left on their desks from the nightshift’s arrests. The cells were stuffed with new faces, and attorneys were waiting to speak with clients. The gears of justice churned evermore with processing.

Stackhouse emerged blinking back into the sunlight, and Val said, “How was SWAT?”

“It’s not SWAT. Those guys are maniacs. It was the Fugitive Task Force, and it hurt.”

“You’re crazy buff, lady. Look at those muscles.”

“Not buff enough,” said Stackhouse.

Val was tall and her hands were shoved into her pockets, and she bounced with energy. A transfer from New Jersey, Val had been promoted to Sergeant Detective and her first trainee was Stackhouse. “What shoes are you wearing?”

“Pumas.”

“They look nice.”

“Thank you,” said Stackhouse.

“You can’t run in those.”

“Yes I can. They’re sneakers.”

“Those are dressy,” said Val.

“They’re dressy sneakers.”

“What kinda pants you got on?”

“Khakis. What gives, Val?”

“Look at me, kiddo. Then look at you. We’re dressed the same, right? But it’s like we’re different species. Your clothes fit better.” Val flapped her sports jacket. “I’m wearing a tent over here.”

“What are your measurements?”

“Up yours, lady, I don’t know. Why’s your ass look so good?”

“Do you run?” asked Stackhouse. “Lift weights? Squat? Deadlift?”

“Hell no. I’m married, I don’t have to. I haven’t broken a sweat since Clinton was president. What kinda jacket is that?”

“It’s a fitted performance sports jacket by—”

“A fitted performance… I swear to God, Andie.”

“What is your problem?”

“I hope someone throws up on you,” said Val. “You have no business looking that cute. You’re a gosh darn detective now. Take up drinking and get a divorce like the rest of us.”

“You’re not divorced. This jacket only cost a hundred dollars. Are we gonna stand here talking? You said I was late.”

“Are you wearing makeup?” said Val.

“Not much. Listen, babe.” Stackhouse tugged Val’s baggy sports jacket. “We can find something better than this.”

“The hell did you just say to me?”

“I’ll drive,” said Stackhouse.

“I’d rather die. Get in.” Val goosed Stackhouse as she turned for the passenger seat. Inside the car, she tossed Stackhouse a note pad. “We caught a potential sexual assault. Read me the address.”

“It’s in—”

“I got big hips, alright? I know I do. But my husband said he liked them. I can’t make my ass look that good,” said Val.

“I don’t care about your hips. This address is in Southwest. Head to 581.”

“This isn’t gonna work, kiddo. I’m all self-conscious now.”

“Drive the car or I’m gonna hit you,” said Stackhouse.

“Why aren’t you wearing makeup?”

“Because I don’t need makeup to handle a suspected assault!”

Britney Spears was singing on the radio, and Val dropped the car into reverse. “I’m moving back to Jersey, where the people are hideous.”

“They’re hideous here too, Val.”

“I know you’re talking about me and I hate it.”

In Roanoke City, transferring to the detective bureau wasn’t a promotion, though it was viewed that way. In reality, Chief Almond had a problem on his hands—a year ago he’d promoted Stackhouse to sergeant and burdened her with an inexperienced crew, an attempt to drive her off, but it backfired. Though her squad had imploded (only two of the original six still working at RCPD), she came out smelling like roses and wielding greater political power. A sergeant undermining his authority, Stackhouse wouldn’t even address him as chief. Almond couldn’t fire her, and she was already thriving on the nightshift, so he did the only thing he could think of—after shipping her to Richmond for a week of specialized training, he made her a junior detective. She had the least experience, which meant no one would report to her or be influenced by her for years.

Officer Ed Tankersley was waiting for her and Val outside a brick colonial off Beechwood. He’d been riding patrol for twenty-five years, a tale told by the hash marks on his sleeves and the width of his hips. Stackhouse’s rapid ascension grated on old bulls like Tankersley, too stupid to ever make lieutenant.

They convened on the sidewalk and Val said, “Whaddaya got, Ed?”

“Damned if I know. Lady isn’t even sure she was assaulted. Maribeth Blue. Branch manager at the big Wells Fargo bank downtown. She woke up naked in an alley, she says. She doesn’t remember a thing but thought she should call it in.”

“Last night?” said Val.

“Last night. This your first day in plainclothes, Stack?”

“Sure is, Officer Tankersley.” Stackhouse nodded. “They attached me to Miss Sunshine.”

He grunted. “Whatever. We got calls stacking up. Legitimate calls.”

“Fine, Ed, take off, go save the world. We’ll talk to Maribeth Blue,” said Val.

Ed Tankersley ducked into his cruiser and they heard him grumble, “Not four years in, she’s already a detective.”

Stackhouse knocked on Maribeth Blue’s door. She had been waiting and she invited them into the sitting room off the foyer.

Stackhouse thought Maribeth was good looking, in an efficient, tightly laced way. She held a coffee in both hands like she was cold.

“Coffee?”

“No thank you,” said Stackhouse.

“It feels stupid, me calling you here.”

“It’s not stupid. Tell us about it,” said Val.

“You’re both detectives? Two women?”

Val nodded. “Brave new world, isn’t it. You don’t remember a thing?”

“I don’t even remember waking up. I’m told a homeless lady covered me with a blanket. I have this…” She squinted and waffled a hand. “Hazy memory of her. She called the ICE contact in my phone, and that’s the first real thing I recall, Geri Painter helping me into her SUV.”

ICE contact—In Case of Emergency.

“Where is Geri now?” asked Stackhouse.

“She went home. She said if I didn’t call you, she would.”

“What’s Geri’s number?”

Maribeth pulled her phone from her robe. “It’s in my contacts. Help yourself.” Stackhouse snapped on white latex gloves and took the device.

“Are you hurt, Ms. Blue?” asked Val.

Maribeth shook her head. “Not that I can tell.”

“But you suspect sexual assault?”

Maribeth responded slowly. “I don’t know. I mean, a girl knows when she’s had sex. Right? And I didn’t. I would know if I was raped, wouldn’t I?”

“Maybe, maybe not. When was your last sexual encounter?” asked Val.

“A while. Not last night, I can tell. But what else could it be? Why would I wake up naked in the city?”

Stackhouse felt a shiver on the back of her neck. The details struck her as familiar. “We’ll drive you to the doctor for a rape kit. But you’re right—you’d probably know. Where did you wake up?”

“Behind Liberty Trust, not three blocks from where I work.”

Stackhouse was writing notes, too many notes, even the color of Maribeth’s robe, like cases could be solved on notepads, like the game Clue she played as a kid.

Rookie jitters.

Val casually committed everything to memory.

“How did the homeless woman find your phone?” Stackhouse asked.

“I don’t know. Oh, I suppose I should say, it was in my purse and my purse was next to me. That’s how, I guess. She looked. I don’t know the woman’s name and I couldn’t recognize her. Geri might, though.”

“Was anything stolen?” asked Stackhouse.

“My clothes. Every stitch. Even my socks. But not my purse or anything in it. Doesn’t that indicate it’s a sexual assault, and not a robbery? I know to the dollar how much was in my purse and in my account, and it’s all there.”

Val shot Stackhouse a glance—it sounded familiar to her now, too.

“Where were you last night?” asked Stackhouse.

“At a party. I remember leaving. Alone.”

“In your car?”

“Walking to my car, yes,” said Maribeth.

“Where was the party?”

“Downtown. Not far from where I work. After the bank closed, I went to dinner with a friend. Not Geri, another friend, we work together. Dessy Burks, she’s in my phone too, but she drove home. I went to the party, and I left alone, and I woke up in the alley.”

“Where was the party?” said Stackhouse.

“I just told you. Downtown.”

“Where downtown?”

She paused a heartbeat. “The Ridgeway Building. But I wasn’t there on a date, and I didn’t leave with anyone.”

Maribeth Blue was hiding a small detail.

The Ridgeway Building was five stories tall and home to Good Life, one of the better restaurants in Roanoke, located on the first floor. Good Life also maintained a dining area on the roof, elite and hard to reserve, in use less than twice a week. Even lesser known was that parties were thrown on the fourth floor, called the Red Room, catering exclusively to the rich and powerful. No camera phones allowed. These parties couldn’t be found online and invitations were never issued. You were either in or out. Good Life catered the events, provided food, bartenders, and booze, but Good Life wasn’t the host of the party, or even the lessee of the fourth floor. Good Life didn’t provide the cocaine or ecstasy. Good Life didn’t provide the eye-popping hostesses. Attendees had no idea who did, and it was better that way. It was all hush-hush, part of the allure.

Val tried and failed not to smirk. “Ms. Blue, we know about the Red Room. Were you at the Red Room?”

“Does that matter?”

“It’s not illegal to go to the Red Room. Are you worried blood work would show cocaine in your system?” said Val. “Or Molly, or something similar?”

Maribeth Blue closed her eyes and lowered her head to her mug of coffee. “I don’t want to have blood work done. I told Geri I didn’t want to call the police.”

“We can investigate this without doing blood work. But if you were snorting lines at the Red Room, the most likely culprit is a partier watching you and following you out. That’s a detail we should know,” said Val.

Maribeth Blue didn’t respond.

“Are you married? Kids?” asked Stackhouse.

“Divorced. He moved to Oklahoma two years ago. No kids. I’m a thirty-seven-year-old professional. I manage one of the larger banks in Roanoke. My place in this cut-throat ecosystem is tenuous, and my superiors at Wells Fargo can not know that I was found naked in an alley, and I do not want blood work done. Or the rape kit.”

“Not even for your peace of mind? The results would be confidential.” Sweet Lincoln, lady, what if you’re pregnant?

“I work in finance. There is no peace of mind.”

Stackhouse stepped outside to make a phone call. She rang Geri Painter, Maribeth’s ICE contact. Her company was listed as Painter Realty in Maribeth’s phone.

Geri answered on the third ring and thanked Stackhouse for investigating, but she had nothing helpful to offer. She and Maribeth had been closer than sisters for the last ten years. A woman she didn’t recognize had called from Maribeth’s phone this morning, saying she found her asleep in an alley, unresponsive, and naked. Geri raced over with extra pajamas. The woman was frail and elderly, and Geri gave her a twenty for her help. No way the old woman had stripped Maribeth, no way, she could barely keep herself upright, she was so old. Yes, she knew Maribeth would occasionally score invites to the Red Room parties, but she didn’t know who she met there. No, she didn’t think Maribeth was dating anyone, not since her divorce, she was too angry. No, she didn’t catch the old woman’s name, but she could identify her in a photograph, tiny, so old, Black, missing teeth.

Stackhouse hung up as Val stepped outside.

“Our bank manager is clamming up. Terrified the financial world will find out she’s a partier who snorts coke. You ask me, their opinion of her would rise,” said Val.

“She isn’t worried about the local scene. She’s worried corporate risk managers will find out, and ax her career from their New York City offices.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Val.

“You’re thinking it too.”

“The Masked Molester.”

The Masked Molester was the absurd moniker for a sexual predator who left a trail of drugged women downtown, none of whom remembered anything. Monte Dell had been arrested for it, then released due to lack of evidence. Stackhouse believed Monte had been framed by the real predator.

“We haven’t heard from him in a year,” said Val.

“I know. Still.”

“You and Lieutenant Street think it’s Dr. Pierce. Which is the wildest thing I’ve ever heard, lady.”

“Dr. Pierce is a frequent partier at the Red Room, Val.”

“Oh is he?” She cocked her head. “How do you know?”

“I’ve tailed him. A lot.” Stackhouse sucked at her teeth, irritated. “Just not recently, and not last night.”

Dr. Raymond Pierce was a nationally renowned neurosurgeon, and father to a patrol officer killed in the line of duty. A powerful man known to be hard on women, especially those arrogant with unearned authority. Stackhouse had found hydromorphone and syringes in Dr. Pierce's car, evidence he was the Masked Molester, and let him know she would arrest him one day. Despite this, he routinely sent Stackhouse messages asking her out for drinks.

“You tailed him while on patrol?” asked Val.

“Sometimes. And sometimes when I was off duty.”

“Sheeezus, baby, you need a life,” said Val. They stood on the front lawn, talking low. “Anyway, a crime tech is on the way to print Maribeth’s purse and phone. She’s refusing the rape kit.”

“Dr. Pierce didn’t rape her. His goal is to humiliate. To knock her down. Not to get himself off.”

“If he did it, kiddo. She won’t reveal who she partied with last night. Not our most cooperative vic,” said Val.

“She’s worried about her career. Her reputation.”

“She woke up nude. Naked naked, not even socks.”

Stackhouse clenched her fists. “Good Garfield, I want to bust him, Val.”

“Trouble is, lady, you’re a CAP detective. We gotta kick this over to Special Victims.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” said Val. CAP meant Crimes Against Persons—homicide, assault, kidnapping, stalking, etc. In Roanoke City, rape was handled by Special Victims.

“Maybe Captain Lott will let me run with this,” said Stackhouse.

Val smacked her on the back. “Sure he will. Your first day on the job? Ignoring the conflict of interest? Bingo bango, baby, that sounds like Captain Lott. Boy he’s gonna love you.”

Stackhouse marched inside. Maribeth watched her like she might bite. “Okay listen. I get it, Maribeth. This is scary. You’re shook up, waking without your clothes. Your private life is your private life, and you don’t want it made public, especially considering your respectable career. But you need to take care of yourself. You need to do the healthy thing.”

“I’m not going to the hospital, Detective. I’m a bank manager.”

“Blood work would show if you were sedated with something like hydromorphone or Rohypnol.”

“No,” said Maribeth.

“Do you have any bruising in your neck or thighs or arms or stomach, as from an injection?”

“That’s not your business. I wish I hadn’t called you people.”

“Dr. Raymond Pierce. Do you know him?” said Stackhouse.

Val mumbled, “Oh jeez.”

Maribeth stiffened and Stackhouse saw the answer. “Well. Everyone knows him. I mean, he’s our congressman,” said Maribeth.

“No, he’s in the state legislature. Similar but different. He was at the Red Room last night.

“How do you know?”

“Because I can see it in your face, Maribeth. He was there.”

“So?” Maribeth cocked her head to the side and squinted at Stackhouse, like seeing her for the first time.

“Did you go there to meet him? Did he invite you?”

“We only bumped into each other, and he left before I did. Surely you don’t suspect him, Detective. He’s in the state legislature, like you said, and he’s a respected surgeon. I mean, come on,” said Maribeth.

“He left before you. Of course he did.” The Red Room’s exit was notoriously hard to monitor. It exited through a back door, leading to three different busy streets.

“That’s funny… Did you say your name was Stackhouse?” asked Maribeth.

“Andie Stackhouse.”

“I remember now. Stackhouse.”

The little hairs on Stackhouse’s arms rose to press against her sleeve. “Remember what?”

Maribeth wore an executioner’s smile. “Dr. Pierce. He mentioned you. Isn’t that wild? He said if I ever met you, I was to tell you he said hello.”

3

Stackhouse and Val Farmer walked the alley behind Liberty Trust but it was fruitless work. They arrived as a trash truck lumbered through, the garbagemen disturbing the scene further. Val snapped photos and Stackhouse identified two security cameras on Salem Avenue, but the detectives had already overstepped their responsibility as the understaffed bureau’s first responders. It was time to hand off to Special Victims, the unit working sex crimes.

“Tell you he said hello,” said Val. “I can’t get over that. Tell you hello.”

Stackhouse nosed around leaves and trash with the toe of her shoe, looking for she didn’t know what. “Pierce is our predator. He’s smarter than us and he thinks it’s funny.”

“The old boy is exposing himself to risk, toying with you. If it’s him.”

“He was charged with assault in college. His wife died. His son was murdered. He’s rich and bored and lonely in his fifties. Maybe he’s cracking. Maybe this is all he has,” said Stackhouse.

“You say that in front of a jury, the defense will roast you.” Val threw up her hands. “C’mon lady, we should report back to the Barn and start the paperwork.”

“First let’s swing by Dr. Pierce’s office.”

“And do what?” said Val.

“We’re detectives. We detect.”

“Listen, baby-lady. You’re new at this game, so I’ll explain the rules. What we’re doing is, we’re compiling evidence in such a way the defense can’t yank it away from the prosecution. That’s the game. Can we gather enough facts lawfully. Anytime we misstep, the defense pounces. Picture you, on the witness stand, in front of a jury that doesn’t like cops, and the high-priced attorney asks you, ‘Why did you harass Dr. Pierce at his office? What right do you have?’”

“I’ll say because he was at the party with the victim. He was a witness.”

“‘So were a hundred others, Ms. Stackhouse. Yet you didn’t visit their places of work. Isn’t it true Dr. Pierce’s son was under your supervision in the police force? And that son was murdered? Isn’t this a conflict of interest? Why are you singling poor Dr. Pierce out now, Hotstuff?’” said Val.

“Because the facts surrounding Maribeth Blue’s attack match the pattern of the predator known as the Masked Molester.”

“‘What are you implying! That my client is the Masked Molester? Oh ho HO, Ms. Fitted Sports Jacket, this is slander! This is an outrage! Your Honor, we move for a mistrial. Your Honor, permission to execute this young detective? Permission granted, Counselor. Kill her and her senior partner too. Kill them both dead for being stupid jerks.’”

Stackhouse yanked open her car door. “You’re a mess, Val.”

“You got me killed and fired, Ms. Fancy Shoes.”

“Let’s visit the homeless shelters, then. Ask about the old woman.”

“Leave that to Special Victims,” said Val.

“You got other hot cases to work on?”

“Believe it or not, Ms. Tight Khakis, I had this job before you arrived today. I didn’t pop into existence because you were transferred. I got stuff.”

“Stop calling me weird crap.”

Val gunned the engine. “You bet, cutie.”

Stackhouse insisted they stop at the Rescue Mission and the Trust House. She ran in to explain to the world-weary receptionists that she was looking for an old homeless woman, Black, small, missing teeth, who found a naked White lady asleep in an alley. If they could ask around and call her, that’d be great.

Riding back to the station, Stackhouse found herself grinning. This was more fun than writing speeding tickets and yelling at Nate Neal for being late to his zone.

At the Barn, she was walking toward a Pangaea of desks that the patrol sergeants shared, but she caught herself. That wasn’t her home anymore. Yesterday she’d transferred her stuff to an empty desk in the detective’s bureau. As she passed him, she said, “Sims, get your feet off the table,” and fat Sergeant Sims obeyed her, even though she didn’t outrank him.

Val checked her messages and returned calls while Stackhouse wrote up the incident report. Stackhouse phoned Support and told the crime tech to call her and Special Victims when they processed the fingerprints taken from Maribeth Blue’s purse and phone.

She leaned back in her chair and considered the ceiling.

Dr. Pierce. He mentioned you. Isn’t that wild? He said if I ever met you, I was to tell you he said hello.

Should she leave that surreal comment out of her report, or put it in? What would Val do?

No, better yet, what would Mark Rowe do? Her fingers found the keyboard and she entered the detail, along with a comment stating she had not seen or spoken to Dr. Raymond Pierce in months. Mark Rowe would leave nothing to chance. He was a closer and every detail mattered.

Except he wasn’t a closer anymore. Mark Rowe had been promoted to lieutenant and transferred to Community Engagement. Now he was responsible for coordinating volunteers, overseeing school resource officers, developing youth programs, meeting with stakeholders, communicating initiatives, helpful things that like. None of which Mark Rowe was suited for, and none of which he agreed to do. Almond had moved him to piss him off.

Rowe had so far refused the promotion and transfer, continuing in his previous role, daring Chief Almond to take action. The station expected a showdown any day.

Stackhouse jogged the stairs to Special Victims, and found their room empty except for Lieutenant Street.

“L-T, I just logged an incident,” she said and she gave him the rundown, including Dr. Pierce’s message to say hello.

Len Street was a big man, shaved head, as jolly-looking as an SVU lieutenant could look. He never thought Monte Dell was the Masked Molester, and he was open to the idea of it being Dr. Pierce. He whistled. “Man said to say hello?

Stackhouse nodded. “He did.”

“Man’s cocky.”

“He is.”

“Man’s into you,” said Street.

“He’s a pervert and serial sex offender. I think.”

“I’ll find out where Monte Dell was last night, but we both know he didn’t do it. Meantime, you don’t go harassing Dr. Pierce.”

“I’ve already been warned.”

“Maybe he’s toying with you, maybe he ain’t, but all you have is circumstantial. No, not even that. All you have is prejudice.”

“I hear you, Lieutenant. I can pull the video footage, if you’re jammed,” said Stackhouse. Yet the truth was, she didn’t know how to do that yet. Or at least, she’d never tried, as a detective. She’d need to contact a commonwealth attorney or judge to request a subpoena for the security tapes. Convincing them would be difficult—her victim was refusing toxicology or the rape kit, making it appear she’d gotten drunk and naked by herself, or she’d fooled around with someone she preferred to keep anonymous, and she fabricated the potential assault to cover up embarrassment.

Except Stackhouse was convinced the details matched last year’s masked assaults.

“Stay out of it, Detective,” said Street. “You and Dr. Pierce emailed and texted in the past, yeah? Your ass is toast. Don’t taint the investigation. For our sake, and for your own sake.”

Stackhouse threw a little salute, which she regretted. She was trying to stop saluting older men. (Her roommate Kaye had diagnosed that it was probably about a father wound.) “Yes sir.”

Downstairs again, she and Chief Almond passed each other. Almond was talking into his phone and pointedly didn’t look in her direction, like she was a phantom he was scared to spook. She knew he was compiling a file, recording her fireable offenses, real or imagined. He didn’t have much, and he was proceeding with caution—the public loved Andie Stackhouse. Her first year, she’d caught a serial murderer, earning national attention and a Medal of Valor. Her third year, she fought a cop killer and won, again splashed over the news. She’d turned down two book deals and threatened a lawsuit against a third proceeding against her wishes.

Almond had to be patient if he wanted to win in the courtroom of public opinion. And not have a union rep hand him his own ass.

Her phone rang.

Into her ear, an unfamiliar voice said, “Detective Stackhouse? Listen, that old woman you asked about? Missing her teeth? Yeah, we got her here, at the Trust House. I’m looking at her, crazy lady grinning like she done won the lottery. Says she found the naked lady and got twenty bucks out of it.”

“I’ll be right there,” said Stackhouse.

Her conscious shouted at her. She shouldn’t go. Lieutenant Street told her to stay away. But she was only following up on a lead, perfectly defensible, and then she’d dump it off.

Probably.

Val was on the phone and waved her away when Stackhouse made driving motions. She snatched the keys and hurried outside.

As though in ambush, Dr. Raymond Pierce was leaning against her car, in the covered parking lot.

Stackhouse slowed. A handsome man ten to fifteen years her senior. He looked like Richard Gere, she thought, but somewhat haggard. Normally groomed and sharp as a scalpel, today he needed a shave and his shirt was untucked.

Be cool, Andie. You can’t win the case right now, but you could lose it.

“Dr. Pierce,” she said. “Waiting for me?”

“Nice slacks. That isn’t the uniform of a patrol officer, Andie.”

“It’s my first day as a detective. But you know that, don’t you.” She assumed Chief Almond had told him. They were friends.

“It suits you. The patrol outfit was like a ballerina wearing construction gloves.”

“Are you here for me?” said Stackhouse.

“Like a priestess in hazmat gear.”

“Doctor, are you here for me?”

“Sheriff McGill and I are meeting for a lunch. He has thoughts on southwest Virginia’s regional jails, concerning the guards’ right to use force, and I’m his delegate. Care to join us, Andie? He’s a fan.”

“I’m busy. How’s your social life? Do anything fun last night, Dr. Pierce?”

“I didn’t have sex, Andie, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s an oddly personal detail to volunteer, Doctor,” said Stackhouse.

“I’m waiting for the right woman.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Your spring classes, I hope you made the honor roll?”

Her cheeks threatened to burn. He’d considerably aided her studies last year, arranging for her to audit classes at Washington & Lee. In retrospect, it was a gift she shouldn’t have accepted. “I did well. Now it’s the summer semester and I only have one class.”

“This time next year, you’ll be waiting to hear the results of your bar exam. How thrilling. And then? You’ll ascend to the proud grimy work of prostitution? Excuse me, prosecution.”

“Maybe I’ll enjoy law enforcement enough to stick around. You look tired, Doctor. Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Not much at all, not since my son was executed,” he said. “The dreams, Andie. They never cease. The nights are long and lonely, but I assume I’m preaching to the choir.”

Stackhouse was shaken by the conversation. Dr. Pierce had always been intense, but today the man seemed feverish. He had barely blinked.

“Why’re you leaning against my car?” she said.

“Passing the time, Andie. What else is there to do. My career interests me less and less. Perhaps it’s depression. I need something to occupy my time,” he said.

“Therapy, Doctor. Lots of therapy.”

“Obsession is therapeutic, Detective. You know this.”

A sedan entered the covered lot and parked down the column. A door slammed.

Lieutenant Mark Rowe approached the couple. A wiry, strong specimen of a man. As a rule, she felt safer with him around. “This looks like harassment. Detective, is the doctor harassing you?” asked Rowe.

“Lieutenant. Why, you must’ve come from monitoring school hallways,” said Pierce.

Rowe forced a smile. “Because you think I’m in charge of community engagement. And school resource officers. I get it. A real riot. You don’t look great, Doctor. Is your sin finding you out?”

“My sin.”

“The wicked are ensnared by their own evil deeds, Pierce. The cords of their sin hold them fast,” said Rowe.

“You quote scripture at me about evil. So pious and pure, Lieutenant, a heavy burden to bear. Surely you must stagger under the weight.”

“You think you’re in the clear, Pierce, but you’re not. It’s gonna bite you in the ass. Like it did your son,” said Rowe.

Stackhouse nearly gasped. A dig at the man’s murdered son felt merciless, even though Preston Pierce had been corrupt.

Something behind Dr. Pierce’s eyes lurched. The mask hiding his madness slipped, and for one hot second Stackhouse thought Pierce might produce a scalpel and disembowel Rowe, but the moment passed, like a howling kettle losing heat.

Pierce cleared his throat and twitched his shoulders, in pain.

Too far, Mark, dammit. His son.

“Clearly we aren’t allies, Lieutenant. But you could at least be courteous.” His voice sounded tight. He nodded to them both and walked across the street, into the sheriff’s office.

“Mark,” said Stackhouse.

“A good detective has to provoke a response. Being polite doesn’t always cut it during an interrogation. He drugged and stripped a woman naked last night, Stack. We don’t play softball.”

“Val told you?”

“She called me twenty minutes ago,” he said. “You need to stay out of it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“You wouldn’t stay out of it, Mark, if you were me.”

“You’re more important than I am. You’re a nexus where the worlds overlap. We need you.” He winked. “You look good, by the way. In the khakis.”

He jogged across the street and into the station.

4

Val and Stackhouse sat in Val’s unmarked cruiser on Cornwallis that evening, windows down, A/C humming. Val ate a sub and Stackhouse drank a green smoothie. They were working the four tens schedule, ten in the morning until eight at night, four days in a row. The station staggered their detectives, each shift overlapping by an hour.

A quiet day—no, never say quiet, Andie. A smooth day, so they’d operated as the bureau’s first responders and cleared calls, handing a vandalism off to Crimes Against Property and a runaway teenager to Special Victims. As Stackhouse finished her smoothie, she was making notes about a woman’s stolen purse, while the woman herself sat in her rocking chair on her front porch, irritated Stackhouse and Val hadn’t cracked the case already.

“You think we should watch Iron Man?” asked Val.

“What’s Iron Man?”

“That new movie about the super hero, starring what’s his name. Robert Downey. He must be out of rehab.”

“He’s made of iron?” asked Stackhouse.

“Wouldn’t that be nice. My husband is pushing fifty, if you know what I mean.”

Stackhouse wrinkled her nose. The last time she’d seen Robert Downey Junior was in the 1990s, and he didn’t look made of iron.

“How’s your deodorant holding up?” asked Val.

“Feels fine. You tell me.”

“You smell like daises, lady. I think mine wore off.”

“It did. An hour ago,” said Stackhouse.

“It would be hilarious, wouldn’t it, if I put you in a headlock.”

Stackhouse grinned. She could kick Val’s ass and they both knew it.

Val’s rover radio crackled. “Detective Farmer, what’s your twenty?”

She keyed her mic. “Cornwallis but ready to head home, dispatch. Don’t you dare.”

A smile in Kristin’s voice came through the speaker. “Before you go, run a wellness check on Tradd. Neighbors heard strange noises last night and now no one is answering the door.”

Stackhouse fixed a map in her mind. “Tradd’s only one street over.”

Val lowered the mic. “I know that, but it’s quitting time. Ray Seay needs the work. He’s getting fat. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

“C’mon, we’re already here.”

Val groaned and spoke into her radio, “Fine. Copy that, dispatch, wellness check on Tradd. What’s the house number?”

Dispatch told her, and said, “The owner is Rose Felton.”

Stackhouse’s stomach flip-flopped. “I know Rose Felton. I mean, we know of each other. Mutual friends.”

They dropped into gear and motored to the intersection and parked a half mile down Tradd. These were the nicest homes in the city. The lawn care cost more than the mortgage at Stackhouse’s new house.

“I’m shocked. I didn’t know Rose was rich.”

“Hurry up, lady,” said Val. “Burn Notice comes on at nine.”

Stackhouse jogged the sidewalk to the long ranch. Built a hundred years ago and updated in the 1980s to look modern then. It was already falling behind its neighbors’ style, but money never looked bad. Stackhouse knocked hard on the double doors, inlaid with square tiles. The door was thick and Stackhouse doubted the sound would carry to the distant corners of the house, three thousand feet away. She mashed the doorbell but wasn’t sure if it worked.

Wonder how long Kaye and I would have to save to afford this place.

The sun wasn’t down, but it was behind the towering maple and oak on the hill to the west. She knocked more and no one answered. She stepped away from the house, looking right and left. “Val, drive around back? There’s an alley behind.”

Val eased away from the curb.

Stackhouse walked to her right, hunting for a secondary door to pound on. She could see no garage.

She’d run a hundred wellness checks. Ninety-nine of them resulted in nothing. The hundredth, the man had fallen drunk down his stairs, and there he lay, unconscious with a cracked skull, until he heard Stackhouse calling into her two-way and he woke up enough to ask if she was Jesus.

Stackhouse hoped Rose wasn’t lying at the bottom on the stairs.

She walked through the short thick grass, wondering why the rich had nicer lawns than her, to a bank of windows she could knock on. Behind her, three kids rode by on bikes, one of them looking at a phone. She watched them in the windows’ reflection as she stepped over an azalea bush.

The focus of her vision shifted on the windows and she saw the glass was dirty. Speckled. She stepped closer and realized the speckling was on the inside. A reddish brown spray.

Oh shoot. It wasn’t decorative. The pattern looked like a spatter spray. Blood.

“Val!” she shouted, but Val had driven down the street in search of the back alley. With her right hand, she drew the small Glock 19 from her side holster. With her left, she fumbled for her phone, an LG Voyager that felt ancient just fifteen months after purchase. She’d left her two-way in the car, a mistake. She called and Val picked up. “Val, I think I see blood in the window. Get back here, I’m going in.”

“No no, kiddo, hold on. Wait wait. I’m coming back. We call it in and wait for first responders.”

Stackhouse jogged to the door. Cautiously she tried it—unlocked.

“It’s not locked, Val.”

“Andie, lady, no. You’re not a patrol officer anymore, you don’t go in.”

“I know her, Val. She’s friends with someone who’s friends with Kaye.” Stackhouse braced herself against the side of the house and shoved the door open. It swung slow and heavy. Cold conditioned air rushed out. No stench, that was good. Her line of sight showed a marbled entryway leading to the carpeted room that she suspected had the spattered windows. Her heart thumped so hard it hurt her ribs.

“Police! This is Detective Stackhouse! Can anyone hear me? Rose? Rose Felton!”

The silence of a tomb responded.

Her voice shook. “Door’s open, Val. No one answering.”

“WaitWaitWaitWait, you dummy.”

Stackhouse dropped the phone back into her pocket and gripped the pistol with two hands. She was pressed hard against the broad ornamental door jamb, peering into the entryway, tactically sound except she hadn’t waited for backup.

“Is anyone home? Hello! Rose Felton? This is the police, answer me!” Her voice boomed off the floor and ricocheted around the house.

Val stopped in a storm of brakes, talking into her radio. The car door opened.

“Hold it, Andie,” she called.

“She could be bleeding out!” said Stackhouse. Three years of first response had taken over. She couldn’t not go in, this was her job. “Watch my back.”

“If you go, I’m gonna make you wash my clothes for a month.” Val drew her firearm and pressed herself against the other side of the door. “I’m officially ordering you not to go in, you understand?”

“I hear you. And I’m going in.”

“It’s your ass, lady.” Val peered through the doorway from her point of view as far as she could. “Clear.”

Stackhouse breached the house, staying out of the middle of the room, clearing the corners like she’d been taught during hostage rescue. Entryway was clean, and she moved with speed into the adjacent room, a posh sitting area with four leather chairs surrounding a coffee table.

A corpse sat in the closest chair. A woman, slumped to the side, head canted away from Stackhouse. The woman was white as bone, the blood having pooled downward. Stackhouse thought she looked young, under thirty, though bloated and unrecognizable.

“Got one,” said Stackhouse. “But we’re way late.”

Later she could mourn over Rose, a woman she’d kinda known. Stackhouse barely broke stride. She continued along the wall, moving into the kitchen.

Val spoke into her shoulder. “Dispatch, this is Farmer. 10-67 on Tradd.”

“Roger, Farmer, 10-67. Units inbound.”

Orient. Communicate. Move.

“Moving into the kitchen,” Stackhouse announced.

The kitchen was a showroom, clean like it’d never been used. Marble counters, copper pots hanging from rack. At the wall, Stackhouse ducked to check the floors.

“Kitchen’s clear!” From here, Stackhouse could see multiple directions. A back porch. The dining room. A hallway leading to a wing. “Moving to—”

From somewhere that direction, Stackhouse heard a door open. The sound was muffled.

“Val, movement.”

“I heard it too. Jeez, lady, this is why we wait.”

Stackhouse forced herself to breath. She moved sideways from the kitchen to the dining room doorway, checking vectors over the sights of her Glock. “Moving into the dining room. Police!” she shouted, startling Val. “Answer me! Let me hear your voice!”

No one answered.

Stackhouse stepped to her left, pointing to the right, directing her cover.

More noise. Footsteps?

The door to the basement was open behind the dining room. That’s where the sounds came from.

“Val, downstairs. Someone’s here.”

“I know.”

“Bet you wish you reapplied your deodorant,” said Stackhouse.

“You’re damn right. Now stay put.”

“I’m going down. Cover me.”

“Ah cripes. Your first and last day as detective,” said Val.

Sirens made themselves heard through the walls. Half a mile out. Comforting but not close enough to spot a runner.

“Move fast. Speed and violence of action, Val. Keep your pistol pointed down. Don’t flag me,” said Stackhouse. She took the stairs in a rush. When clearing a house, quickness was your ally. Don’t let the enemy think, don’t let them plan. The stairwell emptied into a wide room. An enormous open-spaced area. Carpeted, two televisions, a pool table, a desk, walls of windows looking into the backyard. One of the back doors was open.

Too many angles, too many corners.

“Police! Police! Lay down, lay down!” she shouted to no one. With her element of surprise long ruined, Stackhouse made noise to disorient hostiles. If it was a kid with a gun, or a drunk or druggie, she wanted them scared, she wanted them to surrender. “I’m checking the door. Cover me from here, Val.”

Stackhouse broke a rule and she ran through the middle of the room. No one shot at her. She reached the back door ninety-seconds after she heard it open from upstairs. The backyard wasn’t large. It was fenced in, the rear gate ajar, leading into the alley.

“I think we got a runner, but we’re clearing the basement first, Val.”

Val’s hands trembled and she spoke into her radio.

Outside the sirens grew ever closer.

5

Uniformed officers checked the rest of the vast house. No one home. Patrol cars drove the streets, alert for suspicious pedestrians. Cops set to knocking on doors of the houses along the alley. It was nine at night and these were affluent families, everyone home and worried about the lights, eager to assist to make the bad thing stop. But no one had seen a runner fleeing Rose Felton’s house.

Once the shock wore off, a new reality settled on Stackhouse.

She was a detective. This was her crime scene.

Go ahead, Andie. Solve the murder. You have the continuing education class next month on evidence preservation, you got this.

Assuming it was Rose Felton, Rose had been dead longer than a day, less than two, obvious to Val's practiced eye. Autolysis had produced enough gases to bloat her, but the stench of decay barely left the room. Another day and it would be hard to enter the house. “We’re lucky the air conditioning has been pumping,” Val muttered.

She and Val alternated between calling her Rose Felton and Jane Doe, because they had no ID yet. In the reports, the body would be referred to as Jane. Jane had been shot in the head at close range as she sat in the chair, based on the blood spatter on the chair and the wall and window. She’d been shot twice, once forward in the face, closer to the eyes, and once in the temple. Stackhouse identified a bullet hole in the wall, next to a framed painting. Working theory was, the shooter fired twice, quick, the first bullet passing through the face and creating the spatter, poorly aimed, and the second into the temple, the bullet probably still inside the skull.

Stackhouse had witnessed a dozen homicide investigations, watching from the outside without realizing the weight a detective carried. Someone was dead, and you were the hired professional to catch the killer. The uniformed officers stood around, waiting for orders, expecting you to work a miracle. She took pictures, a thing she thought she couldn’t screw up. Using the department’s Canon EOS, Stackhouse zoomed in on the entrance wound and called for Val to come look.

Val slid on her reading glasses and lowered to the woman’s ruined face. “You’re right, lady. Pieces of plastic. Most likely a soda bottle, an improvised silencer. Keeps the noise level down. Small-time gangsters use them in Jersey.”

Officer Palma set up a perimeter and wrote down anyone’s name who entered. The medical examiner arrived to pronounce Jane Doe deceased, meaning she and Val could touch her. The first thing they did was rifle the pockets for a cell phone but it wasn’t there.

Captain Lott arrived. “I’m here if you need me,” he told them. “Go slow, Stack, time’s on your side. No rush.” Even though he stayed out of the way, wisely letting them work, Stackhouse wished he hadn’t come. Somehow the weight grew heavier.

She hunted the den and the bedroom for a phone, that magical device revealing hidden secrets, but she found nothing. With a gloved hand, she grabbed an officer she didn’t recognize and told him, “Ask the neighbors until you find someone who had Rose Felton’s phone number. Get the number and call it. I want to know if it rings or vibrates inside this house.”

It didn’t. They tried ten times, walking the house and calling. Later they could probably ping the phone’s location.

Techs dusted for prints downstairs first, to avoid contaminating the main level with black powder. Senior support technician Anna Hall told her, “I can tell you right now, the person you heard downstairs was wearing gloves. I got latex smudges on both the interior and exterior knob.”

Stackhouse asked Anna Hall to direct another tech to open the wall and collect the bullet.

More patrol officers than normal walked the house. Stackhouse got the impression they were amused by something. Maybe the oddity of a young woman in the big rich house, or maybe they thought it funny to watch Stackhouse work her first homicide. Everyone knew she was the least experienced. She grew frustrated bumping into uniforms, and she demanded they all get out of the crime scene and wait outside. Val should’ve done it earlier; she carried the clout, but she was absorbed in details. Captain Lott should’ve done it too, but he was outside arguing with a man—Mark Rowe.

“You’re Community Engagement now, Mark,” said Lott. Rowe had been Lott’s keenest detective, but now they were ranked equally in different departments. “You gotta face facts. You can’t be here.”

Rowe was circling the houses with a flashlight, looking for security cameras. Old habits died hard. “I’m still a detective, Captain. And I will be until Jake Almond fires me. Sorry, bud.”

At 10:30pm, Stackhouse released the body to the ME, and Val turned the crime scene over to the nightshift detective, Ray Seay.

Stackhouse stood in the sitting room as the body was zipped into a bag on the stretcher and she felt strangely empty. This was how it went, she knew—homicides weren’t solved in the first hour. The case would materialize over the next two days, if they got lucky. But to leave the scene felt like failure, even though they were going home to recover and work the case tomorrow. A mountain of evidence needed to be analyzed, and they needed an answer to the question of why had an intruder been in the house thirty-six hours after Jane Doe was murdered?

Stackhouse stepped outside and shot her gloves into the crime scene waste bin. She wiped her sweaty hands on her pants and wondered if the onlooking civilians were as disappointed as she felt.

She grabbed her phone to text Kaye, and saw she had several missed messages.

“Oh crud.”

Val joined her, wiping her forehead with her arm. “What’s wrong, lady? Besides everything.”

“I had a date tonight with James.” Stackhouse stared miserably at the messages and missed calls. “I forgot.”

>> I’ve got the table, Andrea.

>> Coming? The waiter thinks I’m being stood up. Haha.

>> Uh oh

>> You are standing me up. Aren’t you.

>> Again.

>> Okay, you aren’t coming.

>> Hope you’re okay. Good night, Andrea.

“I’m the worst girlfriend.”

“Social lives are overrated,” said Val. “Even worse, I missed Burn Notice.”

Although Stackhouse lived only a mile away, they needed to return to the station to get their cars. As Stackhouse opened the door to Val’s unmarked cruiser, someone grabbed her arm.

Sergeant Fry was glaring at her. He was senior in years, former military, on SWAT. A man she respected enormously.

“Detective Stackhouse. That was bullshit,” he said.

Stackhouse flinched as though struck. “What was?”

“You know what.”

A frantic moment, and her shoulders slumped. “I went into the house.”

“I listened on the radio. You breached the house without backup. You disobeyed and breached and forced your partner to cover you.” He grabbed her lapel and shook her shirt. “Plus you went into the house without wearing your vest. The hell were you thinking?”

“I saw blood spatter and I panicked, and—”

“Someone was inside the house, Stack. You could’ve gotten yourself killed. You could’ve gotten your partner killed.” He was standing over her and she felt herself shrinking. “Rules exist for a reason. You broke all of them, and that’s bullshit.”

“I know. You’re right, Fry, I know.”

“I thought you were better than this, Stack. Your partner won’t say it, so someone else needs to—don’t you ever do that again. If you do, I’ll make sure you get busted down to driving the drunk truck for a decade.”

He left her standing there.

She sank into the passenger seat on wobbly knees.

“Oh man. I want to die.”

“Wow,” said Val. “That went better than I expected. I thought he’d eat you. Let’s go, kiddo.”

6

Kaye Calhoun had saved for five years to make the down payment on a house in South Roanoke. The financial crisis helped, because no one was buying and prices crashed. It was an older house one street removed from being en vogue, but still—they were in society. Or at least close enough they could walk. It was where all the hip medical professionals lived. Kaye was a licensed counselor with a list of clients so big she might open her own practice soon; she belonged, yet she was thrifty.

Her house was a two-story brick foursquare with a posh open-floor plan on the main level. Kaye decorated with a motto—live like you’re on vacation. The house was simple and uncluttered, the walls painted khaki and St. Pete blue, paintings of beaches hung throughout. The main floor was dominated by a huge couch they frequently slept on. She refused to charge Stackhouse rent, so Stackhouse had opened an account at Kaye’s bank and monthly transferred money over, else she couldn’t live with herself.

Kaye was waiting at the kitchen island when Stackhouse trudged through the door, and she pushed a glass of white wine across. “I saw the blue lights, sweetie. That was you?”

“That was me.” Stackhouse sipped the cool liquid. She was a self-proclaimed wine idiot, not educated enough to differentiate between a Pinot Grigio, Sauvignon Blanc, or even a Riesling. Didn’t matter. Through a placebo effect, her mind unclenched. “My first stiff.”

“Are you kidding? It feels like your thousandth. You have to be setting some kind of record.”

“I meant as a detective. And I have bad news, Kaye. It’s Rose Felton.”

“Oh yikes. Rose Felton, friends with Staci?”

Stackhouse nodded. “Pretty sure. Don’t tell anyone until we get the positive ID.”

“I knew her socially.” Kaye stared wide-eyed through the kitchen window like she could see Rose’s house. “We went to her makeup party, remember? Are you traumatized?”

“It was a shock. It’s worn off.”

“You cops. Now that I live with one, the damage seems more real than when in a clinical setting. What happened?”

“Presuming it’s Rose, she was shot in the head.”

“Shot? Why?”

Stackhouse gave a tired grin. Everyone wanted instant answers. “I don’t know, babe. We found her two hours ago.”

“Who did it?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“How was she killed?” asked Kaye.

“I just told you. Shot in the head with a gun.”

“I mean, but, why was she killed?”

“Kaye. I don’t know.”

“Sorry. Who was at the house when it happened?”

“I don’t know that either. We caught it at the end of our shift. That’s why I’m late. Detective Seay’s team is working it now.” Stackhouse yawned.

Kaye’s big eyes were enlarged behind her glasses, which she only wore when necessary or when no one important would see. She was a smart, lovable, curvy cutie. “Ray Seay, that cocky nerd?”

“The nerd who hit on you at the Christmas party.”

“But he’s a terrible detective!”

“How do you know?” asked Stackhouse.

“He can’t detect a thing. He hit on me.”

“Is that your official diagnosis, Counselor?”

“Someone needs to avenge poor Rose, and it won’t be Ray Seay. Drink your wine. No, wait. You look dehydrated. When was your last bottle of water?” said Kaye.

“I’m drinking the wine first.” She swallowed half the glass. “Do you have Staci’s number?”

“Yes, I’ll forward it to you.”

“I forgot my date tonight,” said Stackhouse.

“Again?”

“That’s what he said.” Stackhouse pinched the bridge between her eyes and squeezed. She had sworn she wouldn’t forget this one.

“Poor James. He must be so confused.”

“I don’t know why he’s sticking around,” said Stackhouse.

“Especially because you aren’t putting out.”

“And I forget our dates. Like, all of them.”

“I’m not saying you should put out, sweetie. I’m just saying, his patience speaks well of him,” said Kaye.

“I’m thirty-three. I don’t think we call it putting out anymore.”

“What do the kids say? Get your freak on.”

Stackhouse grinned into her wine glass. “You nailed it.”

“What did James say when you called him?”

“I still haven’t.”

Kaye raised up from leaning on the butcher-block kitchen island. “Andie.”

“I know. I should’ve.”

“He must be worried. He’s a sweet guy.”

“Kinda,” said Stackhouse.

“You don’t like him that much, do you.”

“He’s fine.”

“Call him,” said Kaye.

“I’ll text him. After a shower,” said Stackhouse. “How’re you?”

“Well. I heard this will be Battlestar Galactica’s last season, and you don’t even want to know how Breaking Dawn ended. We’ve both had better days.”

“What’s Breaking Dawn?”

“The new Twilight novel. You’re thirty-three, sweetie, not a hundred.”

Stackhouse pointed at her with the hand holding her wine. “The vampire thing? You’re right, I don’t care how it ends.”

“Was Mark Rowe there tonight?”

“You shush.”

“Dreamy Mark Rowe?”

Stackhouse walked up the stairs and called, “I said shush.”

After her shower, Stackhouse lay in bed and she sent James Rigby an apology. He was a local tax attorney. Not bad to look at. They had a nice time. He was … safe.

And yet.

And yet, she thought, as she drifted off.

She dreamed of a firing range, where she kept missing with a pistol suppressed by a soda bottle, missing and the patrol officers were laughing. She woke up with a start when she accidentally shot Sergeant Fry. It was two in the morning and she was slick with perspiration.

Almond had transferred her to the detective bureau, maybe because he knew she couldn’t handle it. Because the dreams and stress would drive her out.

She rubbed her face and groaned and refused to check her phone.

Sweet Lincoln. That had been a hell of a first day.

She was still awake an hour later, questioning the universe and its wisdom, and thinking about Rose Felton.

7

Thursday, eight in the morning. Stackhouse and Val sat in roll call.

Stackhouse had arrived an hour early to read through evidence reports compiled by the nightshift. Much of the morning brief was a repeat, and when the watch commander asked if the detectives had anything to add about last night’s homicide, Val stood and toasted him with her coffee mug. “Ask me again in an hour, Lambert, I’m still waking up.”

Stackhouse felt a thrill at being addressed as detective in the briefing. She had rolled on a homicide! Her first case! She was a detective! She knew half the room resented her rapid ascension, so she had to earn the title by closing this one quick.

The nightshift had uncovered very little, but they did get a positive ID off fingerprints—Rose Margaret Felton.

Rose had moved to Roanoke three years ago. Before that, Public Records listed a previous residence in San Fernando Valley. Nothing else about her time in California had been unearthed. No arrests, no marriages, no registered firearms. Her phone was still unrecovered. Her desktop computer was password protected. The neighbors didn’t know her well, except a woman named Maddie Owens, who promised to provide a contact list of mutual friends. Several neighbors were out of town, on vacation.

Stackhouse called the number Kaye had given her, a woman named Staci. No one answered and Stackhouse left a message—Staci, this is Detective Andie Stackhouse. I got your number from Kaye Calhoun, Please give me a call at this number, it’s important.

She read on. No murder weapon. No sign of forced entry. Trash cans had been sorted, and recent mail was stacked in evidence bags, which Stackhouse flipped through. Phone records were requested. Latent prints would let them know if anything popped—one interesting note from tech supervisor Anna Hall was that the locked computer keyboard showed signs of latex smudges.

“The nightshift isn’t giving us much,” she muttered. “Not even next of kin.”

Val yawned. “They did when Mark worked nights. He’d wake people up, he didn’t care.”

Stackhouse called Ballistics. A voice she didn’t recognize told her, “We have the bullet under the microscope now, Detective. I can tell you more soon. Pretty sure it’s a 9mm.”

Clicking through the reports on screen wasn’t as good as flipping through papers, she thought. The digital words reduced her ability to ruminate. This was another technological advancement that she knew was positive overall but a personal aggravation. Though officially not a detective any longer, Mark Rowe still printed papers and kept a murder book on his desk. Maybe she’d carry on his tradition.

Stackhouse cast a glance at his office. Mark Rowe came into work a week ago to find his desk and belongings physically moved out of the detective bureau and into a room reserved for lieutenants. So far he hadn’t found the time to move back.

He hadn’t arrived yet. Though he should be working dayshift, running the Community Engagement operations, he kept whatever hours he felt like would benefit Crimes Against Persons, as he’d been doing for years.

Stackhouse wrote down notes for herself.

How had young Rose Felton afforded such a big house?

What was her profession in California?

Where is her family?

Who was in the basement?

Why had the intruder been playing with Rose’s computer?

Stackhouse checked her watch. “Autopsy begins in an hour. I’ll go.”

Val was working at her computer on the other side of the short metal partition. “You think throwing up on the corpse is a good idea, be my guest.”

“I haven’t done that in three years.” She had another thirty minutes to burn. She turned her attention to social media, something the nightshift hadn’t touched. She found Rose’s Twitter, a MySpace account, and a Facebook profile. She’d heard of Facebook, like MySpace but exclusively for college kids and young adults.

“Val, what’s Twitter?” she called.

“No idea.”

“Looks like a message board,” mused Stackhouse, and she turned her attention to Facebook.

Rose Felton was striking. Not a girl who’d turn heads in her natural state, but she knew how to dress up and wear makeup. Too much makeup, in Stackhouse’s opinion, and she’d heard Kaye voice the same opinion. Thin, fake blonde hair, dark eyeshadow, too much rouge. Pretty-ish, but she wore a hard look, like she’d done time in rehab. Beneath the mascara, she looked older than her thirty years. Stackhouse clicked through pictures. Rose’s blog, MySpace, and Facebook activity had all sprouted up within the previous eighteen months, but so had most people’s. Comments on the pictures were from names she recognized as Roanoke natives.

Her online activity was dominated by a beauty line called Work It Girl, International. Work It Girl, or WIG, used women like Rose to distribute their products. Network marking. WIG aimed at a younger crowd than Mary Kay or Avon, more established competitors. Stackhouse knew most of this already because she’d attended a WIG party and bought concealer, foundation, and mascara from Staci, their mutual friend, also a distributor.

Many of Rose’s photographs were her before/after pics of the makeup application, which were attention-grabbing.

Stackhouse glanced at her watch. Good Garfield, she was late. Looking at social media sucked time down the drain. Val was speaking on the phone with an informant in an old case, so Stackhouse ran to the motor pool. Roanoke City cops usually grabbed whatever car was closest, but by some unspoken show of deference, everyone knew not to touch Stackhouse’s car. Her old Crown Vic Interceptor had been scheduled to be decommissioned, but she’d begged the Shop to let her keep it. Reusing the car would save money, after all. Arriving in the garage now, she didn’t recognize it. Mechanics had removed the light bar from the roof and painted it black, now an unmarked detective’s car. Long and boxy compared to the newer Impalas. Betty Boop nodded at her from the dash and Stackhouse felt at home. She fired the engine and raced to Community Hospital, parking illegally and hurrying to the morgue. She shoved her shoes into booties and tugged a net over her hair. She strode into the cold airtight autopsy suite, confident in her detective badge’s power to shield against the horror, but she gagged and walked back out. In the hallway, she bent over the trash can and said, “Oh crud.”

Her entire body sweated. She hadn’t been near a disemboweled three-day-old corpse in a long time. She’d forgotten the impact of the smell-of-death gases. Her stomach heaved and rumbled and she felt herself turn green, but it passed and breakfast stayed down.

Smearing VapoRub around your nostrils only made it worse, she knew. It invigorated the olfactory senses, strengthening the corpse and turning it minty. The only way to get through it was to get through it.

The thing lying on the table looked more like a prop for a zombie movie than a WIG distributor.

“C’mon on in, Detective, I’m just cracking open a cold one.” The pathologist Woo grinned expectantly.

Stackhouse forced herself to glare at the corpse. She refused to disrespect Rose Felton by ignoring her.

The joke fell flat, but still he grinned. “Long time, Stackhouse. Welcome back.”

“Shut up.”

Rose was nude and her clothes were stored in evidence bags. Stackhouse snapped on gloves, pretending she was engulfed in a world of rotting fish, not rotting human, and she picked up the clear bags to examine.

“Do you smell that?” asked Woo.

“Obviously, you jerk.”

“Beneath the decay. Duh. Can you detect it?”

“Detect what?” said Stackhouse.

“Spoiled alcohol. She had a stomach full of it.”

Stackhouse’s shirt was soaked. She swallowed. “Oh really.”

“White wine, looks to me. Maybe champagne.”

Stackhouse closed her eyes. “You can tell?”

“Also, look. Look at the lungs,” said Woo.

Stackhouse lowered the evidence bag. She hadn’t been looking at Rose’s clothes anyway. She’d been faking it.

Breathe through the mouth.

She forced herself to approach the ruin on the stainless steel table. Rose’s ribs were separated, opening her chest and stomach for examination.

She had breast implants. The silicone wasn’t decaying.

“The lungs,” repeated Stackhouse.

“What do you think?”

“She had two of them,” said Stackhouse.

Woo laughed. “Right on, Detective. Yes indeed. Anything else?”

“Tell me.”

“She was a heavy smoker. For a thirty-year-old? These are tired dirty lungs.” Woo flicked his gloved fingertip back and forth across the surface of a lung, making a twiptwiptwip sound.

“Could she be smoking crystal?” said Stackhouse.

“I doubt it. Her teeth are in perfect shape. This is acrolein and ash.”

Stackhouse forced herself to bend over Rose’s head, to the entrance wound. “A soda bottle silencer, you think?”

“Yes. I looked there first. See the white flecks? That’s paper towel. Bounty, which had been stuffed into the bottle. When the gun fired, it peppered her with plastic and singed paper. I’m told the noise dampening is significant. See the stippling? Fired at close range.”

“What else,” said Stackhouse.

“X-rays show no broken bones. She’s too bloated to be sure, but I’m seeing no significant trauma before death. No signs of struggle. but again, I’ve only been at this for thirty minutes.”

“Can I get the bullet?”

“Jump right to the good stuff, huh? Skip the foreplay?”

“Woo, I swear to you, I will puke down your apron,” said Stackhouse.

Woo peeled Jane’s face down from her skull, and Stackhouse leaned against the wall to remain upright. Bone exposed, Woo cut the cap of her skull off with an oscillating Stryker saw. Dust flew like in a wood shop.

She’s already dead, she’s already dead, this is how we help.

“Oh yeah,” hooted Woo. “This is a mess. Yowza.”

Stackhouse swallowed and swallowed and swallowed.

Ten long minutes later, he dropped a distorted slug into Stackhouse’s palm.

“Even though you didn’t buy me dinner, Detective,” he said.

Stackhouse bagged and labeled it, and collected the other evidence baggies, and she fled to the world. At her car, panting and sweating, she deposited her haul into a box in the trunk.

“Andie, grow up. Don’t throw up, grow up.”

Rose’s brains. He’d gone after them with utensils, like a chef. That was hard to forget. She could never. Halfway to the station, Stackhouse braked hard at a CVS pharmacy. She crouched in the grass as her gut mutinied. She spit saliva again and again, praying she wouldn’t vomit. It was hot out, worse than the cool autopsy room. The stench was warm in her clothes.

If Almond could see me now.

She paced, hands on her hips. Inspiration struck, so she walked into the store and grabbed a cold ginger ale from the mini fridge. She twisted the top and sipped before purchasing it.

“Hey,” complained the kid at the counter, and Stackhouse waved him off with her pointer finger. She walked deeper into the cool store, letting the ginger and bubbles bring peace.

Another inspiration. She bought stronger deodorant for Val, plus a bottle of foundation and an eyeliner pen, also for Val.

On the way out, she paid and the kid apologized.

Stackhouse sat in her car with the windows down, AC running, and she drank half the bottle. Normalcy returned slowly.

The indignities of decay were always a shock. The world took on a darker hue.

She checked her phone. No call from Staci yet.

James Rigby hadn’t responded to her apology text. She tried again.

James, dinner tonight. My treat. 6:10 at Billy’s.

Tonight I’ll be early, or else I’ll QUIT my job.

She sent the texts, and she examined the words and herself.

Why did she care? She wasn’t that into James. In fact, she had half a mind to break up with him tonight, spare them both the future frustration. If he broke up with her, it’d be a relief. So why was she trying?

Could they ‘break up’? They weren’t an exclusive couple. They’d been out a handful of times. She felt compelled to kiss him on the second date. He made a move on the third that she allowed for only a minute. It was cute but too soon. And then she’d stood him up twice.

Must she ‘put out’ to make it up to him? Or was breaking up the better option? If those were the choices, she was doing something wrong, she supposed. She wished she didn’t want a man around, but that wasn’t reality. Life was better with a man nearby.

He replied.

>> I’ll be there, Andrea. Even if you aren’t.

She winced. Ouch.

I’ll call you when I arrive, how about that.

>> I’ll go regardless. Eating alone isn’t the worst thing in the world.

She deserved the gentle rebuke.

At the station, she placed the makeup and deodorant on Val’s table. On the phone, Val flipped her off. Stackhouse walked to Support and deposited the evidence bags and make a techie sign for them. Maybe they could find the culprit’s hair in Rose’s clothing. The slug would almost certainly match the one pulled from the wall, but that was no guarantee.

Stackhouse went to the restroom, and on coming out she caught two patrol officers laughing to each other and she heard her victim’s name. They wore the same amused expression she’d seen last night at Rose’s house. It wasn’t a look she saw often.

She stepped into their little huddle. “Okay, boys, what gives.”

“Detective,” greeted Officer Risso. They wiped their smiles. “How you doing.”

“Listen, you two dummies. Last night at the house, I saw all the jackasses smiling. Now you’re doing it again. Spill. Is it me? I’m too new at this? Because I get it. I’ll kick your ass, but I get it.”

The other officer, Burkett, shook his head. “No, Stack, no way. Relax.”

“I’ll relax when you tell me what’s up.”

“It’s not funny, Detective,” said Risso. “We shouldn’t be laughing. That’s on me, I’m sorry. I’ll cut the shit.”

“What’s not funny?”

“Rose Felton,” said Risso.

“What about her?”

“Like I said, we shouldn’t be laughing. Gallows humor, you get it. Can’t bust us for that.”

“There’s more. Keep going,” said Stackhouse.

“It was wild to be in her house, that’s all.”

“Why is that wild?”

Burkett placed a hand on Risso’s shoulder. “Wait wait. Risso, I got a feeling. I got a feeling Detective Stack don’t know what she don’t know.”

“I don’t know what?” said Stackhouse.

“We just assumed you knew. But maybe you don’t,” said Burkett.

“Now I think about it…” Risso shrugged and held up his hands. “Maybe none of the detectives got wind of this.”

“If I ask one more time,” warned Stackhouse.

“Rose Felton,” said Risso. “Rosie Valley. Right?”

“What’s Rosie Valley?”

“Ah jeez, I knew it,” said Burkett.

Risso lowered his voice. “Felton. She was a porn star, Detective. She went by Rosie Valley for years. Tankersley’s got several of her films in his collection. He’s the one who spotted her a couple months back.”

Inside Stackhouse’s mind, puzzle pieces clicked into place. Rose’s previous residence was the San Fernando Valley, where the majority of illicit movies were filmed. Rose had moved here three years ago and started selling makeup. She had a hard look about her that she covered up with eyeshadow and blush. It all fit.

“I didn’t know,” said Stackhouse.

“I bet Rosie didn’t tell anyone, Stack. Only old perverts like Tankersley would recognize her. She probably moved here to get away from guys like him, you know what I mean.”

“Thanks guys.”

“Sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, Detective” said Risso.

“It’s okay, you’re right, I didn’t know what I didn’t know.” Back at their desks, Val was off the phone and clicking on her computer. “Val, our victim, Rose Felton? She used to go by Rosie Valley. She’s a pornographic actress.”

“Oh yeah?” Val stared far off.

“I can see it now, in retrospect. Did you look at her photos online?”

“A few. Like that professional sexy working-girl-face stays with her.”

Stackhouse nodded. “Something like that.”

“How’d you figure it out, lady? Some late night viewing you want to tell me about?”

“Some of the uniforms have seen her stuff. They thought we knew. Or else they were too embarrassed to admit it,” said Stackhouse.

“The husband and I, we don’t partake. Or else I’m too embarrassed to admit it. Why’d Rosie move out here?”

“I’m about to visit her neighbor, Maddie Owens. Maybe she’ll have answers.”

They were startled by angry voices.

Chief Almond stood in Mark Rowe’s office, screaming, dressing the lieutenant down. The confrontation was visible through the office’s window and the open door. Almond was red in the face, and Rowe was struggling to remain passive, though his voice was raised too.

You’re late, you’re late again, you’re late every got’damn day, Rowe, and anyone else I would’ve fired by now, but we have history and I’d rather not do this but you’re giving me no choice.

No choice! You gave me no choice, transferring me against my will. Shove the history up your ass, Almond.

This is a police station, Lieutenant, and it’s my police station, not a locker room where you get to run your mouth, and I don’t give a damn about your admirers or how special you think you are, you’re not!

I have the worst news in the world for you, Almond. No one thinks this is your station.

Stackhouse could see enough of Almond’s face to see him smirk and lean closer to Rowe and whisper, and Rowe stiffened as if struck and he pushed Almond away, out of his personal space, and Almond smacked his hand away, and then they were shoving, and Almond grabbed Rowe around the neck. Stackhouse jumped to her feet, rocketing her rolling chair backward. It looked like Almond was trying to wrench Rowe’s head from his shoulders but Rowe slipped loose and decked him, a straight right to the cheek. Almond reeled backward and crashed into the window, which splintered. Rowe tackled him like a linebacker and they spilled through the doorway and onto the floor of the station’s bull pen. Before either struck again, blue uniforms swarmed and pulled them apart. Lieutenant Street lifted Chief Almond up and away, hands around his waist. Burkett and Captain Titus held Rowe’s arms and hauled him back.

“You’re DONE, Rowe!” howled the chief. “You’re fired! Pack your shit!”

Rowe shook off the hands, hair mussed, face purple. The dangerous look in his face gave Stackhouse chills. He watched the chief be hauled away, calculating whether he should attack the man again, but the hate rose and passed under him like a wave, the danger receding with each tick of the clock.

Almond continued to shout. “You attacked me! Lieutenant Street…” The words died away, but they all heard the unuttered command anyway.

Lieutenant Street, arrest that man!

Wisely, Almond never said it, because no one would’ve obeyed. That wasn’t how cops handled things and his authority would have been eroded.

“Pack your shit, Rowe! Get out, NOW, or I’ll have you carried out!”

Big Len Street still carried Almond like he would a child, finally into the chief’s office, and Street slammed the door.

Mark…

Rowe took several deep breaths and he wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve. The center of attention, watched by thirty cops. He patted his front pocket, which clinked with keys, and he nodded to the group wordlessly.

His attention snagged on Stackhouse and their eyes held each other whole.

“Sorry, folks,” said Rowe.

The doors opened before he got to them, blinding his audience. The last they saw, he was a silhouette stepping into the world.

8

Val and Stackhouse loitered in Val’s car on Tradd street, outside Maddie Owens’ house. They hadn’t spoken in five minutes, both shook by the sudden dismissal of Mark Rowe, the legendary Roanoke detective.

Val broke the silence. “He’ll land another gig in five minutes. Roanoke County, Botetourt, Franklin County, Salem, they’d all eat their hat to get Mark.”

“Even though he attacked his boss?”

“Who attacked who, though? They’ll never sort it out.”

Stackhouse replayed the scene over, wondering what was reality and what was her imagination. Almond whispered something that infuriated Mark, and Mark pushed him away, and Almond slapped at him. “It was mutual. Mark pushed, but he could claim defense. I’d say Almond struck first.”

“Bingo bango, baby. With the door open, us watching? Almond grabbed him around the throat with a dozen witnesses? If anything, Almond loses that lawsuit.”

“Do you think Mark planned it?” said Stackhouse.

“Maybe so. That old boy’s crafty. They were headed to a showdown anyway. Maybe Mark picked the best exit strategy he could.”

Rowe wasn’t the lawsuit type. Stackhouse knew him as well as anyone, and she knew he hadn’t been angling to sue. Which meant, what? He’d angered Almond enough to get himself fired, so he could work elsewhere? And he’d done it in such a way as to damage Almond’s reputation. They’d all seen Almond grab him by the throat and neck. Had Rowe fallen on a sword? Making his departure productive? The station didn’t love Almond, so maybe Rowe was providing ammunition to the city council or mayor, if they needed to make a move.

“I wonder if anyone filed an incident report with human resources?” said Stackhouse. “It should be documented, what we all saw.”

“I’m sure HR is absolutely horny with it. In the meantime…” Val shoved open her car’s creaky door.

Maddie Owens lived in a sprawling arts and crafts bungalow, three houses down from Rose Felton. Larger than Rose’s, and nicer in ways Stackhouse couldn’t pinpoint. Stackhouse had grown up poor, and now she lived on a cop’s salary. Other than a brief period working as a Johnson & Johnson lobbyist, Stackhouse never had a surplus of money, so this world was foreign to her. She could feel the money but not identify it.

The woman who answered the door, Maddie Owens, wasn’t much older than her. Yet money was in evidence. It was difficult, thought Stackhouse, to be barefoot and wearing an ankle bracelet and to make it look classy, but Maddie Owens did.

“It’s just so sad,” Maddie told them. “All of us, we think it’s so sad.”

They sat in Maddie’s kitchen on stools around her island. Her house was polished wood and khaki, with thick rugs. Beyond the kitchen, Stackhouse could see a heated indoor pool.

“Who is all of us?” asked Val.

“The neighbors.” Maddie produced a list and handed it to Val. “Here, the names and numbers of anyone who might’ve known her.” She squinted at Stackhouse. “You look familiar. Have we partied together?”

“Not that I remember.” Stackhouse had been on the news so much, the question was common.

“How well did you know Rose?” asked Val.

“I have an alibi. I was home with my husband Everett and our daughter Brooklyn.”

“You’re not a suspect. But I need to know,” said Val.

“We were social. She moved in about a year ago.”

“We’re struggling to learn about Rose. For example, there’s a gap in her residence history. She left California two and a half years ago, maybe three, but didn’t buy that house for twelve months. Do you know where she lived during the gap?”

Maddie was kinda curled up on her stool and propped against the island like a cat. Everything she said struck Stackhouse as vaguely sexual. “Do you know what poor Rose did for a living in California?”

“She was in the adult film industry,” said Stackhouse.

“Good. I’m glad that’s out of the way. I don’t know how public that information is. I mean, some of us know. She came back here to quit it.”

“Back here?” asked Stackhouse.

“She grew up…” Maddie flittered a hand. “Somewhere close, in a trailer. One night she got drunk and spilled her tea. She said she didn’t attend high school, but moved to California to be an actress, and one awful thing led to another. She told me, when she came back, she lived with a boyfriend before buying the Gregory’s old place. The ghastly thing across the street, where you found her.”

“That ghastly thing cost a fortune. She paid for it with her film money?” said Val.

“Oh no. That’s all WIG cash. She’s new money. I’m sure you noticed the lack of taste,” said Maddie.

“What’s WIG money?”

“Work It Girl, International,” Stackhouse reminded Val. “I didn’t know she was clearing enough to buy a house on Tradd.”

Maddie nodded. “Oh yes. If you can sell? Pow, sky’s the limit. Rose made a fortune in a hurry. Right place at the right time. Last year, she made as much as my husband, and he’s an anesthesiologist.” She leaned towards the detective to stress the honor of his profession.

“She bought that house selling makeup?” Val blinked at the absurdity. “Bullshit.”

“She did. A bunch of other girls jumped on board, too, further filling her coffers. None of them are as successful yet. First adopters, and all that,” said Maddie.

“Where is her boyfriend now?” Stackhouse was writing in her notepad.

“He took off six months ago. I don’t know where.” She perked up, struck by a thought. “Maybe he did it.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No. Ned, maybe? No, I don’t know. He worked for the cable company,” said Maddie.

“They broke up? Do you know why?”

Maddie pursed her lips and paused before answering. “Let me ask you two ladies something. If I know facts that might help, and I don’t share, would I be in trouble?”

“Willfully concealing evidence in a homicide investigation means you’re guilty of a Class 6 felony,” said Val.

“Should I call my lawyer?”

“Not unless you killed Rose.”

“Maybe I should call my lawyer,” said Maddie.

“How about this,” offered Stackhouse. “I’ll stop you if I think you’re straying into a gray area.”

“Mmmmm.”

“You’re not a suspect, Mrs. Owens. Why did they break up?” said Val.

“My neighbors will be furious if I discuss this.”

“We didn’t hear it from you,” said Val and it was probably a lie.

“Well, you can imagine that Rose didn’t fit in on this street. She’s young and she grew up in a trailer. Not to be cruel, but facts are facts. Right? The men loved her, though.”

“I bet,” said Val.

“She didn’t fit in on the street,” repeated Maddie, “but she fit in great with the social scene.”

“How’s that?”

“This is complicated. And awkward. Do you two know what … swinging is?” said Maddie.

“You bet. Couples screwing and swapping.”

“Yes. Sure. More or less. Rose endeared herself to the swingers by being a willing participant. Her boyfriend, however, not so much. Nor was he wanted. He was jealous. Eventually he took off.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

“Ned, with a cable company.” Stackhouse knew her neck had reddened. The subject of swinging embarrassed her.

“Something like that. I don’t recall. It’s been months and he was ick.”

“Are you in the swinging scene?” asked Val.

“I plead the fifth.”

“That’s absurd. You’re not on trial here.”

Stackhouse tapped the list. “Are others on here swingers? Who would be willing to talk about it?”

“I won’t highlight them for you, but yes. Ask them yourselves, and do not reveal your source. I insist on that.”

“Was there swinging the night of Rose’s death?” asked Stackhouse. “Two nights ago?”

“Mmmm, no. The most recent party was last weekend. Or was it the previous Friday?”

“Where did that take place?” asked Val.

“It was a hotel takeover. The Chandelier.”

Stackhouse made more notes. They could subpoena the guest list.

The Chandelier was ritzy. This collection of swingers was affluent, obviously, based on the neighborhood, but taking over The Chandelier struck Stackhouse as excessive. She bet the hotel didn’t approve.

“You said other girls joined her WIG business. One of them was Staci?” asked Stackhouse.

“Yes! Staci Tanner. She’s on the list. She’s at their big WIG conference, right now.”

“There’s a big WIG conference being held as we speak? Where?” asked Stackhouse.

“I don’t know. Some Florida resort. You can see Staci’s photos on Facebook.”

“On what?” asked Val.

“You know, Facebook? It’s for kids, not moms like me.” Maddie waved a hand toward a photograph of a little girl. “I know I look like I could be in college, but I’m married, with a daughter, can you believe it? One’s enough, though. I already had the momma surgery.”

“If you’re not on Facebook,” said Stackhouse, “how do you look at Staci’s photographs?”

“I stalk, under a pseudonym. I’m so nosey, sorry, not sorry. You can view Staci’s stuff on YouTube, though. She’s big on YouTube, but not as big as Rose is. Was.”

“You’re losing me,” said Val. “YouTube is a website where you can watch videos for free, yeah? What does it mean to be huge on it?”

Maddie gave Val a lot of smug and scorn. “Aren’t you a detective? I guess maybe you’re too old?”

“I know I look like I could be in college,” said Val, “but really I’m old enough to kick your plastic butt, lady.”

“Excuse me?”

“Being huge on YouTube means Rose made her own videos and people watched them, right?” said Stackhouse.

“That’s right,” said Maddie. “Lots of people. Thousands. Tens of thousands.”

“What kind of videos? Oh, it’s a porn thing?” said Val.

“No. You can’t do porn on YouTube, sheesh. Look her up, see for yourself. Use your phones.”

Val carried a flip phone and Stackhouse’s LG didn’t play YouTube videos.

Maddie laughed. “You two don’t have iPhones? How adorable, you two thinking you can catch a murderer. Oh wow.”

“Hey.” Val rapped her knuckles hard on the coffee table and Maddie jumped. “What kind of videos?”

“Selling her makeup. She’s a WIG girl.”

“People watch her sell makeup on YouTube, that makes no sense,” said Val.

“It’s no Real Housewives, but it’s kinda addictive. Rose was a great marketer. She wears next to nothing, and she demonstrates how to apply the stuff,” said Maddie. “Staci had more modesty and dignity than Rose, so she sold less. I guess that’s how it works. Worked on me. Allyson does the same thing.”

“Who is Allyson?” said Stackhouse.

“Oh come on, you two haven’t learned a thing, have you. Allyson is the murderer, trust me. They were competitors. Those girls hated each other.”

“What’s Allyson’s last name?”

“Knowles. Allyson Knowles,” said Maddie.

“Competitors? Allyson sells WIG?”

“She does. She’s big, too. WIG was founded in Charlottesville, you know, that’s why some of the biggest sellers are in Virginia,” said Maddie.

“Is Allyson Knowles at the big WIG conference?”

“I don’t know, probably. Oh, that means she can’t be the killer.” Maddie looked deflated. “I know nothing about Allyson, so don’t ask. I only know her by reputation. She’s not as cute and she wore more clothes than Rose. It’s obnoxious, these girls selling makeup everywhere. Allyson will be at the conference for sure.”

“Why didn't Rose attend the conference?” asked Stackhouse. “Shouldn’t she be in Florida?”

“Who knows. But hey, that’s a great question. Look at you, detecting! Should we have some wine?”

9

Fifteen minutes later, Stackhouse and Val were perched on high-backed chairs inside Rose’s house. Knowing about Rose’s background in the adult film industry, and her sudden windfall in the cosmetics world, the home made more sense—Rose purchased it, fully furnished, and didn’t touch a thing. She didn’t know how to blend in with the wealthy natives, so she wore the house as a disguise. She’d grown up poor, not even graduating, and didn’t know how to decorate in a style befitting Tradd.

Stackhouse and Val were quiet, thinking about the former owner and everything they’d learned.

Stackhouse bet Rose had been relieved when she learned about the swinging. Not that she enjoyed it, but here was activity she understood. She could ‘earn her keep’ in this strange new world. Or even better than earning her keep, she could ascend the unseen social ladders.

No wonder her boyfriend left—he probably felt like an unwelcome alien on this street.

No wonder Rose made enemies—growing rich in less than two years would stir up a storm of envy.

Stackhouse felt overwhelmed by the list of leads that had been dumped into her lap. She needed forensics to prod her in the right direction, if they could, and so they’d returned to the scene of the crime. She was looking through Rose’s perfume and cosmetics when her phone rang. The caller ID read STACI.

“Hi, Detective Stackhouse? This is Staci Tanner. I’m sorry about not calling back. My phone’s been off and I’m in Tampa.” Staci sounded like she was in a crowd.

“Thank you for calling, Staci. I need to chat with you about—”

“I’m at the airport in Tampa and I can b-barely hear you, Detective. I just got word about Rose Felton and I…” Staci trailed away.

“It’s shocking, I know. Where are you flying?”

“Home, to Roanoke. I b-board in twenty minutes. It’s a direct flight,” said Staci. Stackhouse realized she was crying.

“Do you have a ride home, Staci? From the airport?”

“I’ll call for a cab.”

“No need. I’ll meet you there. I’m after some background on Rose, and I think you’re my best source,” said Stackhouse.

“I heard she was murdered? Is that true?”

“I’ll be at the airport waiting, Staci. I’ll walk you through the details.”

They drove to the station so Stackhouse could get her Nissan. Val wanted more time at Rose Felton’s house, searching her belongings armed with the new information, while Stackhouse rendezvoused with Staci at the airport.

Stackhouse waited in the ‘kiss and fly’ lane, parked illegally and enjoying the sun, watching the 737 from Tampa glide into Roanoke Valley. Despite the morbid nature of her work, she found herself grinning. The independence and autonomy of her position, plus the importance of the toil, made her giddy. Parts of being a patrol officer she had enjoyed, but a hot homicide investigation was what she’d really craved, ever since college.

You’re doing it, Andie, you’re really doing it.

Roanoke’s airport was regional, not international, small enough that she felt confident she could spot Staci in the flood. The modern, glassy building had one primary entrance, but she could see the side exits too. Twenty-five minutes after the plane landed, she caught sight of Staci pulling a rolling bag, and she waved the woman down.

Staci was cute. More girl-next-door than Rose Felton had been. Staci’s eyes were puffy. “I recognize you, Officer. Do you remember me?”

“I do.” Stackhouse loaded the woman’s luggage into her trunk. “I went to your WIG party, with Kaye. I loved it.”

“Kaye Calhoun.” Standing beside the Nissan, Staci sniffed and surprised Stackhouse by hugging her. “Sorry. That was awkward, sorry. I’m surprised you weren’t at the conference, Officer.”

“I like makeup, sure, but not enough to attend the conferences.”

“Do you know that woman there? With her husband?”

Stackhouse spotted a couple walking their luggage down the ramp to the vast parking lot. “I do.”

“They were at the conference. Allyson Knowles and her husband. We don’t know one another, but I recognize her.”

Stackhouse had learned that name only an hour previous. Rose Felton’s arch rival. “She’s successful, right?”

“She’s a big deal, like number fifty or something. She was interviewed on stage.”

Stackhouse only caught a glimpse but Allyson looked like a cheap Barbie and her husband was bald and faintly orange, maybe from the Florida sun. They both wore Hawaiian flower shirts. Allyson walked ahead, impatiently waiting while her husband struggled with the luggage cart, and she called, “Oh come on. I’m tired.”

Stackhouse and Staci ducked into the Nissan, and Staci closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Thanks for the ride.”

“You bet.”

“I’m still sad. I can’t stop shaking.”

“Who told you?” asked Stackhouse.

“About a dozen voicemails. I lost my phone at a party, and I didn’t get it back until lunch but the battery was dead, and that’s why I didn’t call you earlier.”

Stackhouse dropped into drive. “You live in Grandin?”

“Raleigh Court, on Arlington.” Staci smiled, weak, out her window. “Our mountains in Virginia are so pretty. Florida is flat and hot. A lot more single men, but they all have neck tattoos, even the rich ones.”

Back on the highway, Staci began rambling about the conference without being prompted, and Stackhouse listened without comment. Nearly ten thousand distributors for WIG had attended. It wasn’t a pyramid scheme, it really wasn’t, no matter what the haters said, because in a pyramid scheme you generated the majority of your money off other distributors, not customers or products. In WIG, you made your money off makeup—but Stackhouse already knew all this, didn’t she, Staci had forgotten. The money relied on growth and networks, but it wasn’t a scam, no way. Staci had already paid off her student loans and she’d never wanted to be a teacher anyway, not really. Yesterday, the top one hundred distributors had been recognized on stage. Staci had missed out by this much, being one-twenty-four. Rose Felton, though, she was number nineteen. Nineteen, can you imagine. Allyson Knowles was number fifty-three, which was still a big deal. Allyson had walked across the stage, waving at everyone. Rose Felton was supposed to be interviewed by the CEO of the company, along with the other top sellers, but she’d taken sick and missed her flight.

“You and Rose are tight? Were tight?”

“Kinda. Yes? She told me once I was her best friend, which was like, yikes, you know? We weren’t that close. Maybe she had no one else,” said Staci.

“I wondered why she skipped the conference. She must’ve been crazy sick.”

“Poor thing, she couldn’t leave the bathroom for more than five minutes. That kinda sick. She was so pissed about it, because for big WIG girls like her, the conference is their Super Bowl, you know? Their beauty pageant. She texted Tuesday that she was feeling better, and said she might fly down.”

During the autopsy, she pathologist said Rose had been drinking alcohol. Stackhouse wondered at the implications.

“The conference ended this morning? Thursday morning?”

“Yes. I flew down Monday evening. The two main events were Tuesday and Wednesday,” said Staci.

Today was Thursday. Rose had been shot sometime Tuesday.

“I found her dead yesterday,” said Stackhouse. “When I went inside, someone was in the basement.”

“Gawd that’s horrible. You didn’t catch them?”

“He or she or they ran out the back and we lost them.”

“This is my first trip in a cop car.” Staci’s smile was brave but exhausted. “It doesn’t look like what I pictured.”

“This is my personal car.” Stackhouse screwed up her lips to one side, pondering her error. “I’m probably not supposed to use it like this.”

“I won’t tell. You don’t look like cops are supposed to look anyway. I always thought you could make a million selling WIG.”

“Thanks, but it’s not for me.”

“So Rose was being robbed?” asked Staci.

“I don’t know. I was hoping you’d have some insight. Later I’ll drive you over, so you can tell me if anything is missing.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ll try, but I wouldn’t know. She didn’t have me over much. Maybe twice? She was embarrassed by the house. She said it felt like an old lady lived there.”

“If you were me, who would you first suspect?” said Stackhouse.

“Ned.”

Stackhouse was surprised. “That was quick. Who is Ned?”

“Her ex-boyfriend. Boy they used to fight. His real name isn’t Ned, it’s Edward Something,” said Staci.

“You don’t know his last name.”

“No, sorry. I think he was just some guy she lived with while getting back on her feet. She ran him off months ago.”

Ned, just some guy. Where are you?

“Who would know where I can find him?”

“Detective, listen, I get it.” Staci hugged herself and leaned forward in her seat. “You need information, and I’m a WIG distributor like Rose was, and people saw us together, and assumed we were friends, so you think I can help. But… We just weren’t. Good friends, I mean. She kinda wanted to be, she tried, in her way, but she was messed up. A real shit-show. Sorry. She was drunk a lot, when she shouldn’t be. She smoked and got high. She— Do you know what she used to do for a living? Okay, good. I don’t know whether she got messed up during that part of her life, or before, but moving away from California didn’t fix her. Those demons followed, trust me. I invited her over for wine and to watch The Bachelor, and the other girls were like, Staci, what are you doing, don’t bring her back! She got blasted and mean. Yeah, she was pretty, yeah, she sold a lot of makeup, yeah, she understood marketing, but that doesn’t mean she was, like, a whole person. Do you get me?”

“Absolutely. Keep going.”

“Keep going what?” said Staci.

“What you said is gold. I didn’t know about the wine parties. I didn’t know she had trouble fitting in. You have these great details in your mind that you believe are meaningless, but they’re not.”

“I really don’t know anything else, though.”

Stackhouse merged into Highway 581 and drove south. Ahead of them, the Roanoke Star loomed on Mill Mountain. The eponymous watcher of the Star City of the South.

Keep her yakking, Andie.

“Your friends didn’t want her back,” said Stackhouse.

“No. She was trouble. Fitting in is underrated. She couldn’t be a nice part of a group.”

“Would any of them know Ned’s last name?”

“No, they never met him, or heard about him. She kept him on the down low, like she was embarrassed of him,” said Staci.

“He wasn’t high society.”

“Right. Even for, like, a cable guy or whatever he did.”

“He worked for Cox Cable? He drove a big white truck?” said Stackhouse.

“Maybe, I don’t know, I never saw.”

“Do you think Rose had enemies?”

“You could call them that, I guess,” said Staci. “Even the girls who worked on her team, you know, the girls she signed to help sell makeup? Eventually you just didn’t want to work with Rose.”

“Like who?”

“Like me, for example. I still do it, because it pays great, but I wasn’t sad when Rose got sick and couldn’t make the conference.”

“And like Allyson Knowles?” said Stackhouse.

“Allyson and her aren’t on the same downline. Not the same team. They’re competitors. And yes, you could call them enemies. Like, business enemies. Rose hated Allyson, just like she hated Loma.”

Stackhouse smiled to herself. More information. “Loma?”

“Loma, what’s her name, what’s her name, one sec.” Staci surfed on her iPhone for a minute. “Loma Stubblefield. She’s number eight in the country. Can you even imagine? She’s making, like, fifty grand a month. She and Rose do not get along. Fought like cats. She got sick too.”

“Loma Stubblefield got sick too?” Stackhouse’s ears perked.

“Yep. She had to skip the conference.”

“Do you know Loma?”

“No, she’s a big big deal. I just see her post online. Fifty grand a month.” Staci sighed. “All my problems would be over.”

“What kinda sick?”

“I don’t know. It was a rumor, is all. Fifty thousand.”

Fifty grand was a number big enough that desperate people would kill for it. “Loma lives in Roanoke?”

“No. Kentucky. Knoxville, I think?” said Staci.

“That’s Tennessee.”

“Whatever, I’m tired.”

“Loma Stubblefield, from Knoxville, skipped the conference, just like Rose did,” verified Stackhouse.

Staci stiffened. “Hey yeah. Could that be a clue?”

Stackhouse wished she’d been recording the convo. She was losing track of all the people connected to Rose in unhealthy ways.

Her LG buzzed. A message from Val.

>> Yo lady, get that cute ass back to Rose’s house. I stepped in something.

10

Val was crouched with a crime scene technician on the western side of Rose Felton’s house. They were huddled under a window in the mulch between two green holly bushes.

“Step where I marked. Watch that expensive shirt,” said Val. “These god-awful prickly leaves will catch the fabric.”

The technician, a guy Stackhouse didn’t know, was pouring a thick liquid onto the ground.

“You found a footprint,” said Stackhouse.

“A footprint means the gal or guy was barefoot. What I found was a shoe impression.” Perspiration dotted Val’s forehead and her shirt clung to her back.

“You know what I meant.”

“Gotta be specific, hot stuff,” said Val. “But yes, a shoe impression. Several, under this window. A woman’s Nike.”

“Size nine,” offered the technician.

“Under this window? Our point of entry? Any sign the window was forced?” said Stackhouse.

“Not that I see. Now it’s your turn to look.”

Black powder dusted the window. Stackhouse clicked her flashlight, even though it was broad daylight, and she examined the wooden sill and the glass panes. Nothing. Not even latex smudges. Pulling white gloves on, Stackhouse backtracked and walked inside the house. It took her three tries to find the correct room. The tech hadn’t dusted here yet and Stackhouse didn’t touch a thing, not even with gloves on. She peered closely at the edges and the lock, which was bolted home, preventing the window from opening.

Outside, below her, the technician had filled two shoe impressions with the casting material, called dental stone. After the goo hardened, he would lift them out. Both the technician and Val held UV flashlights, shining fluorescence over the mulch and holly bushes. They’d try again later, when the sun went down.

A woman’s Nike.

I coulda sworn we were chasing a man.

Stackhouse called, “I don’t think this window was forced open, Val.”

“Me either, kiddo. Which is a clue in itself. God I love finding clues.”

“Whoever these shoes belong to, she wasn’t thin,” said the tech. The window was a high-quality brand, and Stackhouse barely heard his muffled voice. “She weighs at least one-fifty, probably more. I think we’ll get a cast clear enough for a match, if you find the sneakers.”

“I weigh one-fifty-five, guy. What’re you saying,” said Val.

Stackhouse walked the house again, slowly, seeing it again for the first time with new information. Rose Felton, convalescing pornographic actress, newly rich, recently separated, swinging with the neighbors, famous on YouTube, making enemies, and uncomfortable with the house she purchased.

Stackhouse pursed her lips. How does one become famous on YouTube? Record yourself and upload the videos, she assumed. Or hire someone to record you. But where?

She returned to Rose’s master bedroom. Here the house displayed the personality of its owner, instead of the showroom facade. The yellow stench of cigarettes thickened the mood. Rock posters were thumbtacked into the walls—Pearl Jam and The Smashing Pumpkins. The king mattress’s fitted sheet was pulled loose at one corner. Empty champagne bottles poked up in the garbage can beside the bed. On the nightstand, Stackhouse found an itemized list of the trashcan contents, left by a nightshift detective—two Bruts, one Prosecco, an empty Pepto Bismol, cigarette ashes, and an empty box of sleeping pills.

The list hurt Stackhouse’s heart. Rose was ingesting anything she could get her hands on, to help the hurt inside. Like Staci said, the painful aftereffects of porn hadn’t been left behind in California. Or the aftereffects of something.

Using her LG, she called the detective bureau at the station. Lou Mullis answered. Lou was pushing the retirement age and only good for paperwork these days.

“Stackhouse, what can I do you for,” he said.

“I want to know what Rose Felton’s YouTube videos look like. Specifically the backgrounds. Like, where did she film them.”

“Okay, start over, young lady, I didn’t follow any of that,” said old Lou Mullis.

Stackhouse closed her eyes and wished someone else had answered. “Go to YouTube.”

“I’m kinda busy. Is it far?”

“Lou, who else is around? Is Erica there?”

“Just tell me where YouTube is, Stackhouse. You’re new here, but trust me, I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive.”

“Fine. Use your computer. Go to WWW, dot—”

“Slow down. Slow down. You said, what did you say, is this a street?” said Lou.

“It’s online. Open up Windows Explorer and surf to YouTube. The address is, WWW dot—”

“Hold your horses, is the world wide web?”

“Yes, Lou.”

“Oh lord, I don’t want to go to that shit hole. Nothing good is on the web. Never mind, here’s Erica,” said Lou, and Stackhouse heard the noise of a phone being passed.

Sweet Lincoln, good thing he’s great with paperwork.

A new voice said, “Hello, someone born after 1960 speaking.”

“Erica, it’s Stackhouse. Can you look up Rose Felton on YouTube and tell me about her videos?”

“Sure thing,” said Erica. Stackhouse heard movement and a mouse clicking. “Yesterday’s vic? What am I looking for?”

“I don’t know. I’m told she made YouTube videos peddling her makeup.” Stackhouse turned on her heel, near Rose’s bed. “I want to know where they were filmed.”

“Rose,” mumbled Erica as she typed. “Felton. Here we go, whoosh. That was fast. Gotta love these new high speeds. 2008 is like living in the future. Found her. Wow, she’s pushing this makeup wearing a bikini top.”

“That’s one reason she was so successful, I’m told.” Stackhouse stepped into the dining room and lowered to perch on the edge of a high-backed wooden chair. For the first time, she wished she had an iPhone, or a similar device, so she could surf the internet from anywhere. That would be wild.

She waited.

“Those boobs aren’t real, I can tell you that,” said Erica.

“I noticed, at her autopsy. What else?”

“Twenty-five thousand views? These videos are getting twenty-five thousand views! What the hell. I should be selling makeup.”

You can’t even pluck your eyebrows, Erica. “You’d do great, babe. Where was the video filmed?”

“I don’t know. Does it say somewhere?”

Stackhouse could hear a small voice twittering in the background. Rose, on screen. “Describe the video. Describe the set.”

“Looks like she’s standing in a bathroom,” said Erica. “Half talking to the camera, half into a mirror. She’s demonstrating how to put on … whatever that makeup is, the cream that goes after the foundation.”

“Concealer. I have some of the WIG concealer, it’s good.”

“Never used it in my life,” said Erica. “Maybe I shouldn’t sell this gunk, after all.”

“What’s the bathroom look like?”

“I don’t know, like a normal bathroom. It’s nice.”

Stackhouse stepped into the master bath. Crest toothpaste and a toothbrush and dental floss littered the counter, plus two bottles of luxury perfume, mostly full—Chanel and Dior. The mirror was dirty, and towels and underwear lay in heaps. “Is it a mess?”

“No, it’s pristine. Like a movie set,” said Erica.

Not the master bathroom then. Maybe Rose filmed in a guest room. Stackhouse hurried around the house and found two more guest baths. They were clean. “Describe it. Is there a shower?”

“I don’t know, I can’t see that part."

“What’s the wall color?”

“Ahhh, like a light blue? It matches her bikini top. You know, I bet she did that on purpose. Very sneaky of her. I can’t stop watching this stupid thing.”

Not these two bathrooms. Stackhouse jogged down the stairs. She remembered one more bath in the basement. The house was so vast, it took her a minute of opening doors to find it.

Here. A pristine bathroom with light blue walls.

“Ah hah. Found it. She filmed here, in her own house,” said Stackhouse. “Thanks, Erica.”

“Sure thing, Miss Thing. You find any concealer, bring me some. I’m sold.”

Stackhouse hung up. Miss Thing was one of her least favorite nicknames. At least she’d shaken off Sergeant Lotion.

She considered the space. It was a vast luxury bathroom. Marble everything. The sink showed signs of use, of powders and lotion. In the waste bin there were multiple bottles and boxes of WIG products. She crouched to examine the cabinet beneath the sink. Dozens of unopened cosmetics. She could bring Erica some concealer. No one would notice or care. Heck, she could fill her own pockets. Those two bottles of perfume were tempting.

Tempting, but no. That would get her busted to walking the beat, if caught.

She checked the laundry closet in the corner and found camera equipment. A tripod and a video recorder, and thumb drives.

“Here we go,” she murmured. She was surprised the CAP detectives hadn’t taken the thumb drives yet. “Oh wait,” she said and she rolled her eyes. That’s me. I’m the detective. That’s my job.

When? When was she supposed to do all this! Too little time, too many responsibilities, not enough manpower. Or womanpower.

She twitched a plastic baggie from her jacket pocket and dropped the thumb drives in. She labeled the bag with a black Sharpie—basement bathroom, three USB sticks, Friday, noon, Stackhouse. Then she snapped photos of the bag and the room, with her LG, something Mark Rowe once told her to do.

Next to the bathroom, Stackhouse remembered there was an office with a passcode-locked computer. She stepped inside and considered the desk and the big computer. She’d fiddled with it yesterday, and so had a nightshift detective, but a sticky note said it was still locked. More boxes of makeup were strewn around, plus perfume, and empty champagne bottles.

Probably Rose filmed in the bathroom, and then carried the camera and/or thumb drives in here to edit the video and upload to YouTube.

Tidy little operation. She was an entire production studio herself. People could make money doing this?

If they wore a small enough bikini top.

Upstairs, Val was flipping through the crime scene’s log sheet and evidence lists. Stackhouse dropped the baggie on the kitchen island. “She filmed WIG videos downstairs. I found the thumb drives, or USB drives. Probably nothing, but who knows.” Stackhouse sniffed. “Did you put on perfume?”

“I sampled one of her bottles, and shut up about it.” Val kept reading. She looked like she was far away, thinking about other things. Maybe even sad.

Stackhouse walked the house again.

For what, she didn’t know. But she needed to do something. Be proactive.

She’d read the right novels, growing up. She’d watched the movies. Sherlock Holmes would’ve spotted clues by now. Will Graham would follow the madness, by sheer intuition, throughout the house. Kinsey Millhone would’ve asked better questions of Maddie Owens or Staci Tanner. They would stalk the trail of the killer, but she couldn’t. She stared at the rooms and felt blind.

That’s the work of being a detective, she heard Mark tell her, half a dozen times. It’s knocking on doors, not magic.

She wondered where he was, his first afternoon of being unemployed. Not getting drunk, like a lot of cops would.

Back in the kitchen, she tore off a blank sheet of paper and she scribbled—

1) Former pornographic work, in California

2) Ex-boyfriend Ned

3) Swinging with the neighbors

4) Recent WIG fortune and enemies

-Allyson Knowles and Loma Stubblefield

Stackhouse slid the paper across. “Here. We have four angles to chase.”

Val set down the evidence sheets and read Stackhouse’s handwriting. “Exactly what I’m thinking, lady. Tell me about Allyson and Loma.”

Stackhouse related her conversation with Staci, that Rose wasn’t close to anyone, that her lack of social skills was tough, that her ex-boyfriend Ned had been jealous and he ran off, and that Rose made enemies in the WIG business, especially Allyson and Loma, although Allyson had been in Florida.

“Great stuff. Great stuff. Experience has taught me, lady, it’s usually someone obvious, like Ned, not Hannibal Lecter. Right? It’s not a serial killer, it’s never a serial killer, like Jane Newton, except the one in a million chance when it is. It’s always someone who knew the vic, killing for money or sex. That’s always who it is. It’s always Ned or Loma. So to speak. Jeez, what a name, Loma.” Val tapped the list of four bullet points. “Down one of these roads is the killer. Will we find them? We usually don’t, or we can’t prove it, but at least we got a lot of doors to knock on, right? So. I’ll meet you at the station. Let’s pound some of this into the system and see if anything pops.” Val shot her a thumbs up, but she was still far off.

It was an odd speech, like she was trying to focus herself, not Stackhouse.

“Everything okay, Val?”

“Peachy, baby, peachy. It’s just, you know, sometimes life is hard. See you at the station.”

11

Stackhouse called Assistant Commonwealth Attorney Boyd Warren and said she needed a real-time location warrant to ping Rose Felton’s phone, and she needed the phone records too. Someone should have already done that, but that someone was probably her. She and Val could use more help, but not a single department in Roanoke City Police had the necessary personnel, plus Roanoke City had already surpassed last year’s homicide count.

Until a few weeks ago, Stackhouse had interned with the CA’s office, working directly under Boyd Warren as part of her legal education. It’d been tolerable. Warren wanted to catch up, but she thanked him and disconnected. There weren’t enough hours for niceties, and rejecting his pressing friendliness grew wearisome.

Feeling a bit voyeuristic, she searched for Rosie Valley online, discovering far too many illicit images and videos. Most of the content redirecting to Voila Virtual Videos, and she poked around long enough to discover it was a pornographic studio that went out of business two years ago. The same year Rose moved back to Roanoke.

She called San Fernando Police and bounced around until leaving a message for their Detective Division.

“Hi, this is Andie Stackhouse, detective for Roanoke City Police. I’m looking into the homicide of Rose Felton, a former pornographic actress for Voila Virtual Videos. I’d appreciate a phone call, about that studio and who I can hassle. Thanks very much.”

She hung up after giving her phone number and repeating her name.

Next. What should she do next.

She consulted her list of four avenues to chase down. Next was Ned.

She created a Facebook account and found Rose Felton’s page. Rose pushed her makeup hard on Facebook. She was a relentless saleswoman. Stackhouse scrolled her photographs and found one from eighteen months ago, her posing with a man who looked like a Ned.

Great investigation skills, Andie, he looks like a Ned.

But he did. Plus, that was the only man she saw anywhere in Rose’s history. The picture didn’t have a name, though, so Stackhouse printed it out.

Lieutenant Len Street startled her by rapping the top of her monitor with his knuckles. Big smiling Len Street, he said, “I forwarded you the camera footage. I looked through it, but I didn’t find anything helpful.”

Stackhouse blinked, feeling stupid. “Of what?”

“Maribeth Blue’s alleged assault.”

“Who is Maribeth— Oh! Right, the woman who woke up naked behind Liberty. Jeez, that feels like forever ago. You found surveillance video?”

He smiled. “Time’s gonna pass you by quick, your first few weeks, thinking you gotta save the world each day. Don’t worry, it’ll slow down soon.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant. How’s Linda?”

“She’s good. She loves that boutique you recommended, though it’s gonna drain every bank account I got,” joked Len.

“So the video’s no good?”

“None show the scene of the crime. It’s grainy and you can’t tell who is Maribeth and who isn’t. I called the girl, the all powerful bank manager, and she told me to back off. If we had more manpower and time, and if Maribeth cooperated, we could sit with her and go through each video until she spotted herself, maybe, but we don’t have the time and Maribeth isn’t cooperating. Right?”

“So… That’s it? We drop it?”

Street shrugged, palms up. “We don’t got a victim. We don’t got a crime. Means we don’t got a perp.”

“But we both know Dr. Pierce—”

He wagged a finger. “No we don’t know that, and even inside the station you ought be careful who you accuse.” Stackhouse winced—he was right. She was on the final lap of law school, and she’d been trained on improper and illegal investigations, including preconceived notions and violating constitutional rights, and announcing you’d predetermined the culprit without any evidence was a huge blunder. Street continued, “You and I, we’re on the same page about some things, Detective, but I’m not sprinting toward the demise of my career like you are. What evidence could you give to the prosecutors?”

“None. Yet. That’s our job, to find some.”

“Maribeth Blue report you for harassment, if you try to find some. Besides, you got a lot of free time? Got nothing else to do?” said Len Street.

“No, I’m up to my ears.”

“Up to your ears in an actual crime with an actual victim, right? Work on that. Maribeth Blue changes her mind, then I’ll pick it up again. Watch that video, see if you find something I missed, if you want.” He walked off.

The casual dismissal of Dr. Pierce’s sins rankled Stackhouse. She’d been waiting for Dr. Pierce to strike again, and he had, tell Stackhouse I said hello, and he’d made a point of running into her the next day. He needed to gloat, that was part of the sick thrill. Arrogance and misogyny, that was Pierce, yet not so simple. He wasn’t a common pervert. Foremost, he seemed to value her, a woman who rejected him. As though he didn’t hate all women, only those he considered unworthy. He’d been married for twenty-five years to an impressive woman, a clinical psychologist whom Kaye esteemed highly, a long marriage with no signs of abuse, before she died of cancer.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t a serial rapist. Stackhouse had done her research. Serial sex offenders were charming and manipulative—traits Dr. Pierce possessed in spades. They preferred to ambush, enjoying the control. They studied the craft and grew better at it.

Even here, however, he didn’t fit the mold. Because he didn’t rape the victims. He stripped them and left them, as though humiliation and domination was the goal. Misogynists liked to punish women who threatened them. They knew their existence depended on women, but insecure men raged against this weakness, hating their own vulnerability and the need for the comfort of a mother or lover.

Or maybe the psychobabble she read was all bull. The experts never seemed to agree, on even obvious things.

Thoughts bouncing around the potential benefits of vigilantism, her eyes snapped onto a clock and she realized she’d been ruminating on Dr. Pierce and sexual sin in all its forms for thirty minutes. She stood up and rubbed her eyes.

Good Garfield.

What time was it? She was starving.

She called to Val. “I missed lunch. Want something?”

Val sat at her computer, peering intently at the screen. Without looking, she raised a sandwich and waggled it. “My second of the day. Live and learn, cutie.”

Stackhouse jogged across the street to the taco trucks that serviced blocks of law enforcement—police, sheriff deputies, bailiffs, lawyers, paralegals, judges, bondsmen. A line was formed, despite the later hour and the heat.

A group of women sat around a wooden picnic table, heads together. Gossiping, Stackhouse assumed. She never participated. Gossiping is what one did when one settled and grew bored.

She wasn’t settling. She wasn’t bored. Too busy to gossip, too driven. Too…

Too scared she’d become one of them if she slowed down.

She took her tacos back inside, to her desk, where everyone who smelled the food yelled at her, and two cops left to get their own tacos.

She and Val were called to handle a domestic assault, a crime solved when the boyfriend returned to beat his girlfriend again, and he confessed as the patrol officers were lowering him into the back of a black-and-white. The girlfriend kicked at him and spit on him, and the blue uniforms said this was the third boyfriend this year who’d knocked her around.

After that, Val and Stackhouse were summoned to Tim Deacon’s house to investigate his missing wife. A confused mechanic in his fifties, his cognitive decline was at a stage usually seen in a man thirty years older, the result of his weight and the cigarettes and the empty bottles of Jack Daniels. After twenty minutes of questioning, and reading through his credit card bill, and a phone call to his daughter, they informed Tim that his wife had moved to Gulf Shores, a beach town in Alabama. He cried and grew angry, threatening to kill her, he already had just the fucking gun for the job, which constituted a Class 1 misdemeanor threat and chewed up another hour of their time.

Finally back at the station and it was 5pm.

Standing at her desk, Stackhouse threw up her hands. “How the hell are we supposed to catch Rose Felton’s killer when we have to deal with all this other garbage?”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of Crimes Against Persons, lady.”

“This guy’s gonna get away while I do misdemeanor paperwork.”

“This guy?” asked Val.

“In my head, it’s a guy. Even with the shoe print.”

“Why?”

Stackhouse threw up her hands. “I don’t know, Val, because I’m new at this.”

Stackhouse set to the work of updating the homicide file on her computer. Out of habit, they called the digital files the Murder Book, but the real thing had been printed out. The rest of the department was learning to read off a screen, and Stackhouse had to admit it was handier that way—no matter who edited the file, it updated on her screen in real time. She had experience working the Murder Book over the year, despite not being a detective, because she’d been intimately involved in several homicides.

She entered information into their local server—the shoe impressions (size nine women’s Nike), the video recordings and the zip drives (which she’d forgotten about, but now logged in evidence), Staci’s revelations about Rose’s illness and rivals, and Maddie Owens’ swinging disclosure. What else was she forgetting?

Next, she logged into the FBI’s ViCAP, which tracked violent and sexual crimes, and created a new entry. The ViCAP was trickier, and she’d only recently learned the system watching Val. In Roanoke City, it wasn’t something patrol officers used, and she tried not to smile at this grim new privilege.

She entered the Rose Felton homicide information, which took her forty-five minutes but before logging off she created another entry, for Maribeth Blue’s assault. Taking advantage of her new permissions, she searched ViCAP for drugged professional woman waking up naked but without signs of abuse, hunting for other victims of Dr. Pierce. The program returned dozens of hits, but none regional and none that precisely matched the pattern.

She returned to the local file, sucking at her lip, knowing she was forgetting details. The more meticulous she was now, the more help she would be to the nightshift and herself tomorrow.

Time passed, and she stood and stretched. Bravo shift swelled and drifted toward roll call, while Alpha rubbed its eyes, watching the clock.

Coming in that morning, she’d been frustrated the nightshift detectives hadn’t made more progress on the Rose Felton homicide, but now she wouldn’t blame them if the frustration was returned. She’d developed leads but had nothing concrete to show. Captain Lott was still in his office, hunting and pecking with two fingers. Maybe she could request overtime?

Andie. It’s your second day, for crying out loud. Get out of here.

The Safeside shooting range was open for another hour. The department used to have their own range until the armorer developed lead poisoning, and the realization was made at the Virginia Association of Police Chiefs that a lot of armorers were getting sick, those working in under-vented conditions. Now police had to make the pilgrimage to offsite ranges.

She worked hard on her marksmanship to stay above the station average. She hadn’t grown up with guns like most of the cops, and she felt handicapped compared to the best and their head start. But no, tonight she didn’t want to shoot. What she wanted was a good sweat. A long run. Maybe weights after.

She was halfway to the gym when she remembered her date.

“Mother ffffff…” She swerved and glanced at her watch. Only five minutes late. She screamed through an illegal U-turn. “What is wrong with you, you awful awful bitch of a girlfriend.” She dialed James and shouted on speaker, “Don’t be mad! I’m almost there!”

12

James Rigby waited outside, at Billy’s. He was well-built, like he used to wrestle. Lots of curly brown hair, a strong five o’clock shadow, heavy eyebrows. A little too Alpha male to be a tax attorney, but that’s what he did.

“Look who showed up.”

Stackhouse winced, penitent. “But I’m here. Only ten minutes late. Yay for me.”

He was dressed stylishly, in loafers and a sports jacket. She’d been hoping otherwise. She wore her work outfit, which looked okay, she knew, but she didn’t feel cute. She’d hastily reapplied deodorant in the parking lot. A shower would do wonders, or even dry shampoo.

The hostess smiled and walked them to a reserved table in the buzzy dining room. James had clearly arrived early to get a table. They were a popular couple, greeted the whole way by familiar faces.

James ordered a beer and asked, “And a champagne for the tired detective?”

Stackhouse smiled. “Right now I want volume, not bubbles. Make it a big white wine, whatever you have open.”

The waiter left to fetch their drinks.

“Day Two kicked your ass?” said James.

“It was frustrating. Someone died yesterday and today it’s no big deal. Solve the murder in your free time, like it’s a mundane task they give to someone else so they can forget it.”

“But you’re the someone,” he said.

“It’s a juicy one, too. Lots of reasons to kill her.”

James laughed. “What the hell, Andrea. Look at you smiling about it, you monster.”

She hated him calling her Andrea. He intended to endear himself, but the effect was opposite. They were still getting to know each other.

“Good thing you’re hot, with a devious mind like that,” he said.

And no one calls women hot, James.

She said, “I’m not smiling because someone died. It’s invigorating, that’s all. It’s work that matters.”

“Work that matters. I’ll tell you about work that matters,” said James, after their drinks arrived and they ordered dinner. “This prick dentist comes to me today with a mountain of papers and he hasn’t filed his business taxes in three years. Three years, Andrea. Said it’s his wife’s fault. The IRS dropped on him, told him he’s looking at twenty-four months in federal prison. Lucky for him, someone recommended me. Talk about a juicy one. I’ll have to get crafty, but I was born crafty. Taxes are an art, not math.”

“How so,” said Stackhouse and she drank half the wine. In the back of her mind, Kaye scolded her for not beginning with water.

Little of her attention was attached to James.

The hostess hadn’t wiped their table well and the corner was sticky with chocolate. She picked at it, thinking about Rose Felton and Maribeth Blue.

“Capital loss and market value, baby,” he was saying. “God, I’m sexy with below-the-line deductions. His charitable contributions, well, let’s just say he’s about to get generous. This poor man, on paper, when I’m through with him, he’ll looked poorer than Tiny Tim. I’ll give him so many deductions, the IRS will need to hire Princeton’s entire graduating class to catch him. What do you know about exemptions and liabilities?”

Halfway through the salmon, as Stackhouse was wondering how soon she could get to sleep, he asked, “Who was murdered, by the way?”

“A local cosmetic rep. Call her Tulip, for the sake of anonymity, though you could look it up in the news, if you wanted. Tulip made a small fortune in two years, by her standards, though I don’t know if that’s the motive. She went from broke to thirty grand a month. I haven’t seen her bank statements yet, so I’m ball-parking. There’s too much to examine.” As she said it, she felt the responsibility lower on her shoulders again, a dead weight, like Rose’s bloated corpse.

“I hear that. You don’t need to talk to me about too many bank statements to examine. Give her next-of-kin my card and I can set up a trust. Tell them I’ll give them a screaming deal, because the detective’s hot.”

Stackhouse wiped her mouth and set down the napkin. “James. Listen.”

“Yo, there’s your chief.” He nodded over her shoulder.

Stackhouse didn’t turn in her seat. “Chief Almond?”

“Just walked in. He’s dating someone new, a realtor. She sells houses wearing high heels.”

“Almond fired my friend today,” said Stackhouse.

“Probably deserved it, right? Then again, who knows if we can trust this bastard’s judgment, he can’t see through that woman’s makeup. Not a great face.”

Stackhouse was nearly done with her second glass of what she suspected was Pinot Grigio, but who knew. “Do you know him?”

“You could say me and Almond are buddies.”

Dammit. I don’t want the chief to see me with his buddy.

“He’s walking the other direction. I wanted to show you off. Oh well. I’ll see his ass at the Red Room,” he said.

Stackhouse’s ears pricked. “You go to the Red Room?”

“You’re surprised?” James grinned, pleased with her reaction. “I’m the best tax attorney in town, Andrea. Of course I score invites. I’m going tomorrow.”

“Ah,” said Stackhouse, with the sinking realization he hadn’t invited her. Maybe he’d invited someone else.

But that was a good thing. Every time she met this man, she wondered why she agreed to the date. Why did she feel disappointment?

Life was better with a man around.

“Don’t look so blue. It’s hard to get invitations,” he said. “I’ll take you, if you want.”

“I’ve been invited before.”

“You have? By who?”

By Roanoke City’s CA. And by Boyd Warren, by Sheriff McGill, by the CFO of Carilion, by my roommate, you name it, James.

“I don’t remember,” she lied.

“I’m not surprised you got an invite. Hot single girls are always welcome. But that’s like, one of life’s oldest maxims, isn’t it.”

“Mmhm.”

“Tomorrow, let’s go. Me and you,” he said.

She was on the verge of rejecting him, of letting him know this wasn’t working, when a vision of Maribeth Blue flashed in her memory.

The woman had been sitting huddled in her robe, curled around her coffee, pretending like she hadn’t been sexually assaulted leaving the Red Room.

Dr. Pierce haunted both women.

She weighed the pros and cons in her mind, but the weight wasn’t evenly distributed. She wasn’t busting her ass in law enforcement, taking legal classes at night, and working out with the Fugitive Task Force for nothing.

“Yeah,” she said. “Okay. Tomorrow, let’s go, me and you.”

13

A warm Friday morning in Richmond, and the Virginia General Assembly was in session.

The elected legislators had gathered into Delegates Chamber, a room built in mimicry of Congress, tightly packed grand desks arranged in a semi-circle, facing the dais and the American and Virginian flags, and self-importance was thick in the air like a colonial fog. Over the previous months, a proposed budget had been moving through the Appropriations Committee and the Senate Finance Committee, ink spilled and voices raised, and it was at last time for a contentious vote, alongside a raft of lesser issues.

The votes were always contentious. Nothing ever changed, though the upcoming 2008 presidential election rocked the waters further—newcomer but popular Obama versus the war-hero McCain, McCain with the slight lead.

In the midst of supercilious speeches and grandstanding, the state delegate from District 39 had trouble focusing. Once upon a time, he had designs on becoming a state senator. The delegate position had been a mere stepping stone, toward the senate and one day the position of Virginia’s first State Surgeon General, a post soon to be created, he had hoped.

Now all was ash, thought Dr. Raymond Pierce.

Vanity vanity, chasing the wind. How silly it all seemed.

“Hey that’s good.” The delegate from District 40, Dr. Pierce’s neighbor, nudged him. He whispered, “Who is that?”

Dr. Pierce’s eyes returned to reality and he focused on his desk. On a printout of the budget, he’d idly drawn a woman. A woman with brown hair, and she wore a police uniform. He’d left the buttons vague, leaving it up to the imagination how many were undone. He’d once been an excellent artist. Now the lines lacked confidence and surety. So did the woman he’d drawn, which was an insult to her, and he crumpled the paper into a fist and stood without response.

“Where are you going? It’s almost go-time,” whispered his neighbor, but Dr. Pierce was heading for the chamber doors.

Inside a stall in the men’s room, he forced his breathing to normalize. He was an expert at controlling his emotions and exhalations, keeping his pulse under eighty even in stress.

But recently.

Removing the pen knife from his pocket, carefully he drew lines across his forearm, three of them. Each line beaded and spilled, crimson rills down his skin, small pools at each hair follicle, eventually soaking into the wad of toilet paper he held at his wrist. It was juvenile, he knew, but there could be no denying the flood of endorphins it released. He needed them. So much of the world felt out of control, but this, his own body was something he could inflict pain on. And, because of the wonderful world of peptide chemicals, the pain brought bliss.

He waited until the cuts quit bleeding, the platelets clotting and sealing his body. Such a miraculous thing, human flesh. Until it betrayed you.

“Pain brings bliss,” he whispered. “Pain brings pleasure. Pleasure for Detective Andie Stackhouse.”

14

Stackhouse arrived the next morning to Detective Lou Mullis holding the bureau phone out for her. Lou was digging into his ear with the pinky of his other hand, and Stackhouse accepted the receiver reluctantly.

She spoke into the phone. “Andie Stackhouse.”

“Good morning, Detective. Rose Felton’s toxicology came back. I put a rush on it—you’re welcome.”

She recognized the voice of Woo, the pathologist. “Great, I appreciate it.”

“No need to thank me. I do it for the guts, not the glory.” His smile was obvious in her ear. “Get it? Anyway. I’m faxing you the results, but here’s the layman’s nutshell. First, other than two gunshots to the face, I found no injuries, and that includes sexual trauma. Second, Rose’s liver showed signs of alcohol abuse. For her age, she had the fattiest liver I’ve ever sampled. The girl was a walking vodka bottle. Last, the lab reports high levels of THC, oxycodone, and linaclotide, which is a powerful laxative.”

“Alcohol. Weed. Pain killer. Laxative,” said Stackhouse. Good Garfield. “She skipped a trip to Florida because she was sick. Maybe constipated?”

“Oxycodone is an opioid that can back people up, sure. Based on her blood, she was popping hella pills, likely OxyContin. That, plus the weed and alcohol, maybe Rose couldn’t move her bowels so she took the laxative, and then she couldn’t stop! Hah! Her digestive track was clean. No food for twelve hours before her death, not counting the alcohol.”

“Thanks, Woo, I’ll keep my eye out for the fax.”

“If you want to toss your cookies, I got a body inbound from Franklin County. He died of an infection. Septicemia is always fun. What do you say?”

“I say you’re a sicko, babe.” Stackhouse hung up and ran to the morning briefing to listen to the watch commander. While Lieutenant Lambert droned, she flipped through a printout of last night’s updates from the nightshift. The most interesting updates—the bullet that killed Rose Felton was a .380, not a 9mm, and the real-time location warrant on Rose Felton’s phone proved useless. The last it pinged was the night of her death, at her home. Rats. Now they had to hope the killer would activate the device again and they could zero in on a location.

She caught herself twisting in her seat to find Mark Rowe, before she remembered.

Val sat in the corner, staring at her hands. She’d always reminded Stackhouse of an active ostrich, but now the ostrich was slumped, her head hung low and unmoving.

At Roanoke’s Cox Communication building, Stackhouse showed the printout of Rose Felton’s Facebook photograph, posing with who she hoped was Ned, the ex-boyfriend. She had no last name, nor even the correct cable company. No one at the office knew the name or photograph, but the eager receptionist called branches in Franklin County, Montgomery County, and finally Botetourt, where she got a hit.

She hung up, beaming at her usefulness. “Botetourt has a Ned. Ned Krause. He troubleshoots residential disruptions. Would you like me to fax them the photo?”

“No thanks, I’ll drive over.”

“What did he do?”

“Not a thing,” said Stackhouse.

Or maybe he killed his ex-girlfriend Rose.

Twenty minutes later, she parked at the Botetourt branch and showed the printout. The manager walked her back to his office. He wiped both his hands over his greasy hair. “They told me a cop was coming. But, um, Officer, I’ve never done this. I don’t know what I’m allowed to tell you and what I’m not.”

“How so?”

“Like, is some of this top secret? Classified? Should Ned call his lawyer? Will I get sued if I talk about one of my employees?” said the manager. “Maybe I should get HR on speaker?”

“No you shouldn’t,” said Stackhouse, though she didn’t know if that was accurate. She waved the printed photograph of Rose and Ned. “I only want a name and phone number.”

“I don’t know if I should do that.” He was sweating.

“Let’s make this simple. Do you recognize the man in the photograph?”

“I do.”

“If I wait outside in the parking lot all day, would I see this man return his truck at the end of the day?” said Stackhouse.

The manager looked like he was in pain. He smelled of Doritos and panic.

Stackhouse tried not to roll her eyes. “Think of it this way, sir. I can sit out there and wait. Right? And meet Ned that way? Or I could call the District Attorney and subpoena this information. Right? Either way, I get to meet Ned. No matter what, I meet Ned in a few hours. So save me the work.”

“Umm.” He drummed his fingers on a file on his desk. “Umm,” he said again, and once more he tapped the file. She took notice of it now. The label on the edge read, Krause, Edward. “What about this, Officer. I saw this in a movie once.” He slid the file a half inch toward her and he stood up. “How about if I go pee. You wait here. Can we do that?”

Stackhouse grinned. “Sure, we can do that.”

“I’ll be right back, okay?” The manager slid the file another half inch toward her, in case she was slow on the uptake.

“Take your time, babe.”

“Okay, I’ll take my time peeing in the bathroom and you wait here. Or you can leave whenever you want, yeah? And I didn’t tell you anything, Officer?”

“That’s right, sir. You didn’t tell me anything. I’ll get bored and leave in a sec.”

The manager walked out, but came back to close the door after him. Stackhouse was alone. She flipped the file open. Edward Krause had worked for Cox for five years. She didn’t have time to read his performance reviews, she only wanted an address and phone number. Which she got, jotting them down in a notebook. Anything else, she could subpoena, if necessary.

She left the office, hoping the weak-kneed manager didn’t have a heart attack in the restroom.

Sitting in her driver’s seat, she rang the number. “Edward Krause, this is Detective Andie Stackhouse. I know you’re out working, but I need a moment of your time. I’ll come to you.”

“Did you say detective?”

“I did.”

“Am I in trouble?” he said.

“You are not. Where are you?”

Ned was the man in Rose’s Facebook photograph. They met at Bojangles in Daleville and she bought him a coffee. He was tall and seedy with a thin goatee, the kind of boy she’d grown up with in the country. She understood a little ego massage went a long way.

“I ain’t never seen a cop like you before,” he said. They were in the parking lot, leaning against Stackhouse’s Crown Vic.

“We come in all shapes and sizes, Ned.”

“So what is it you think I did?”

“I don’t know that you did anything, Ned, and I probably couldn’t catch you if you had, could I,” said Stackhouse.

Massage that ego.

He grinned. “Probably not.You probably ain’t smart. Looking like that, you don’t gotta be. Never had to use your brain once, did you.”

“My driver’s test, I got the feeling the instructor was lenient.” Stackhouse heard some dormant twang in her voice. Honey over vinegar.

“I bet he was. I bet he was hoping to teach you a lot more than driving.”

“Maybe so. I was a good girl, though,” said Stackhouse.

“No you weren’t, neither. I can tell. You can always tell, looking at a girl, I don’t care how old she is.”

“I tried to be a good girl.”

“Tried and failed, didn’t you. Failed with half the football team,” he said. “Face like that, it’s always the football team.”

“Listen, the reason I’m here. Remember Rose Felton?”

“Ah hell, what’d she tell you I did? You can’t believe a thing that bitch says. Not a damn thing. Talk about a girl who’s trouble.”

Ned's statement revealed a lot. Ned presumed Rose was still alive and lying about him. Or else he was a convincing actor. “I have bad news. Rose is dead. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

“Rose is… For real? She died?”

“Someone shot her.”

“Ho-lee sheyit.” Ned pushed away from her unmarked Crown Vic and paced the parking lot. “Someone shot Rose, no shit. No shit, someone shot her?”

“It’s true.”

“Who did it?”

“We don’t know,” said Stackhouse.

“Oh got’damn, you think I did.”

“I don’t—”

“Listen, I ain’t seen that bitch for— Damn, sorry, I ain’t seen that woman for a long-ass time, not in over six months. I didn’t kill her and I don’t know who did.”

“Do you have an alibi for Tuesday night?”

“Do I have an alibi?” shouted Ned. “Look at you, being all cute, shaking your tits at me, but you were rigging this trap from a mile off.”

I didn’t shake a thing, you country dirtbag.

“I’m a detective, Ned. I didn’t hide that. I’m hunting the person who killed your ex-girlfriend. Help me out,” she said.

“Help you out? You think I did it!”

“Verify that you didn’t and then tell me about Rose. I know next to nothing.”

“You know she was a porno star?” he said.

“Yes, I knew that.”

“I live with my mom. She’s got lung cancer so I live with her. Tuesday night? I was home with her. I haven’t gone out all week,” he said.

She read the address off her notepad. “That’s where you live, with your mother?”

“Oh my gawd, that’s private information.”

“No it’s not, I could find it in the white pages. C’mon, Ned. Don’t freak out.”

“You can’t arrest me for something I didn’t do,” he said.

“Who said anything about being arrested. You’re the ex-boyfriend of a girl who was murdered, Ned. Do the math. Of course I’m here. You’re gonna be investigated, and if you fight it then the entire police department falls on you. If you run, the marshals chase you down. If you relax, if you verify your alibi and help us out, you’re a hero.”

“Yeah, that’s it, what’s what cops are known for, making people heroes. I didn’t shoot shit. Especially not Rose.”

“Do you own a gun?” asked Stackhouse.

“Only about half a dozen. Don’t mean I aim them at people.”

She had sized up his boot. He wore an eleven or twelve, not a woman’s Nike sized nine.

“Ned,” she said. “You didn’t do this thing, did you.”

“You only now figuring that out?”

“Let’s meet your mom. Just in case.”

At her request, the Botetourt Police issued a cruiser to Ned’s mother’s house.

Never go in alone.

You’re not alone.

One of the Botetourt patrol officers waited with his car. The other stood inside with Stackhouse while she interviewed Sheila Krause in her duplex off Norman’s Lane. Shelia coughed throughout the duration. She confirmed Ned had been home, “ever night this week,” and said, “Show the nice lady the poker, Edward, why don’t you. Finally it’s good for something.”

“Ma, maybe keep your big ideas to yourself. Smoke another cigarette and shut up.”

“What poker?” Stackhouse perched on the couch’s arm and scratched one of their cats behind its ears.

“The boy plays poker on the computer ever night. Ever single night, since the psycho-hell-bitch broke his heart.”

“Ma.”

“I warned him. Didn’t I warn you. About that psycho-hell-bitch with the fake breasts, I warned him.”

“Ma,” said Ned. “I left her, not the other way.”

“Where are your guns, Ned?” asked Stackhouse.

“Got a warrant?”

“It’d be easy to get one. Got something to hide?”

“Get a warrant and come on back, why don’t you.”

Stackhouse sighed and she started dialing her phone.

“Never mind,” said Ned. “Got’damn that woman and got’damn this whole thing. C’mon, I’ll show you. I don’t want you coming back anyhow.”

He walked them to his bedroom, which was strangely tidy for a bachelor. Ned had made the bed and folded his laundry. Motivational posters were hung on the walls instead of bikini models. He pointed to his closet, and the patrol officer stood by while Stackhouse snapped on gloves and investigated. She found a Mossberg Patriot hunting rifle, a smaller caliber Remington, a lever-action Winchester, a Stevens 410, an old Remington 870, an AR-15, three revolvers, a big Desert Eagle pistol, and a Sig 45.

Stackhouse was one of the rare officers who’d grown up removed from the world of firearms. She learned enough to get by, to be proficient with what she carried, but she was out of her league here, and embarrassed by it. She read the officer’s name tag. “Officer Ryan, how much do you know about guns?”

“I know everything about guns,” said Ryan.

“Do you recognize these?”

“Every one.”

“Snap on gloves and look these over, please. See if you spot evidence of a makeshift plastic suppressor, and we’ll need to take any that can fire a .380 pistol bullet.”

“Oh my gawd, I didn’t use a makeshift plastic suppressor. Look’it on the shelf, that’s a real one. The Omega. I’d use that, not something plastic.”

Stackhouse pulled Ned from the room to give Officer Ryan space. “Show me your computer,” said Stackhouse.

“Why?”

“You play poker online? Like a poker website?”

“What difference does that make? That bitch is cackling in her grave, you know that.”

“If you play online, Ned, the website probably keeps a history of your sessions. With your mother as your alibi, and you showing me a history of playing poker Tuesday evening, and Officer Ryan finding no evidence that you fired a .380, you’re golden.”

“Last I checked, this is America,” barked Ned. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

“Just show her the computer, you dumb sum’bitch,” called his mother. “Gollydang, you’re still letting that awful psycho woman ruin your life. Be done with her, at last.”

“She ain’t worth all this, you know.” Ned glared at Stackhouse. “Rose wasn’t.”

“Show me the poker history and then tell me everything,” said Stackhouse.

“Fine. Being done with her sounds alright with me.”

Thirty minutes later, they sat inside Stackhouse’s Interceptor and Ned stared through the windshield, quiet. He spit tobacco juice into an empty cup, which Stackhouse tried to ignore. The reality of Rose Felton’s death was washing over him, and his anger gave way to shock and grief.

Officer Ryan had bagged and stowed guns inside her trunk, each capable of firing the .380 pistol bullets. Stackhouse didn’t suspect Ned had done a thing, but she needed to check the boxes. Ryan and his partner had sped off, afterward, as rain drops began falling.

Stackhouse spoke into the silence. “We were called to do a wellness check. Wednesday. I went inside and found Rose in a chair. Shot in the head, dead at least twelve hours. There was an intruder in the basement, who escaped. Now, we’ll take all the help we can get. Especially with her story the last two years.”

“You found her inside that godawful house?”

“On Tradd.”

“I told her not to buy that place. Didn’t suit her one bit,” he said. “Just one more thing she was trying.”

“What’s that mean?”

Ned sighed and spit, and he started at the beginning.

He was introduced to Rosie Valley through a friend, a guy named Sherman, but Sherman moved to New Orleans a year back, so don’t bother. They used to buy and share pornographic DVDs, and Sherman found Rosie Valley first, a video called Rosie Gets Cozy. What Ned liked about her, she looked honest, like she’d make a good girlfriend. After that, they bought all her stuff for several years, even as she lost the honest-girlfriend look, even as the entire market moved online. The internet ruined everything, he said. There was more porn than you could watch in ten lifetimes and it became cheap. So cheap it was worse than free. People were giving it away and that hurt the whole product, if you asked him. About that time he found Rosie Valley on MySpace and he messaged her, and what do you know, she messaged back. They started communicating every day, and he knew damn well she was talking with other guys too, but he didn’t care. She liked him because he lived in Botetourt and she’d grown up in Staunton, only an hour apart. He didn’t tell Sherman, because he treasured his special secret connection. Soon he was sending her money via Western Union, and she would send him personal pictures and videos, because times were hard. The studios were closing. Not all of them, but the hourly rates had dropped to nearly nothing, twenty actresses auditioning for every one role. Each girl was desperate. One night they were messaging and Rosie said soon she’d start turning tricks. Instead of choreographed sex in a studio, with protections in place, it would be sex with a stranger, and it would be dangerous, and she was scared. She hadn’t booked an acting gig in weeks, and she thought about killing herself, she felt so lost. Hell, I got the solution for that, Ned told her. Jump on a plane. Marry me and all your problems are solved.

He couldn’t believe it—Rosie said yes. And she did jump on a plane, landing in Roanoke three days later.

Ned was in heaven, pure bliss. He was living the dream, sleeping with Rosie Valley, who was sweet and grateful. For a whole week. But soon he realized how much trouble Rosie was in. She was addicted to everything, she was broke, and Rose Felton wasn’t near as sweet as Rosie Valley seemed online. Rose stayed drunk the whole day long and she stole pills from the neighbors. He took out a new credit card and sent her to rehab, for an entire seven days, but she came back worse. Demons raged inside her, from whatever happened when she was a kid and whatever else happened while she was in California.

While in rehab, however, she met a girl, Carla, who declared Rose could make a killing selling makeup. With technology, you didn’t need to stand at a Lancôme display at Belk to sell makeup; you could sell your own, at your own pace, and keep most of the profits.

“The internet’s a crazy thing, you know,” said Ned. “You can hide all your demons, and you can make a shit-load of money, and don’t none of it make you happy. None of it’s real, not even the money, somehow.”

She bought a thousand-dollars-worth of WIG product, using money stolen from Ned’s mom, and she went to work, begging people to try her stuff, failing and failing, and getting frustrated, until she struck gold—one night, using her phone, at the request of a Roanoke customer too stupid to understand concealer, she made a personal video demonstrating how to apply the cream. Ned filmed the video using her BlackBerry cell phone, and he’d cautioned against changing into a modest shirt, but to keep the tiny tank top on because she looked good that way. The next day, Rose’s sales tripled. Why? That dumb woman shared the video with her friends, and their friends, and their friends. Rose wasn’t just selling the makeup; she was selling her expertise. She was selling herself, and Rose knew how to do that.

She found her sweet spot—makeup and selling and acting and filming, all rolled together. She’d been doing it for years. She started emailing personal videos like that to customers or potential customers and the money poured in. Soon other girls wanted to sell makeup. They wanted to host WIG parties and they wanted Rose to be there. They wanted to work with her, learn from her, use her.

The next month, WIG paid out her commissions—five thousand dollars, equal to what he made. The next month, she was paid nine thousand, more than her best months in California. The month after, twelve.

She paid him back, paid his mom back, and bought herself a car. Soon she discovered she could upload videos to YouTube, and send out YouTube links instead of video files. Much easier, and those videos were discoverable by strangers. Her commissions doubled, and life turned blissful once more.

However, with her new money, she didn’t need to steal the pills; she could buy them. She didn’t need to buy the cheap vodka; she could buy top shelf.

After a year, and two failed attempts at sobriety, she had saved up enough for a down payment. When she told the realtor how much money she had, that asshole drove her to an entirely different neighborhood. Hell, he said, loan companies were throwing mortgages at anyone. She bought the first house he took her to, against Ned’s advice. The previous owner was a staunch conservative Christian, and the house came furnished after her tastes, and Rose thought she could over-correct into a healthy persona.

She didn’t invite Ned to move in, but she didn’t fight it when he did, for her own good.

It went downhill from there. He’d go off to work and come home to the house on Tradd, and she still hadn’t woken up. Or he’d come home and find her weeping in the bathroom. She made most of her videos at two in the morning. She couldn’t sleep unless she took pills but she couldn’t stay awake unless she took different pills and she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking unless she drank.

One night she came home, and when he asked where she’d been she was too high to be dishonest—she’d been out screwing the neighbors at one of their swinger parties. They’d advised that she not bring Ned.

She called him names that he wouldn’t repeat. He’d barely understood them, she was so trashed. He knew he’d done nothing to deserve the hate, and he finally saw the truth—she was beyond saving. So broken that she despised anything healthy.

He walked out of the house that night and hadn’t seen her since. He hadn’t called and she hadn’t called. It wouldn’t surprise him if she’d paid someone to kill her, because she couldn’t manage it herself. Was she drunk when she died? He bet she was. Too drunk to kill herself, so she used her new money one last time.

The story bruised Stackhouse as she listened. She felt like crying.

“Where’s her family?” she asked.

“All dead, she told me. She had nobody.”

“Do you remember any names of friends?”

“Not a one.”

“How about Maddie? Or Staci?”

“They didn’t talk to me,” said Ned, and he spit. “You know what they called me? The Cable Guy. Too good to talk to me, but not too good to screw my girlfriend. Gah, rich people are the worst, ain’t they. The cable guy tries to marry the porn star, but the psycho-hell-bitch cheats on him. Sounds like a bad movie. I don’t blame you for suspecting me.” He grabbed at the car’s door release. “Now I got to get back to work.”

“I’ll call you about the guns, when we release them.”

He closed the door without responding, walking in the light rain to his work truck.

15

Back at the station, Stackhouse went out of her way to avoid a patrol officer named Moon Ruby, who was booking a drunk driver. She liked Ruby, but they shared a painful history and she was too busy to catch up.

Val told Stackhouse, “Did you hear Captain Titus’s husband took off? She went home yesterday and he was gone. See, all of us end up divorced, kiddo.”

Stackhouse hadn’t heard, and she updated Val on her conversation with Ned.

“Could Rose have arranged for an assisted suicide?” she wondered. “She found someone willing to pull the trigger and she got drunk and closed her eyes in the chair and waited?”

“No chance,” said Val. “The executioner would’ve wanted to do it elsewhere, not in plain sight of that big window.”

Stackhouse’s cell phone rang.

“Andie Stackhouse? This is Detective Brant Dobson, from San Fernando PD, returning your message. Got a minute?” said the voice.

“Absolutely I do.” Stackhouse lowered to her chair and scrounged in her drawer for a pen. “That case is wide open.”

“I doubt I’ll close it, unfortunately. What do you know about the San Fernando Valley?” said the voice.

“Nothing.”

“You know our nickname, the San Pornando Valley? That tells you what you need to know, about our Vice department. The porn industry brings in all kinds of bullshit side hustles, like heroin and meth and prostitution and strip clubs, plus the crooked car dealerships and the gross strip malls and the taco trucks and more immigrants than you can believe. You could triple our department and we still couldn’t keep our heads above sand. I asked, but no one here knows Rosie Valley, just like we don’t know most of the thousand other sex starlets working at the studios, most of them desperate because of the big porn crash.”

“Big porn crash,” said Stackhouse. Ned had hinted it at. Rose had been out of work because there was too much free stuff for the consumers.

“Let me ask you this, Detective Stackhouse. When you looked your girl up, did you find pictures and videos?”

“Oodles of them.”

“Did you pay for them?”

“No. I found more than I wanted, for free,” said Stackhouse.

“That’s exactly it, Stackhouse.” His voice was warm and friendly, and Stackhouse got the impression he’d looked her up online. That often worked in her favor, though sometimes it backfired. “How are these girls, and guys, supposed to make a living if their product is free? Up until the internet exploded, you could feed a family of four, banging away at the studios. Now? You can barely afford your cocaine habit. To be honest, it’s hurting California’s revenue.” He laughed. “Porn brought in a lot of tax dollars. The whole porn ecosystem is suffering. Studios are closing every month, because anyone can film something in a bedroom and give it away, or the good stuff can be copied and distributed against copyright laws. It’s not a great time to be in porn.”

“It’s never a great time to be in porn,” said Stackhouse. “Based on Rose’s condition.”

“I don’t know. I met a lot of the actors who went to work and punched the clock, same as the rest of us. It’s not just porn stars who snort coke every day. Half the cops in San Fernando do. Not me.”

Stackhouse stared at the empty note pad. “Is there someone I can call, who might’ve known her?”

“I did some of the work for you. I talked to a guy in sex crimes, who knows the FBI special agent handling international trafficking, who put me in touch with a former director at Voila Virtual Videos. Good guy, I’m told.” He read the name and number. “He’s now directing car dealership commercials, and he’s waiting on your call, as a special favor to me, as a special favor to you, Detective Andie Stackhouse.”

She smiled into her phone. “Wow, Brant. That’s a lot of work. I appreciate it.” Out of curiosity, she looked him up online, clicking keys softly so he couldn’t hear. She still had the San Fernando PD page open, and she searched for Brant Dobson. In his official photo, he had good hair, nice teeth, and a big confident energy.

Who cares, Andie. You have a boyfriend.

Well. Not really. But you have a date tonight.

Kinda. With a guy you don’t really like.

“You bet, Andie. You owe me one, next time I need help in Virginia. Or if you ever fly to LA,” he said.

“Deal.”

“Let me know how the thing works out?”

“Sure thing, Detective,” said Stackhouse, and she hung up, angry at herself for smiling. Stupid stupid stupid, charmed over the phone by a handsome flirt, like she was stupid stupid stupid.

She called the car dealership commercial director, Curt Lee. She left a message, disappointed Curt didn’t answer, but he called back in three minutes. It sounded like he was in traffic with the windows down.

“Yeah, this is Curt Lee, and I knew Rosie Valley. She came to us as a nascent junkie and when she left she was hardcore, but half of them are, despite the studio’s efforts. More than half. It’s bad business, the girls going sour on meth or crack, and the studio even offered the girls free counseling, but Rosie never bothered. Rosie worked hard but she never got along with the others, par for the course. It’s not like the studios brings in a bunch of good-hearted nurses or psych majors, know what I mean? I tell you, though, I might like car dealers worse, bunch of snakes. Aaaanyway. While I knew Rosie, she never had a boyfriend, or at least she never mentioned it, and she talked to me more than she talked to most. You might want to look up Victoria Shakes. I don’t know her real name, just Victoria Shakes. If they weren’t friends, they were allies, know what I mean? One day Rosie was gone, poof, into the wild blue, and I didn’t blame her, with half the cameras dormant. Hell, I was going broke myself and a lot of girls were vanishing, and I hadn’t thought about Rosie until I got the call last night. You can imagine, that isn’t the first time I got a call like that. Okay, listen, Detective, I gotta bail because time is money and this phone call just cost me fifty bucks of time. Call me tonight if you need something else.”

Click.

Good Garfield. Stackhouse had only said, Hello, this is Detective Andie Stackhouse, and then he’d spouted words and hung up. In Hollywood, apparently directors were busier than detectives.

She searched for Victoria Shakes and found more illicit images than she wanted, but no contact information. Val offered to try from her computer, and she clicked around and muttered, “Hope Victoria is taking her penicillin. Looks like she’s still active. Verrrry active.”

Stackhouse updated the station’s Murder Book, about Ned Krause and Rose Felton’s WIG business, Detective Brant and Viola Videos and MySpace, and director Curt Lee and Victoria Shakes, and… what was she forgetting?

The autopsy! She fetched the lengthy report and scanned the papers into the system, along with her short version—weed, alcohol, opioids, laxatives.

Frustrated, Stackhouse paced the department and fumed. It felt more like she was researching for a non-fiction book on Rose Felton than trying to solve a murder.

She dashed to a meeting, where a sergeant updated the bureau on local organized crime, and then she debriefed the week with Captain Lott, who wanted updates on what his detectives were doing, and then at the request of Lieutenant Lambert she sat in on a car thief interrogation, and she finished her day by scribbling hurried notes for the incoming Bravo shift.

Rose Felton’s killer was not one inch closer to arrest, it felt. Time was aflame, burning up her efforts to mount an investigation. Too much to do, she hadn’t even looked at phone records yet. All the other detectives were busy too, so how was all of this supposed to happen?

Her watch told her it was quitting time. Once again she debated asking Lott about overtime, but tonight she consoled herself with a pressing agenda—visiting the Red Room, known haunt of Dr. Pierce and Maribeth Blue and the swinging crowd.

Leaving Rose Felton for the weekend felt like betrayal. The statistics stated that the odds of solving a murder dropped precipitously after forty-eight hours. Stackhouse was leaving work now on a Friday. She’d found Rose Wednesday. She was scheduled to work again Monday.

“No wonder Mark worked at night,” she muttered. “No meetings to attend, less crap to wade through, less paperwork to deal with because the dayshift did it all.”

“Talking to yourself already, lady?” said Val, packing up. “That’s a bad sign. I’m outta here.”

“Me too.”

“Got a hot date?”

“Something like that.” Stackhouse felt a a strange dread uncoiling in her chest. “You?”

“Nothing about my life is hot. See you Monday, cutie.”

16

“Do you want to look easy?” Kaye asked.

“Definitely not.”

“Do you want to look fun?”

Stackhouse tilted her head at the woman in the standing mirror. A woman, not a detective. Wearing a low-cut silver top with spaghetti straps and an open back.

“Yes,” said Stackhouse. “I think. Maybe.”

“You look fun as hell in that, sweetie. Just don’t reach for anything below your waist.” Kaye sat crisscross on Stackhouse’s bed.

“I need your double-sided tape.”

“You need the whole roll. Your back and shoulders looks divine, by the way. All that running and lifting weights.” Kaye drank wine until Stackhouse selected a short black skirt. “No no no no. Wear the new pants.”

“Why pants?”

“You said fun, not easy. Fun girls show either their boobs or their legs. Easy girls show both,” said Kaye.

Stackhouse considered that the wisest thing she’d ever heard and she said so.

“I wish I could wear that top, but I’d get arrested for indecent exposure,” said Kaye. “Do you want to get lucky tonight?”

“No. Why, are you offering?”

They laughed and Kaye drank more, her cheeks burning.

“But no, I don’t think so,” said Stackhouse. “It’s been a looooong time, so… Maybe.”

“Do you love James?”

“I do not.”

“Do you like him?” said Kaye.

“I don’t know.”

“There’s your answer.”

“It’s just…”

“He’s gonna try,” said Kaye.

“And me wearing this top, I don’t blame him. I sparkle like a fishing lure.”

“When he asks, you’ll consider it, if you’ve been drinking, because you’re too nice. But don’t or you’ll regret it. Bring him here, I’ll dump cold water on him. Or you could just not wear that top.”

“But I look good, babe.”

“You do. Oh my gosh, you totally do. You’ll be the best looking girl there, which is kinda the whole point.”

Stackhouse took a deep breath. “But it shouldn’t be, should it, counselor?”

“Debatable. Yes yes, by the way, yes to the heeled sandals.” Kaye sighed. “I almost feel sorry for James. No, check that, I totally feel sorry for him. I saw him there last week.”

“Saw him?”

“At the Red Room.”

Stackhouse was about to push a diamond stud into her ear but she stopped. “Who was he with?”

“Some whore. Just teasing, I think he was there alone. If you score an invite, you don’t need to bring a hot date. He might’ve been trolling for girls looking like fishing lures.”

“You didn’t tell me you went there.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to judge me,” said Kaye.

“Why would I judge?”

“Because the Red Room is a mess, and I’m supposed to be a professional adult with her life together.”

“Isn’t it a place for professional adults?” said Stackhouse.

“With dark sides. Who regret it the next day.”

“Did you do—”

Kaye stood in a rush and fled the room. “I don’t wanna talk anymore. Have a nice time! Just say no!”

Against his protests, she met James there. It gave her an excuse to drive off alone, further frustrating his hunting instincts. She parked in the private lot across from the Ridgeway Building. The first floor was aglow with the Good Life restaurant, outside of which James waited.

“Holy shit, Andrea,” he said.

She spread her arms and curtsied. Not too low. “I’m on time.”

“You look like a million dollars. A million untaxed dollars in the sexiest trust fund imaginable.”

She thanked him and they rode the elevator to the roof. One only enters the Red Room via the circuitous route, and exits via an entirely different door. They ordered drinks at the rooftop bar and he clicked his highball glass against her champagne flute.

They half-leaned against each other in the warm evening under the glow of cafe lights, watching the small crowd at their tables—not everyone could reserve the roof. He smelled like expensive cologne and she wished he’d shaved the short gruff. If he kissed her, it would scrape.

He nodded his head. “That’s Judge Lynch. The tall one, looks like a vampire.”

“I know him.”

“Do you know his brother? Peter, the defense attorney, the one all over the billboards?”

Stackhouse nodded. “I do and I stay away.”

“The Red Room had to un-invite Peter. The man’s a pervert. But he’s a rich pervert. I handle his taxes.” He said it the way she imagined she would announce she’d caught Rose Felton’s murderer.

They finished their drinks and ordered another, and he took her hand. “Ready?”

Somehow she didn’t feel ready. Despite the heat, she shivered. “Yes. Let’s.”

He led her to the penthouse stairwell and down a level. Everyone assumed these were apartments, but the fourth floor wasn’t. It was a club. From everywhere, Stackhouse detected a musical throb. A couple was whispering in the hallway, and James led her beyond them to an open ornate doorway, out of which came hot noise. A tall man with a shaved head and a dragon tattooed on his face stopped them.

“James, my man, you’re not on the list tonight.” The bouncer’s eyes shifted to James’ date. “Oh shit, James, never mind. James, my brother, nice pull, and you two have a killer time.”

The Red Room wasn’t red, but pinkish. Stackhouse was reminded of fraternity parties at Marshall University, except these frat brothers had money to burn. The couches were leather and the air smelled of perfume, not Axe body spray. The men dressed well and were funding retirement accounts. But still, the lights were dimmed and the music was loud and corners were dark for a reason. Perhaps two hundred guests lounged on the couches or chatted at the high top tables or drank at the bar, and braver souls danced, some of them provocatively, under the disco balls. She suspected cocaine was being snorted at the glass high top near the dance floor, and smokers crowded an open window, getting high.

The first man James introduced her to caused Stackhouse to panic. He was big and bulky and good looking, like a rugby player. “Oh fuck!” he shouted. “Miss Thing is here, I can’t believe this!”

Guy Dotson. She had briefly dated him, three years ago, until they’d both been attacked by a vengeful maniac, Jane Newton. Stackhouse had intentionally severed ties with Guy.

Now he was smiling at her and he was drunk.

“Not attending AA anymore, Guy?” she said.

He shocked her by picking her up and squeezing. Like she had been hoisted dozens of times in college. Her drink spilled and she felt her tape threatening to break.

“Guy, no. Down, Guy,” she shouted.

“The judge took away my license, and my little girl is in college, so why bother with sobriety!” He set her down and wiped his eyes, and she saw he was emotional. “You remember Isla? She’s in college now, can you believe? At UVA. Did you ever meet Isla? Damn, Andie, I always hoped you’d come here.”

She adjusted her shirt back into place, and James Rigby was flabbergasted over the music. “You two must go back?” said James.

“This is the best cop in Roanoke, James. I swear to God, she is. She saved my life, did she tell you?”

“No she hasn’t.”

“I had been kidnapped.” Guy stopped to belch, and Stackhouse wondered how she could flee.

“I remember you telling me that,” said James loudly, competing with Beyonce’s Single Ladies.

“Andie fought a girl and killed her and rescued me!”

Stackhouse objected. “I didn’t—”

“Killed her, James! Oh damn, are you two dating?”

“She’s here with me, yes.” James slid a hand around Stackhouse’s waist, his warm fingers against her bare skin.

“Damndamndamn, James, I’m hella jealous.” Guy’s eyes were shinning with booze and tears. “I never stopped loving her, I swear to God.”

“Okay,” said Stackhouse. “This has been great. But. I’m getting a drink at the bar.”

“Yeah, we’ll catch up,” shouted Guy, and she left them there, walking quickly and feeling their eyes on her back.

Guy Dotson. Of all the gin joints.

She didn’t want another drink, she wanted space. Despite Guy tipping her flute, she had some champagne left and she set it on the bar top to forestall ordering.

The bartender came anyway. He thunked an open bottle of Moet on the table and cocked an eyebrow.

She smiled. “Not yet.”

“Welcome to the Red Room,” said the bartender.

“Thank you.”

“I know who you are.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re on the news too much for me not to.”

Stackhouse shrugged. “Roanoke’s not big enough, is it.”

“Cops are welcome here. But law enforcement isn’t. If you follow me,” said the bartender.

She tilted her head back.

“I don’t own this place, Ms. Stackhouse,” said the bartender. “But I communicate the rules.”

“I gotcha.”

A man interjected himself into the conversation by sliding next to Stackhouse. He said, “Don’t worry about this one, Andre. We’ll chat.”

“Very good,” said the bartender, and he waggled the bottle of Moet at her. “Your next drink’s on me, Miss Stackhouse.”

She stepped back from the man next to her, her boss, Chief Almond. She knew he visited the Red Room but she’d hoped it wasn’t frequent. He considered her his arch rival. She considered him an ass hat.

“Good to see you, Detective.” Almond was holding a whiskey and she suspected it was his third or fourth.

“Is it.”

“We can get along, out of the office, you know. It’s refreshing to see you’re a real human, and not just a professional pain in my ass.”

“I can be an amateur pain in the ass in my free time,” she said and he laughed.

“I hope not.” He indicated the club at large with his whiskey. “Enjoy yourself and don’t get any dumb ideas. You’re outranked here by three lifetimes.”

“I don’t follow,” she said, though she thought she probably did. “I’m saying…” He drank. “I’m saying, if you see a federal judge smoking a joint, you’ll forget it immediately. If you see a cop snorting a line, you either join in or shut up. If you try to make trouble about any of it, a dozen prosecutors and cops and tough guys will drum you out of town, or worse. Ever heard of the Kings? In here, even judges toe the line. Here there be dragons.”

Looking back on it later, Stackhouse found his words prescient. His warning was almost kind. In that moment, however, she inwardly mocked and dismissed it. Almond was a climber and he craved the approval of the elite. She said, “What if I see a woman being sexually assaulted?”

“You won’t.”

“What if the woman’s me?”

“Then enjoy it. Life’s all about perspective, isn’t it, Andie. In here, no one does their job. Don’t fuck it up.” He raised his glass and moved off into the crowd, tall and handsome, a favorite of the public.

“Enjoy it,” she muttered. “Creep.”

She turned to find a fresh flute of bubbles waiting.

The wine coursed in her limbs now, lifting her spirits and bravery. She warmed to her mission of spotting Dr. Raymond Pierce and then… And then, she didn’t know. She hadn’t planned that far ahead. Her instincts said he was a predator and she should do something about it.

Had she come here as bait for Dr. Pierce?

James found her, and the wine increased his appeal. She said, “Tell me who you know here,” and she let him play the big important man, as she searched the room for Dr. Pierce. He pointed out the dean of Virginia Tech; the heir apparent to the region’s biggest shipping company; a congressman; Mayor Barone; a television news anchor; a former Miss Virginia; and, “you met Guy, already. He’s rich as hell, a successful investor, but you knew that. And who else is here that matters. Well, there’s me.”

She nudged him with her bare shoulder. “There’s you, of course.”

“We should dance,” he said.

“Do you know Maribeth Blue?”

“Sure I do.” He scanned the crowd. “I don’t see her, but she could be hiding.”

“How is she?”

“Fine, I guess. Why?”

So James hadn’t heard that Maribeth Blue had been found entirely nude in an alley earlier this week. Probably no one had. She’d clammed up on the subject, swearing her friend to silence and demanded the police cease their investigation.

Dr. Pierce was the perfect predator, his victims refusing to admit they’d been pounced on.

That’ll change if he pounces on me.

She allowed herself to be led to the dance floor, the third champagne lubricating her wheels. She often tested her blood alcohol level, and knew she approached the legal driving limit. No more tonight, she told herself.

The DJ played a slow song, Hero, by Enrique Iglesias. Despite being over-the-top cheesy and romantic, she was grateful for the slow intimate dance, because it let her inspect the dark corners and she felt no temptation to dance like she had in college. James held her close and she didn’t begrudge him, such was the wine’s allure, and this was why kids shouldn’t drink, dammit. Against alcohol there could be no victory.

She didn’t see Dr. Pierce anywhere.

Though he saw her.

Watching from a darkened table, his head down, stormy eyes fastened on the dance floor. Like Guy, Dr. Pierce had been hoping Andie Stackhouse would eventually make an appearance. She was angelic. To his eyes, she glowed. All other women should stand at the wall and pay tribute. His hands trembled on the table.

One of the dancing couples bumped into Stackhouse and James, intentionally. It was Maddie Owens, who gushed at seeing her. In her daze, it took Stackhouse a moment to place the face—Maddie Owens, neighbor to Rose Felton. Maddie had been the first to disclose the swinging nature of their social circle.

Maddie introduced her husband, an anesthesiologist, and then she said, “So, James Rigby, will we see you tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t asked her yet.” James looked embarrassed and Stackhouse detected she was on the outside of a secret.

Maddie Owens winked at Stackhouse. “Say YES, gorgeous. It’ll be a wild time, I promise. Gawd, look at you, I could die, you’re so perfect.”

They moved away and James cleared his throat. “So there’s this party tomorrow.”

Stackhouse could guess the nature. Her head swam but she kept her voice level. “Oh?”

“A group in South Roanoke, they… They throw crazy dinner parties, you could say. Your friend Guy goes occasionally. They invited me for the first time, but I need to bring a date,” said James. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

This is crazy.

These people are crazy. Or maybe it’s me?

Before she could answer, a new voice interrupted them. “Mind if I cut in? I want to dance with the detective.”

Hurst Amato, one of her former officers when she worked as a patrol sergeant. A wildly handsome man. Beefy and beautiful, he’d danced professionally before joining the force.

She suppressed a groan. Tonight wasn’t going as she’d envisioned. This was too much.

“Another old friend?” James Rigby asked her.

“He is.” Stackhouse introduced the men to one another.

“Fine. You can dance. But only for a minute.” James released her and tried for cavalier. “I’m a jealous date.”

At that moment, the song ended and the DJ sped up the floor with Yeah, by Usher. Hurst held her close, however, and said, “Ignore that. We don’t need it. Just keep moving.”

She did, but she began looking at the exit. Too many eyeballs were scrutinizing them. All of the eyeballs.

She’d worn the wrong top. This was a disaster.

“I didn’t know you came here, Sergeant.” His voice was close to her ear. His body felt harder than James’ had.

“I don’t.”

“Here you are.”

“I’m hunting Dr. Pierce,” she said, and in fact Hurst might be the only person she could admit it to. Though neither could prove it, they shared the belief that Dr. Pierce had sliced Hurst open with a surgical scalpel.

She felt him tense.

“Yeah, he’s here sometimes,” said Hurst. “I’m tempted to break his neck when I spot him. That piece of shit smiles and raises his glass to me. Someone told me his practice is falling apart.”

“I hadn’t heard that. Why?” Her mind hummed like a power line at the news.

“I don’t know. Maybe because he’s insane?”

“How often are you here?”

“I’m not important enough or rich enough to score official invites. I only come when I’m brought as a guest,” said Hurst, and she suspected that was a lot. “You could bring me.”

“I don’t get official invites either.”

“C’mon, Sergeant, you could walk in any night you want, and you know it.”

“I’m a detective now, Hurst. Not your sergeant,” she said.

“You saved my life. You’ll always be my sergeant.” He squeezed her hand.

I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

She spotted James. He was chatting with two women she didn’t know.

“Thank you for the dance, Hurst. I’m heading for the ladies’ room.”

“If you want, I’ll wait for you,” he said, but Stackhouse was already on the move. She edged toward the bar, so James wouldn’t notice her escape, and she made a circuit of the room. She altered course when she spotted Chief Almond, but she continued stalking, passing the window that reeked of reefer. Big Guy Dotson observed her flight and he pursued her, and so she hurried, losing him in the crowd, scanning and searching and not finding the physician she wanted. The music and the wine and the crowd and her urgency, she ran as in a dream.

His practice is falling apart.

What am I doing here!

She felt like an idiot college kid pretending to be an investigator at a kegger. Her prey wasn’t at the Red Room tonight.

The exit loomed closer, and she noticed James was now dancing with one of the other women, and wow was she aggressive, showing her boobs and legs, and Kaye would have strong opinions about it. This felt like Eyes Wide Shut, that freaky movie she watched a couple years ago.

Stackhouse fled down the stairs, leaving her date to fend for himself. Although only partying for an hour, she felt she’d been there a month. The women in high heels could wait for an elevator, but she craved movement and distance, even in heeled sandals, and she forced herself not to leap. Like outracing a fever.

The doorway egressed into an alley that’d been dressed up to be fashionable, but it was what it was—an alley leading in three directions, so parties could choose their walk of shame.

Painted on the floor was a goodbye message—Enjoy Your Night! Your Secrets Are Safe With Us. Please Extend Us The Same Courtesy.

“Sweet Lincoln,” she said.

She picked the direction she deemed correct and she hurried. She passed darkened doorways.

Inside one of which waited Dr. Pierce. He sat like a homeless man, like someone you saw but didn’t notice, like a leopard in ambush. Unseen by Stackhouse, he rose smoothly, inside his chest a storm of hurt and fury.

“Hey! Andie, wait up!” a loud voice rang out.

Guy Dotson had followed her, reaching the alley and huffing and puffing. Sweat was a sheen on his cheeks.

She didn’t wait up.

“Andie!” he called again, and Dr. Pierce cursed and melted backward into the shadows. Stackhouse never knew he was there, and his body screamed for release and he knew he must cut himself later.

Ignorant of her brush with the doctor, Stackhouse ran. She didn’t trust herself or the night or the city or the wine. She outran Guy and her mortification. Inside her Nissan, she gunned the engine and drove five blocks to the police station.

Within, the Friday night weekend Bravo squads hooted at her and clapped and she blushed and told them to shut up, regretting her outfit all the more. She blew into a breathalyzer and got a .08.

Right on the nose.

She ran out, ignoring requests for a photograph from the perverts. Back in the driver’s seat, she locked the door and texted James.

Feeling blah. Had to run. Thank you for taking me.

She waited and wondered about her blood alcohol level.

Was it childish to wait? It’s not like she would crash the car. Plus the drive was only two miles, and most cops would laugh and let her off, if she was pulled over.

But no. She wanted to be in the FBI—she demanded it—and they wouldn’t want a DUI on her record.

Although it should’ve occurred to earlier, she only realized with a jolt that the partiers at the Red Room could be beneficial to her career. Of course they could be. That’s why half of them went, to mingle with the elite to further their careers. She’d gone as a cop on a hunt, seeing nothing but obstacles in her path, missing a golden opportunity to chat with the law firm partners and the judges.

But, wouldn’t that mean she’d be playing their game?

Who knew. Not her. She knew nothing.

She rubbed her eyes and sighed.

“Not your finest night, Andie.”

Home again.

From their enormous couch, Kaye cried, “It’s not even midnight!”

“It’s the midnight of my soul.” Stackhouse locked the door after her. Keep out the madness.

“What’s that mean?”

“Who knows.” Stackhouse ran upstairs to change and came back and crashed onto the cushions next to Kaye. The couch was somehow both warm and cool, a hug. The safest place on earth. She spoke into a pillow. “What’re you watching?”

“Something banal and unintelligent.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Sweetie, what happened?” asked Kaye.

Stackhouse wanted to sleep but she was wound up. Should she pop a sleeping pill?

Had Rose Felton ever partied at the Red Room? She bet so. Rose would be in demand, there. Then Rose would go home drunk and take sleeping pills to sleep, and yikes, no Stackhouse would NOT pop a sleeping pill tonight.

“Sweetie?” said Kaye again. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“But?”

“But I don’t know how to be a police officer and a woman and a law student and single and happy all at once,” said Stackhouse.

“Ah.” Kaye rubbed Stackhouse’s head like she would a child. “Welcome to adulthood.”

“I hate it.”

“Shhhhh, go to sleep. Aren’t you glad you didn’t wear the skirt.”

17

Saturday. A day off.

Stackhouse jogged Prospect Road, one of the trails winding up Mill Mountain. She ran it twice. Her legs gave out during the second ascent but the trees were so green they hurt her eyes and the atmosphere cooled at the top. The air smelled fragrant, of nature and purity, and she felt better about the wicked world.

Her phone indicated she had a text waiting from James, but she couldn’t bear it yet. Like a tax bill.

She drove to the Roanoke Athletic Club and lifted weights, a grueling full-body circuit that lasted two hours—squats and deadlifts and leg curls, and sit-ups and planking, and pull-ups and chest presses and shoulder flies and seated rows, and curls and arm extensions, four sets of each, until she wondered if she could reach the locker room. Afterward she downed a chunky protein shake and lowered wobbling into the club’s hot tub, set to 104 degrees Fahrenheit. A minute before she began to boil, she forced herself out and sat panting in the shower, light-headed.

Despite the buoyant glow of serotonin and endorphins and other happy chemicals Kaye told her about, she hadn’t outrun her responsibilities. She turned her face upward into the spray and steeled herself.

Dressed again, sitting on a bench with her hair clean and damp, she opened the text from James.

>> Friendly get-together tonight? On Tradd Street?

>> Fair warning. It will be VERY friendly.

She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. In through her nose, out through her mouth. It was a swinger party. Screw the neighbor. She responded, I don’t sleep with strangers.

Hitting send, she muttered, “I haven’t even had sex with you.”

The elderly lady at the locker across from her examined Stackhouse curiously, wondering if she heard right.

>> Am I still a stranger?

>> Here’s the guest list.

He sent a photograph of names. Most she didn’t know. She recognized Maddie Owens and her husband Everett. Names were organized by couple. She kept reading, and she jumped off the bench.

Dr. Raymond Pierce and Maribeth Blue.

“Are you kidding me,” she breathed.

Maribeth Blue, the modern woman, the bank manager who refused to admit she’d been embarrassed and assaulted, was attending the party with the man who assaulted her.

With the man Stackhouse presumed assaulted her.

James texted again.

>> Let’s attend the party, Andrea.

>> We’ll have some drinks. Have some laughs.

>> Then we’ll leave early and go back to my place.

>> Don’t say no. Yeah?

She closed her eyes and rubbed them.

I don’t want to do any of that, James.

But was Maribeth caught up in a world where “No” was not an option?

Stackhouse was a cop. She protected and she served, and she wanted to shove Dr. Pierce into a prison cell. Besides, not only would Dr. Pierce be there, so would half of Rose Felton’s neighbors. She could learn a lot about the fabric of the world Rose had crashed into.

She responded.

Okay, let’s go to the party.

During the summer, her law school coursework dropped to one class, the easiest she’d ever taken—Basics of Finance, aimed at those who’d be opening their own firm. She spent an hour working on it after lunch, scoring perfect on three quizzes—God help the clients hiring young attorneys who didn’t understand balance sheets or risk analysis—which meant she didn’t have to think about law school again for another week.

But she had to think about something. Kaye was kayaking Carvin’s Cove with someone she refused to discuss.

Stackhouse tried reading a book, The Art of Racing in the Rain, which was charming, even if Enzo’s opinion of humans was too high.

She watched a television show from their huge couch, 17 Kids And Counting, mesmerized by all the children, thinking her life would be perfect too if she grew up in an ideal family like the Duggars, where nothing bad ever happened.

After clicking off the television, boredom took over and before she knew it, she was dialing Maribeth Blue without an inkling of what to say if she answered.

She wouldn’t ask her captain for overtime hours, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t work pro bono. Right? Actually, she didn’t know the answer to that. Luckily Maribeth ignored the call and it went to voicemail. After the beep, Stackhouse fumbled through a message, “Hi, Maribeth, this is Detective Andie Stackhouse. Ahhh, just wanted to check in with you. See how you are. No pressure from me, it’s been, what, four or five days since you woke up, ahhhh, alone, so there’s no, ummm, nothing could be learned now from going to the hospital. That is, unless, you know, you’re pregnant or have an STD. But. I’m sure you don’t. You know, probably. Though you might want to make sure.” Stackhouse scrunched up her eyes. Get it together, Andie! “Anyway, I hope you’re well. Be safe. Don’t take any risks or… You know. Maybe just stay home for a few weeks? I’m here if you need me. Sorry, this is a weird message. Save my number. Bye. Sorry about the STD thing I said. Bye.”

She hung up and threw the phone to the other side of the cushions.

“Good GRIEF! You can’t even talk!”

Detecting a need for more protein, and rejecting the idea of another shake, she made herself a deli sandwich, piling the slices high, the little baggies reminding her of the way organs were sampled and stored during an autopsy. She ate in front of the television, which she didn’t turn on, the idea too exhausting, so she opened her laptop and did some background checking.

Loma Stubblefield. WIG seller extraordinaire. Ranked number eight in the country, lived in Knoxville. Loma had to skip the conference because she too got sick. Coincidence? Loma and Rose Felton hated one another, so said Staci. Fought like cats. With a name like Loma, she wasn’t hard to identify on social media. Loma was a dark-haired beauty, but severe and serious. Ten years older than Rose. She could be a model or a CEO, either way, one who never cracked jokes—that was the impression Stackhouse got. No arrest record. She’d been married and divorced already. Her personal cell phone number was listed everywhere—call me for a free makeup sample!

Stackhouse called and the woman answered the first ring.

“Hi, this is Loma, Ambassador for Work It Girl, International. How can I help you reach your dreams?”

Stackhouse grinned into the phone. That’s a hard sell. “Hi Loma, this is Detective Andie Stackhouse, calling from Roanoke, Virginia. Do you have a moment to talk?”

“Repeat that, please, you’re who? A detective?”

“Detective Andie Stackhouse. With Roanoke Police.”

“Is something wrong? Oh. This is in regards to Rose Felton, isn’t it,” said Loma.

“Yes ma’am it is. I’m investigating the homicide, and I was given your name as someone who might help me with the background.”

“What is your name and badge number, please? You have to provide those, they are a matter of public record,” said Loma.

“I already gave you my name,” said Stackhouse and she rattled off her badge number. It happened frequently—few people believed she was a cop at first. “I’m told you’re number eight in the WIG company. Congratulations, that’s quite an achievement.”

“As of yesterday, I’m number seven. But thank you. I do not think I can be any assistance, Officer. Rose and I hardly spoke.”

“Would it be easier if I drove to Knoxville? I can get there Monday morning.”

“No, God no. The telephone is fine. I really didn’t know Rose well.”

“How did you hear about her death?” asked Stackhouse.

“Her passing was announced on the company’s message boards, and we all mourned her on Facebook, the appropriate thing.”

Stackhouse couldn’t pinpoint the reason, but Loma was already a person she didn’t like. “Mourned her. You two fought like cats, is what’s in the police file.”

“Rose was a difficult person to get along with. She was unprofessional, and I think she cheapened the brand, but I’m not sure how that’s your business,” said Loma. “Is that really in the police file?”

It wasn’t. But Stackhouse would put it in. She’d forgotten. Forgotten because she had too much to do, so much she was working on a Saturday. How did career detectives do this?

“After you mourned her, you and the other WIG girls started texting to find out what happened. Right? Someone contacted Staci and Allyson, I’m sure. What did you learn?”

“Officer, I don’t think—”

Stackhouse leaned harder. “Loma, my partner and I will come buy you a coffee Monday morning.”

“No, fine, Rose skipped the conference, which is a big deal. We heard she stayed home because she was sick, but then someone shot her. That’s all I know, I promise you.”

“What kinda sick?”

“I don’t know. I heard sick, is all. I can send you photographs of the text messages to prove it, but I don’t see why I would need to,” said Loma.

“You were sick too.”

“I was not sick. This is why rumors should be ignored, Officer.”

“You skipped the conference,” prompted Stackhouse.

“I was forced to. My mother died. Her funeral was yesterday. Rumors started because I chose not to publicize my grief.”

Rats. I keep stepping in it.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Loma.”

“I was scheduled to speak on two panels and host another, and the event’s organizer was forced to make emergency changes. The company’s CEO sent me flowers, though. You asked for background? Here is some. Rose Felton cheapened the good name of WIG. We sell luxury products that she peddled with her pornographic body. She broke the rules of how to build a business. She was reprimanded by the company, and she was difficult to work with. She was drunk every time I met her. Her distributors didn’t like her, her competition didn’t like her, and it’s not all that surprising to me, Officer, that someone eventually grew angry enough to murder her.”

“Where were you Tuesday, when that happened?”

“Surrounded by family. I have abundant alibis, so I can speak freely,” said Loma.

“Do you know Allyson Knowles?” Another woman who fought with Rose. Allyson lived in Roanoke, but she’d been in Florida at the time of Rose’s death. Photographs proved it.

“Of course I do, she’s in my up-line.”

“I don’t know what that means,” admitted Stackhouse.

“It means Allyson has been in the company longer than me. She signed… Somebody, maybe Babbs, who signed Rachel, I think, who signed Chelle, who signed me. It’s a network.”

“That means, any money you make, Allyson profits?”

“Correct,” said Loma. “Lucky her. I constitute most of her volume.”

“I’m calling Allyson Knowles next. Do you and she work together?”

“No, Allyson is insufferable. She resorts to the same cheap tricks that Rose did, but to a less successful degree. Professionalism and work ethic matter, in the long run, far more than sexy marketing. You can tell her I said that. It’d be good for her. She and Rose live near one another, I believe. Sorry, lived.”

Stackhouse thanked her and hung up. A quick Google search of Stubblefields in Tennessee verified that Ms. Fanny Stubblefield passed last week, survived by her daughters Loma and Spirit. A decent alibi.

Allyson Knowles had attended the WIG conference in Florida. Stackhouse found her updates on Twitter, plus a few photographs on Facebook. How many social media sites did a person need?

On Twitter, Allyson bragged about the new mascara line, using far too many exclamation points. She begged people to join her team and make their dreams come true. Be ur own effing BOSS and make ur own effing dreams come tru!!!!! BO$$!!!!!

On Facebook, Allyson tagged herself in WIG’s marketing, including a photograph of her on stage, waving. Plus Allyson hugging people Stackhouse didn’t recognize, and a photograph of Allyson and her husband smiling at a dinner table.

Stackhouse rang Allyson and explained who she was, and that she’d like to meet Monday. Allyson obviously wasn’t a suspect—she’d been on stage, waving, watched by thousands, when Rose had been shot. Allyson said Monday would be fine and she hung up.

An hour later, stalling against getting dressed for the party, Stackhouse checked their mailbox and found a crinkled letter, addressed to Andrea. The return address pierced her.

Her aunt had written. Aunt Mary, her father’s sister, a woman she’d only met a handful of times, and not seen in fifteen years. Stackhouse dropped into the kitchen chair and deciphered the scrawl.

She lowered the letter a few minutes later, to her lap.

Her father was sick. A large brain tumor. Aunt Mary thought his long-lost daughter might like to know.

18

Stackhouse’s mother had passed when Stackhouse was ten. Neither she nor her father weathered the grief well, growing distant and cold, until Stackhouse ran away. In retrospect it was a scream for help, hoping her father would follow, prompting him to show his devotion, to force him to move, to grow, to heal, but the nightmare scenario occurred instead—he hadn’t. He acted as though her disappearance wasn’t worth notice.

They hadn’t spoken since and she’d boxed him away in closeted parts of her brain, visited only occasionally and with aftershocks. He’d live there forever, Jimmy Stackhouse Junior, in her mind, numb and drunk, alive like a statue, a remembrance only, a memorial to someone who once mattered. She lived her life with the open wound tainting everything she did.

Stackhouse allowed James Rigby to pick her up. She felt like a floating Chinese sky lantern, hollow and burning inside, floating where fate pushed. He held her hand and held back his comments on her outfit.

She’d let Kaye dress her. A black turtleneck, in June, and jeans. Kaye did not approve of this party. Stackhouse’s hair was up and she wore little makeup, and on the drive over she could not remember why she'd agreed to attend. There had been a reason, she knew it. A mission she was on. She attempted thinking in reverse, backwards in time, but kept stumbling over the note written by her aunt. What happened before that, before her father grew a brain tumor…

Oh yes.

Dr. Raymond Pierce, the predator.

Maribeth Blue, the prey.

Rose Felton, the unavenged.

Jimmy Stackhouse. Jimmy Junior. Her father, dying.

“Andrea, you okay?” asked James. His cologne was suffocating.

“Sorry, was I talking to myself?”

“No. We’re here. The Dawsons’ house.”

“Who are the Dawsons?” asked Stackhouse, feeling slow.

“The hosts. The Dawsons are royalty in South Roanoke.”

The Dawsons lived in a sprawling ranch, windows everywhere. More grand and modern than Rose Felton’s, six houses down. The exterior was covered with Hardie board, and the lawn dotted with oak trees. The driveway was stone and lined with ivy.

Stackhouse stood out of James’ car before he could help her. He breathed deep and sighed with pleasure. “Can’t you just smell the money. Did you pregame?”

“No. Did you?”

“Hell yeah I did. It would help with your nerves,” he said.

Randal Dawson and his wife Audrey met them at the door. A gorgeous couple, thought Stackhouse, like if Gaston had married Belle, in Beauty and the Beast. James betrayed his nerves, stammering, introducing Stackhouse, and Randal kissed Stackhouse on the cheek, several seconds too long.

Maddie Owens was the first person Stackhouse had interviewed about Rose Felton, and Maddie had mentioned the swinging lifestyle, and here she was, drunk, her and her husband and the rest, standing in the kitchen or lounging in the den. Stackhouse had hoped to pry more information out of them, about Rose Felton and the neighbors but Maddie was red-faced and laughing and falling out of her dress. Her husband sat by, smiling, his cheeks rosy, a handsome man.

These people are beautiful and beastly.

Audrey Dawson pressed a goblet of white wine into Stackhouse’s hand and introduced her to the crowd, perhaps sixteen attendees. She was welcomed and cheered and a sultry redhead referred to her as a lamb led to the slaughter, and someone unseen in the back called, “Hot damn, let’s start the bidding!”

Stackhouse drank quickly and went for more.

Dr. Raymond Pierce waited at the wine table. Her heart leaped into her throat. A showdown so soon? She refused to walk away. Refused to back down.

He offered a bottle of champagne. “I know everything about you, Andie. You’re a bubbly woman.”

“Not tonight. Not from you.” She selected a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. She wasn’t a wine expert, it was merely the closest thing. It poured dark into her glass and she hoped it worked. Her glass didn’t tremble and she was pleased with her strength.

“A red grape? Come now, let’s not play games. You’re no cab,” he said. Normally fit and trim and composed, Pierce held a wild air about him. He needed a haircut and shave, and his gaze felt like a sunburn. She’d heard his practice was failing. Here was confirmation—something was off about the doctor.

“You don’t know me, Dr. Pierce.”

“A cabernet sauvignon grape is too easily grown. It’s everywhere. It’s mundane and banal, that’s why so many fat Americans drink it. You’re no cab.”

“I notice you brought Maribeth,” said Stackhouse.

Dr. Pierce did not attempt hiding a sneer. “A Michelob of a woman, isn’t she.”

“Don’t toy with her. Leave her alone.”

“You’re a Pinot Noir grape, Andie. Much harder to grow, for more sophisticated palates. Crisp and beautiful. But…” He pursed his lips and tapped them with a finger in need of a manicure. “But you’re not from Oregon or Washington, which produce colder, harder fruit. You’re California. You’re juicy, Andie, hot and ripe and ready to burst.”

She drank deeply and wished she’d chosen something else. “You were right the first time, Doctor. I’m bubbles. Just not from you.”

“The red wine looks good on your lips, Andie. Like you’re bleeding. You could’ve been a surgeon. Did you know? Few can, but you? You could have been anything. Why a cop, of all things. You’re a rose thrown into the dumpster. And you brought trash to this soiree, a tax man.”

They stood at the table reserved for alcohol, bottles of red and ice buckets for white, a table frequented by the partiers, who watched the two square off, but without understanding.

Stackhouse finished her wine and chose a white next.

“Your practice is suffering, I hear.”

He nodded his head. “I admit it. Time is not kind.”

“Close up shop and check yourself into rehab, Doctor. You lost your wife and your son, and now your professional life is wobbling. Your brain is broken. Mental health should be your highest priority, not dating. You need help.”

He raised a bottle as if reading it, but put it back. He did it again with another, and Stackhouse understood he was stalling. He fingered the label of another.

“What might have been different, if you hadn’t been cold to me,” he said.

“I wasn’t cold until I discovered what you are.”

“And what am I?”

“A sexual predator.”

“None of those women were harmed, Andie.”

“All of them bear emotional scars, at minimum, Doctor.”

“Emotional scars. Frailty, thy name is woman. Each of the women you claim I wounded is now more mature. More aware of who she is and who she isn’t. Not every female is an Andie Stackhouse. Doesn’t it gall you, lesser women putting on airs?”

“It’s not for me to judge. Nor you.”

“It is absolutely for us to judge.” Spittle flew. He wiped his mouth and composed. “Who better to see the lay of the land than those above. You are ascending. You are in rarified air. Stop bothering yourself with…” He flipped a hand. “With lesser creatures, like tax attorneys.”

“Doctor.”

“What if I draw your number, Andie?” he said.

She gulped down half of her third goblet. “What does that mean?”

“It means I undress you.”

Someone took her hand. It was the sultry redhead, who said, “You, my dear, come with me,” and she tugged Stackhouse away from the table. “I’m Fransisca Lyons. You are Andie Stackhouse. We are destined to be friends.”

“Why’s that?” asked Stackhouse. I undress you. Barf. She searched the room for Maribeth, there, found her, on the couch.

“Look at you. Look at me. And take my word for it,” said Fransisca. “It’s either good friends or bitter enemies, with no in between, and I chose intimacy. Welcome to your first party at the Dawsons.”

“Thank you, but I’m not staying long,” said Stackhouse.

She felt a looseness building in her mind, in her joints. She was drinking too much again, for the second night, something she rarely did.

“Oh you think so? Why is that?” Fransisca still held her hand, but it didn’t feel like a sexual thing, more like a performance.

“My date and I decided to make an appearance only.”

“Your date.” Fransisca, who might’ve been one of the lovelier persons Stackhouse could ever remember meeting, who slipped seduction into every syllable, inclined her head toward the group across the room. “Your date is already enamored.”

James Rigby reclined on the couch, laughing, and eating what Stackhouse suspected were bud brownies. Maddie Owens draped a leg across his.

Well. Sweet Lincoln, what now.

“When the good doctor asked what you would do if he drew your number, you seemed ignorant, Andie Stackhouse,” said Fransisca. “Here’s how it works. In a while, the girls will be sent to our beds. To wait. Yes, it sounds a bit medieval but if you surrender to it, you’ll enjoy it more. You’ll wait, trembling, angry with yourself over how excited you are, while the men thump their chests and blindly draw numbers and descend upon the plucked rooms and quivering playthings. Great fun. Afterwards we’ll reconvene and make horrid jokes, and my husband will fake a heart attack again and we’ll pretend to laugh. Do you understand now?”

“What if I don’t want to do that?” said Stackhouse, who found oxygen had become scarce.

“You do. Trust me. But, just in case, keep drinking.”

“When I arrived, someone mentioned bidding.”

“My husband, in fact. A pervert and a joke. There’s no bidding. Do you see the silver fox? That’s Calvin Summers. He has connections to the District Kings. Pray you don’t get him.”

Stackhouse stomped on her nerves and forced focus. “Do you live close, Fransisca?”

“I do.”

“Did you know Rose Felton?”

“I did. Nasty little creature, wasn’t she. Rose and I were not destined to be friends.”

“Do you…” Stackhouse’s brain, only for a moment, slurred. “Did you try WIG makeup?”

“Are you here to sell?”

“I’m not,” said Stackhouse.

“Yes, I tried some. Not up to my standards.”

“Did Rose come to these parties?”

“She did. One or two,” said Fransisca. “Single men are not invited. You can understand that. Imagine the odor. Single women, however…”

“Rose wasn’t single.”

Fransisca tightened her grip on Stackhouse. “She was after we finished with her. That cable-man oaf was not invited. A group like this lives to keep out the riffraff. Soon you’ll be doing it too.”

The bacchanal was in full throat. Wine dropped dangerously in the bottles. The smell of reefer hung in the air. Only one invitee wasn’t partaking, a man smiling near the exit. He looked like an honest newscaster, handsome but uncomfortable, and Stackhouse thought she recognized him.

“What are you thinking?” asked Fransisca.

That this is too much, toooo much, I can’t keep track of anything. I’m NOT a quivering plaything.

“Certainly, after parties like this, there are jealousies,” said Stackhouse.

“Ooooo. Detective Stackhouse. You suspect foul play.”

“I know there’s foul play. Rose was shot.”

“You think the murderer is here, with us. How exciting.” The redhead stepped away from Stackhouse, to hold her at arm’s length, and she called, “Everyone. Announcement. This perfect creature thinks Rose Felton’s killer is among us.” The room called and cheered and Stackhouse felt like sinking into the floor. “If you did it, raise your hand, please.”

A dozen hands rose, men and women, followed by roaring dark laughter.

Take us away, copper! I hope you brought handcuffs! Someone surely did!

Stackhouse felt she was spotlighted and she fled from it, exit stage right, slipping out of the crowd’s view and inching toward Maribeth Blue. The bank manager was unaware of Stackhouse’s approach, and she stood unsteady from the couch, slipping out of the grasp of some unknown man, and she walked along the wall, bracing herself with a hand against it, a silly smile fixed on her face, even when Stackhouse grabbed her arm and pulled her backward.

For the moment, they were alone in an alcove lit with recessed lighting. “Maribeth. We should get you out of here.”

“Is that you, Detective?” Maribeth leaned against her, still smiling. “Why, do you think Iiiieeeee killed that woman?”

“I don’t. I think you came to the party with the wrong man.”

“I didn’t come with him. He came with me.” She covered her mouth and giggled like she was seven.

“Are you high?”

“As a kite. As a fucking kite.”

“I’m walking you out of here.” Even as she said it, Stackhouse felt the room tip and steady. She had to stop drinking on the job. No, wait, she wasn’t on the job. This was life. Smeared together.

“Detective. Be serious. No wait, check that. Don’t be serious. Relax. Like meeeee. Smoke a joint. Smoke TWO joints. Besides, I won’t even sleep with Dr. Pierce. Odds are he’ll pull someone else’s number, right? Gawd I’m happy.”

“Do you remember what happened to you last week?” said Stackhouse.

“Why do you think I drink? So I don’t have to remember. It’s easier this way.” She pushed away from Stackhouse. “Now excuuuuse me. I have to pee. I’m nearly going in my pants right this second.”

Maribeth swayed towards the bathroom and Randal Dawson cornered Stackhouse, and she powered through a smile and asked about Rose Felton. He grinned and said, “I balled her the first night. My house, I demanded the right of Prima Nocta. Don’t get your hopes up, though, they outlawed it. They’re running it blind now. Christ that girl knew what she was doing.”

What did your WIFE think about this?

Have I gone mad?

“Surely this creates, umm, conflict and drama?”

“Jealousy like you wouldn’t believe, baby,” he said. “Already the guy who gets you tonight, I want to murder him. I’ve never had a cop. Tell you what. Try to get room number Two. I’ll do my best to pull it from the hat. It’s my daughter’s room. She isn’t here. Room Two.”

Somehow Stackhouse’s goblet was full again and the party rolled along. She snuck off to the ladies’ room, where mouthwash and perfume and cologne were set out, along with a little sign that read, Help yourself! But don’t you dare steal my Versace!

Stackhouse tried the Versace and gasped with pleasure.

After, she found Maddie Owens standing on the coffee table, holding onto Rigby for support. She declared it was time to begin. Time for the women to slip off to their rooms. Time for the men to refresh themselves.

Time for me to gooooooooo.

Fransisca grabbed her hand again, however, and led her to the residential part of the house. Two long warm hallways, golden with chandeliers, paneled with dark wood. The doors were numbered. Fransisca stopped at Door Two.

Not this one, thought Stackhouse. Any but Two.

“No thank you.”

“Your date is playing the game, Andie. You must,” said the redhead.

“Some other door.” Her words jumbled.

“This will be mine, then. You take the next, the third door. And enjoy yourself, my love.”

Stackhouse found herself opening the door marked Three. She stepped inside, closed it, and shivered, despite the heat. This appeared to be an office, with a desk and swivel chair, and a couch that was pulled out into a bed. A dim candle flickered.

No. Hell no.

Cozy hardscape lighting filtered through the rear windows. Stackhouse decided she’d flee through a window, willing to drop down if she was on the second floor, running like a baby, but the office had a back door that let into a lawn patio. She fled through it, thanking God for providing an escape.

Outside now, she stood on stone pavers near a silvery swimming pool, which she bet would be visited later by partiers. The grass was lush and thick and she welcomed the evening humidity.

She skirted the pool, but stopped to grab the railing. Dizzy, and she worried she’d plunge in. Closing her eyes and shaking her head didn’t work. What was she supposed to do, hide until she sobered up? This was mortifying. NO MORE DRINKING, ANDIE!

She followed the railing and found a sitting area, arranged around a fire pit, several logs smoldering, the coals white hot.

A man sat in an Adirondack, holding a glass of wine and watching her. The handsome man who looked like an honest news anchor. He was aglow with cherry light.

“Making a getaway?”

“Trying.” Stackhouse didn’t want to laugh but she did. “Don’t tell.”

“Your secret is safe.”

“I never drink too much. But I did.”

He indicated the fire. “Join me. It’ll pass.”

She gripped the back of the Adirondack. “Shouldn’t you be… You know? Descending on a quivering plaything?”

She said it like, sending on a quiv’ring playthen.

“I made a getaway, too.” He held up a slip of paper. “Though I’ll need to apologize to whomever waits in Room Three.”

“Oh!” Stackhouse slid slowly into the chair. “That’s me!”

“Then I apologize. I just can’t.”

“No apology needed. I’m running away, remember.” Stackhouse felt tremendous relief. At being outside. At being free. At the safe man and the realization she wouldn’t be humiliated.

“I mean I can,” he said. “But I won’t.”

She smiled, her eyes closed. “I’m Andie.”

“I know. I’m Timothy.”

She grabbed his hand. His warm safe hand. She thought it would help. “I just realized who you are. The principal at the elementary school.”

“Crystal Spring, and assistant principal. But yes.” They were quiet a minute, the logs crackling, and Stackhouse felt a deep bliss. Timothy August was perhaps ten years older than her. Slightly grey at the temples.

“We were supposed to fool around. Isn’t that funny,” she said.

“My first date in five years. It is funny, isn’t it. Neither of us knew what kind of party this was, but she insisted on playing. I hope she’s enjoying herself.”

“Isn’t that the grossest?”

“It absolutely is. My first and last blind date,” he said.

“I heard your wife died.” Stackhouse winced and slapped a hand to her mouth. “Sorry. I swear I never get drunk.”

“It’s okay. She did. It’s counterintuitive, but I’d rather be taking care of her, at her bedside, than partying with these people.”

“Taking care of someone you love sounds nice. Less exhausting than Maddie Owens. Good Garfield, what a… I think I should walk home.”

“Not yet,” he said. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll drive you.”

“The walk will be good for me. Penance.”

“It speaks well of you, that you’re not in the house,” said Timothy. “After watching the partygoers, and witnessing their change over the previous decade, I worry that time erodes our true selves. Never lose that goodness. Never lose whatever it is inside you that ejected you from the room.”

Stackhouse adjusted in her seat and released him. She leaned forward to place her forehead in her hands, elbows on knees. Deep breaths. “I’m not sure I can promise that. I never used to get drunk. Now here I am, at a swinger’s party, dizzy.”

“You said No, though.”

“I want to be an attorney, or an FBI agent, but…” Andie, shush. You’re blabbering. “Those dreams fade away if I can’t keep a grip on who I am.”

“My son, he’s a police officer too. In Los Angeles. Watching him from afar, I see your job has a cost. It requires part of your soul that other jobs don’t. He’s younger than you but he’s flailing. I hope he’s built from whatever it takes to keep him afloat. Like you are.”

She sniffed. “Thanks. Doesn’t feel like it.”

“You have a problem, you know.”

“I do know this. Which specifically?” she said.

“You’re too attractive. That’s not a pickup. It’s a real problem. That comes with a cost too.”

She raised up and pushed her hair back and squinted at him. “You’re good-looking. Is it a problem for you?”

“It can be.” He indicated the house with his glass of red wine. “I get invited to parties I shouldn’t be at. Principals can be fired for less.”

They sat in silence, ears tuned into the noises coming from the house. Some identifiable, others less so. Noises that required alcohol to make, and alcohol to forget later.

Eventually she detected she could walk without falling. “Time for me to go.”

Timothy set down the glass. “I’m positive I would pass a breathalyzer. Would you like a lift?”

“No thank you. It’s only a mile, and it’s a safe walk, and I’m a fraction too tipsy and happy, and part of me is thinking you’re the kind of man I’d like to take to Room Three, but that is wrong, Timothy, I’m not that kind of girl, so to forestall any temptation I will be walking home alone, but thank you.”

On the slip of paper marked with a big Three, he wrote down his phone number and said to call him if she fell into a ditch on the walk home.

Which she did, once, rolling her ankle, too embarrassed to call him. She limped to her front door thirty minutes later, relieved to find Kaye already asleep, and she collapsed into her bed fully clothed.

Dr. Raymond Pierce followed her home, bemused at a distance. She limped and cursed, a ballet of ignominy. For a lesser woman, he’d deem the shame a fitting discipline. But on Andie Stackhouse, the stumbling shamble could be choreographed. Could be poetry in motion.

A dementia burned within himself, he knew, an unhealthy fixation on this woman that turned her faults to fascinations.

His own date in Room Six would wake in an hour or two, none the wiser, a slight bruising in her neck and a metallic taste on her tongue. When he’d opened the door to Room Six and found the foul woman instead of Andie Stackhouse, a rage threatened to engulf him. She reeked of reefer. He’d suffered her only a few minutes before rendering her unto sleep.

When Andie Stackhouse reached her front door, he was mere feet behind. To the casual observer, they’d look like a couple returning home, one ahead of the other as though in an argument. He intended to watch her through the windows, but behold, the drunken damsel forgot to latch the lock.

He counted to one hundred and slipped in like a panther on silent paws.

No noise came from above. She’d forgone teeth brushing and makeup removal. Even these unhygienic foibles he enjoyed. A shadow by the front door, he waited and waited, until the stillness of the house was confirmed and complete. He’d brought madness with him and he worried it would wake her.

Or wake Kaye Calhoun, one of the few other worthy women in the Roanoke Valley. Buxom and brilliant, a deserving roommate. Kaye Calhoun understood herself enough to wear dresses, not short skirts, a self-awareness necessary for women to ascend. She’d risen just enough, to her rightful place, with no false aspirations or airs. Good for her.

The first thing he did, he laid on the couch and breathed in the oxygen trapped inside pillows. His lungs filled with Stackhouse. With her shampoo, her lotion, her sweat, her odor, all of it perfume. He also detected Kaye there, a less powerful stimulant. He gripped the pillows with his fists and wished he was gripping the woman instead.

His heart pierced him when he discovered photographs attached to the refrigerator with magnets. There was his son, Preston. His murdered son. A group photograph, taken early in Preston’s career. Sergeant Stackhouse with her squad. She was peacock proud, beaming and beautiful, standing with the others whose names he’d forgotten. Other than Hurst. Hurst he knew. Hurst, who might need to be silenced.

Dr. Pierce closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool metal and he cried.

He’d been so careful. So got’damn careful, for years, fitting for a surgeon, meticulous. Maintaining his sanity, his peace guarded and carried around like a child with a frail Lego structure, threatening to shatter if dropped. And then his wife developed leukemia, a swift and devastating six months, and he let go. He gave in and his self-control vaporized. Soon after, his son was shot, and life spiraled and spiraled and he didn’t sleep, he hunted, he disciplined and fought back, and now his son was smiling at him, unexpected on a glossy 4 x 6, a glimpse of what life could have been, should have been, a reminder of what was stolen, the young Andie Stackhouse grinning, perfect and pert and youth immortal, his own wrinkling reflection superimposed over, and what he saw frightened him.

The floor didn’t creak as he slumped to the table and sat. He needed a moment. He needed to gather himself, and to leave. He’d done no pre-op work for this invasion and it was foolish. Far too foolish recently.

His gaze fell on a crinkled letter on the table.

Dear Andrea, it began.

Dr. Pierce pinched the letter by the edges and he read. As he did, his posture surrendered further and he leaned into the backrest. Delicious backstory. Disastrous news. The ultimate father wound, oncoming death without reconciliation. He read it a second time.

It was signed, Love, Your Aunt Mary.

Poor Andrea.

Poor Andrea. No wonder she over indulged tonight.

“But,” he whispered. “But what is the full diagnosis, Aunt Mary? Meningioma? Glioma? Astrocytoma? Medulloblastoma?”

What tests had been run? Angiography? MRA? A needle biopsy? Who was the surgeon? Which clinic? Where the hell was this? Aunt Mary’s casual disregard for details was maddening. Had Mr. Stackhouse been a machinist? A metal worker? A farmer, mixing agricultural toxins? Or was he merely the beneficiary of poor genetics?

Based on Mr. Stackhouse’s daughter, the latter wasn’t likely.

With fingers that trembled, he raised the letter to inhale its fragrance, and he heard footsteps approaching the front door. This late?

Soft as a whisper, Dr. Pierce abandoned the table and hid near the door, cloaked within the folds of front window drapes. He heard mumbling outside. A man’s voice. Dr. Pierce peaked around the sill but the man’s face was hidden, backlit by streetlights.

“Andrea?” called the man. Whoever he was, he was drunk. Wildly, grotesquely drunk. “Andrea, the hell aren’t you answering your phone? Is everything good? Where’d you go, gotammid?”

The words were decipherable, mostly, his call a hooded, slurred whisper, the man too intoxicated to recognize the woman he hissed at wouldn’t hear.

The intruder tried the front door and said, “Hod’dammm,” when it opened.

Fool, thought Dr. Pierce. I should have locked it. Just anyone could walk in, after all. Even a monster.

James Rigby took four steps into the kitchen, staring around mutely, stupidly, his first time inside the house, and Dr. Pierce metastasized from the black, a pale specter behind, and he plunged a needle into Rigby’s neck, a cold blast of Etomidate that shocked Rigby’s nervous system and shut him off like a switch. Pierce grabbed him around the stomach and helped him slump to the floor, the event lasting a silent ten seconds. Rigby murmured, soft, and then it became a drunken snore.

Dr. Pierce listened again.

No response upstairs. No alarm, no panic.

Lucky for him they had no dog.

Yet very unlucky for this hairy suitor. This damned finance piece of shit, and Dr. Pierce trembled looking at him.

19

“Never drinking again?” asked Val Farmer.

“Never again,” Stackhouse confirmed. They waited in wrought iron chairs inside a Starbucks courtyard. Stackhouse wore Ray-bans.

“That’s a load of malarkey, lady.”

“I know.” Stackhouse had been trying to shake the headache since yesterday morning. Arriving at work Monday to discover from Val that the gossips were aflutter with Saturday night’s party, now she had shame to deal with. She’d texted James Rigby an apology but hadn’t heard back. That relationship was probably torched. Not a great loss, but she felt guilty. “No more alcohol for a while, and no more drunkenness until New Years Eve.”

“But you said nothing happened,” said Val.

“That’s right. I left the party before it got weird.”

“Then why—”

“Because, babe. Because. Now hush.”

“You can’t tell me to hush, kiddo, I outrank you,” said Val.

“Hush hush hush.” Stackhouse threw back a couple aspirin and drank her iced coffee. “Tell the gossips my sex life is dormant. Or dead. And to get their noses out of my business.”

“If I was young and hot like you are,” said Val, “I’d be exhausted from all the screwing.”

“I’m middle-aged. Younger than you doesn’t mean young.”

“Don’t you like sex, lady?”

Stackhouse considered the milky swirls in her coffee. “I don’t like the hurt that comes after.”

“That’s what penicillin is for.”

“Hush hush hush, so much hush.”

They were waiting on Allyson Knowles.

According to Maddie Owens, Allyson and Rose Felton had been arch rivals. Hated each other.

According to Staci, Allyson was good, ranked fiftieth at WIG.

According to Loma Stubblefield, Allyson was insufferable and resorted to cheap tricks. Everyone had opinions on Allyson.

Allyson arrived in a red Kia Spectra. She drove and her husband sat in shotgun. Allyson wore jean shorts not long enough to cover the pockets, plus a tank top and oversized sunglasses. She waved to the two waiting police officers and said, “We’re getting coffee, BRB.”

She and her husband Lonnie stepped inside Starbucks.

“BRB,” mumbled Val.

“It means Be Right Back.”

“I know that. Older than you doesn’t mean old or stupid. But who says BRB?”

Allyson and Lonnie came back and sat next to each other, across from the detectives. They had the courtyard to themselves in the shade of a tall oak.

“This is my husband Lonnie,” said Allyson. “Lonnie Knowles. He took my last name. Because fuck the patriarchy, that’s why.”

Val grinned. “Good to know. How you doing, big guy.”

Lonnie was not tall. He was shorter than Allyson, but muscular. He had a bald head and wide pale blue eyes. He raised his to-go cup to her. “Just along for the ride.”

“Lonnie and I were in Tampa when Rose got herself killed,” said Allyson. “On stage. At the conference. We can’t help you solve the murder.” Allyson was mid-twenties, but she spoke like a modern teenager, artificial laziness and distant echoes of Valley Girl in her affect.

Already Stackhouse didn’t like her. Like Loma Stubblefield, Allyson was full of herself, with whatever gumption came from peddling makeup better than other women.

“You and Rose were rivals,” said Stackhouse.

“You could say that. Bitches, both of us. But I was in Tampa.”

“She’s a big deal,” said Lonnie. “Only so many WIG women get invited on stage. You can see her in the pictures.” He tapped his iPhone screen with his thumbs and set his phone on the iron table. “See? That’s her, day of the murder, on stage.”

“Congratulations,” said Stackhouse.

“It’s a lot of hard work. I bust my ass. I’m gonna retire Lonnie from CVS so he can be my little bitch. Hell yeah congratulations, it’s hard, it’s a land grab, every woman for herself, but that doesn’t mean Rose had to die.”

“It sucks,” said Lonnie. “What happened to her.”

“I’m not here to accuse you of murder. I’m here to learn.”

“Learn what? Shouldn’t you know all of this?” said Allyson.

“You’d think. Who benefits from Rose’s death, financially? Would the woman who signed Rose in the first place?”

“Yes, she would absorb a greater percentage.”

“Carla,” prompted Stackhouse. Ned mentioned that Rose met Carla at rehab.

“Right, Carla Olive,” said Allyson.

“Where can I find her?”

“Prison. Three strikes and you’re out, and she was on, like, her tenth strike. It’s no coincidence Carla was the one to sign Rose. Both of the bitches were drugged out of their minds.”

Rats. I should’ve known that.

“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree,” said Lonnie. “There’s no money in Rose’s murder. There’s no benefit to anyone. Even Carla’s bump would’ve been minimal. Rose was a whore in Vegas. That’s probably why she died.”

“By a whore in Vegas, do you mean an adult film star in San Fernando Valley?” said Stackhouse.

“Whatever, same thing, Sex and the West Coast.”

“We’re looking into that, but we’re following the money too. Wasn’t Rose good? She was selling a lot of product, gobbling up the market?” said Val.

Allyson shrugged. “She was okay.”

“She was top twenty in the company, lady. She kinda ruled Roanoke. So if you remove her, it creates more opportunity for others, right? She was a rising star. Bump her off, divert the flow of money?” said Val.

“She didn’t rule Roanoke, and Lonnie and I were in Tampa. I was on stage.”

“I don’t mean you. I mean someone else.”

Allyson dug in her oversized purse and came up with an envelope. She opened the envelope and produced airline tickets. “These are our tickets.”

“We know,” said Stackhouse. “In fact I saw you get off the plane, wearing the flower shirts.”

“Were you stalking us?”

“No, I was there to get—”

“We had hotel reservations. We rented a car. There’s video of me on stage.”

“We know!” said Val. “You can’t listen? We’re talking about someone else, not you.”

“You were here.” Allyson pointed an entitled finger at Stackhouse. “I’m surprised you’re not a suspect.”

Stackhouse grinned, not sure what inane thing would come from Allyson’s mouth next. “That’s true, I was. But I’m not a suspect, Ms. Knowles, I’m the detective.”

“It’s a land grab, detective. You could benefit with poor Rose out of the way.”

“How would I benefit from Rose Felton dying?”

“Because you worked with her, duh, and you wanted her customers,” said Allyson.

“I bought mascara and concealer. Not the same thing.”

“Whatever you say.” She gave Stackhouse a smirk. “I don’t want to piss off the cop by calling her a liar. But it’d be easy to prove.”

“What’s easy to prove?”

“You were on Rose’s team,” said Allyson.

“Her team? Her team of what?” Stackhouse asked.

“You’re a distributor, working under her. Oh my gooooosh, stop playing dumb.”

“I’m only a customer,” said Stackhouse. “I don’t sell the stuff.”

“Whatever, I don’t want to fight, but I think you should be a suspect. You’re in her videos and everything.”

Stackhouse felt like she was missing an important piece of a puzzle. “What videos?”

Allyson pushed buttons on her phone and set it on the table. “I’m recording this. Because you’re playing dumb and because you should be a suspect. Not me.”

“What videos?” said Stackhouse.

“You know what videos.”

“Allyson, you’re aggravating me. Keep it up and we’ll continue this in an interrogation room downtown.”

“This is police brutality,” said Allyson, “and I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I don’t have to.” Allyson pivoted in her chair to face Val. “I’ll talk to you.”

“I don’t like you either, lady,” said Val.

“She did it. Andie Stackhouse. She’s the killer. She’s lying about being a distributor. Look it up. She worked for Rose, selling a lot of makeup. I mean, a LOT.”

Stackhouse threw up her hands. “I don’t sell makeup!”

“Look it up, and arrest her.” Allyson stood and Lonnie did too. “We’re leaving. We’re not suspects. We were in Tampa. Look it up. Then look her up. You’ll see. She’s hiding it.”

20

Over the weekend, Detective Eric Kincaid had churned through the video tapes Stackhouse discovered in Rose Felton’s office. Kincaid was good for one thing—processing data. It made him invaluable, even if the department rarely let him interact with humans.

Stackhouse skimmed his report, which stated the little memory cards contained three total hours of video, all of which were filmed in the bathroom. Rose shot short personal how-to videos for nineteen different women, which she chopped and emailed or texted, plus several longer videos to be edited and uploaded to YouTube, and the rest was scrap—bloopers and mistakes and dead time while she washed her face or mumbled to herself, scrolling her phone. Kincaid had condensed the pertinent portions of the video into one master file, which could be viewed via the media player on Stackhouse’s computer.

Settling in with another coffee, Stackhouse slid the headphones over her ears and pressed play.

Over the next hour, her impression of Rose Felton leaped. The woman clearly carried demons with her, enough baggage and trauma for an entire therapy clinic, but she was trying. She hustled, filming late at night, working hard to land one customer after another, or to retain the customers she had. The videos were personal and applicable, reminding Sue, for example, how to first apply a moisturizer to make her skin glow, because Sue was pale and if she went straight to the concealer it would make her look more pale, and that Keri needed to define the perimeter of her face and her cheeks with a warmer powder on the setting brush, and afterward to reduce the shine of her nose and chin with the same brush, which she could get anywhere, though Ulta was having a great sale.

Rose made two videos for her distributors, teaching them how to sell their products. Don’t beg, don’t push, don’t shout. Don’t be obnoxious. Be excited, be enthusiastic, always look your best, remember you are your best product.

Caught up in Rose’s zone, Stackhouse watched some of the video that Detective Kincaid didn’t include in the master file, and encountered a more authentic Rose Felton—between takes, Rose smoked cigarettes, and complained of exhaustion, cussed out Keri for having a big fat fucking nose, and shouted at Ned when he accidentally interrupted a shot. But during her performance, she was all business and charm.

Rose filmed herself fifteen minutes at a time, repeatedly “putting on her face,” from raw and natural to total glam, rushing through nine WIG products, explaining the processing the entire time.

Listen, ladies, you gotta pick your best feature and not lie to yourself. You can’t have three best features, you gotta pick one. Is it your eyes? Make them shine. Is it your bust? Let’s be honest, is it your bust? Don’t distract from it, go easy on the make up. Make them work for you. God gave them to you, or else Dr. January did, like me, so use them to get what you want. If not, how’s your mouth? You got nasty teeth? How’s your hair? Do you have shitty hair? Sorry, do you have thin hair? Frizzy hair? Ulta’s having a sale on Redken shampoo…

She was CEO, and marketer, and cheerleader, and coach, and actor, and model, and her own production crew.

Stackhouse finished and stood to stretch. She hadn’t found herself mentioned, leading her to believe Allyson Knowles was as crazy as she seemed. What had Allyson been talking about? That she was on Rose’s team, what on earth?

She wished they could break into Rose’s computer to search for herself, but the password had defeated them.

Stackhouse had recorded names to research and call—Sue and Keri, for example—but before abandoning the search, she brought up Rose’s YouTube channel.

Here she found Rose’s edited final products, complete with digital effects and noises and images. These videos were earning tens of thousands of views, including one over ninety thousand. Stackhouse didn’t know that many people had even heard of YouTube. The comment section was filled with women asking questions, or offering suggestions, and trolls telling Rose to take her shirt off, or to quick smoking meth, and clearly some knew her as Rosie Valley. In the most recent videos, Stackhouse found comments mourning Rose’s passing. RIP Rose Felton! Oh no, what happened??!?!? I heard she committed suicide. No the bitch is selling Mary Kay now, I bet.

Stackhouse thought the best part of the videos were the before/after photos, stunning transformations, and it was here that she found herself. A sudden shock, seeing her own face on screen. Seeing the evidence jogged her memory, and she dimly recalled posing for pictures at the WIG party.

On screen, Rose’s voiceover stated, This is one of our lovely distributors, Andie. Look at Andie’s face. Look at how damn hot this girl is, ladies, and she’s wearing our mascara and eyeshadow. You wouldn’t know it, but she’s hiding several scars with our filler kit.

It’s true, that night Rose had applied filler and concealer to hide scars Stackhouse earned during her first year as a patrol officer. She remembered Rose’s yellow aroma of cigarettes when she stood close, and how she’d held her breath to keep Rose out of her nostrils and mouth.

Stackhouse watched another video of before/afters and saw herself again. And again in a third video, but this time Rose included Stackhouse’s official police headshot, calling Officer Andie a superstar distributor.

Distributor. That’s what Allyson called me. Oooooh, something is messed up about this.

Stackhouse clicked links, following websites until she landed on the main Work It Girl, International page, which contained its own before/after section, and she found another photograph of herself, this one doctored and filtered to look more professional. Had Stackhouse signed a release form? She couldn’t remember.

At the bottom of the main page, she located a phone number and she dialed it. “Yes, I’m calling in regard to the Work It Girl distributor who was murdered recently, Rose Felton. This is Detective Andie Stackhouse and I’d like to speak with someone who knew Rose personally.”

The WIG receptionist stammered, flustered, and asked her to hold. Stackhouse grinned, picturing the woman scurrying down hallways, crying for help, the police were calling!

A minute later, a man transferred onto the line. “Good morning, this is Work It Girl CEO Don Hambrick! I’m told I have a detective here who’d like to talk about Rose Felton.”

“That’s right, good morning, Mr. Hambrick.” Stackhouse clicked the website until bringing up a photograph of the CEO. Handsome man, a bit on heavy side, lots of graying hair, big teeth. “My name is Detective Andie Stackhouse, with the Roanoke Police, and we’re investigating Rose’s murder. If—”

“Absolutely, yes yes, anything to help, Detective. Boy I tell you, that thing really shook me. I’d met Rose a handful of times, just a real sweet girl, just a go-getter, all the gumption in the world, on her way to the moon, you know. Anything we can do to assist you folks with the investigation, and to keep the good name of Work It Girl intact.”

“We’re chasing a lot of angles, Mr. Hambrick, and one of them is money. From what I understood, Rose’s climb up the ladder was sudden and lucrative, and I’m—” said Stackhouse.

“Well, I tell you what, Detective, let me correct some of your terminology, and I mean no disrespect. There really is no ladder to climb, not like in corporate America. I think you’re referring to her ranking in the company, and that really isn’t a climb upward as much as it’s a gathering of clients and team members that results in a great volume of cosmetics being sold. That ranking is based on income, not a ladder climb. Rose was good. I tell you, after I heard she died, I looked at her volume reports and she was dynamite, selling WIG like a woman with hair on fire,” said the CEO.

“I don’t know the exact figures, but her recent monthly income was significant. Who benefits from Rose’s death? In other words, who gets that money?”

“Like, next of kin? Only her will could tell you that.”

“No, I don’t mean legally. Within the… This is one reason I’m calling, Mr. Hambrick, I don’t know the terminology. If distributors benefit from other distributors they signed, to peddle WIG, where does Rose’s money go? I assume her account still benefits by taking a percentage of sales? Like, ahh, residual income? Does that make sense? Within the structure and hierarchy of distributors—”

Hambrick’s voice was loud in her ear, a man who leveraged volume as a tool, instead of tact or intelligence. “I follow you, Detective, and let me say our distributors don’t peddle, they market. Yes, Rose Felton’s account still accrues money from her personal clients and the distributors she signed, and the distributors they signed, and so forth down the network.”

“Now that she’s dead, where does that money go?”

“It’ll still be transferred into her bank account, where it will be the property of her estate, but I assume what you’re really asking is, since Rose was the source of so much volume, her percentage cut of that volume is high, resulting in big monthly checks, and does anyone stand to benefit by claiming that percentage?”

“Sure,” said Stackhouse.

“As soon as Rose’s account is declared inactive, some of the distributors above Rose will benefit from a greater percentage. They absorb a portion of her share, if you follow me. But not the whole thing, Detective. It’s not like one person suddenly collects a windfall.”

“Who would benefit the most?”

“The girl who recruited Rose in the first place,” said Mr. Hambrick.

“Carla Olive, but she’s in prison. Who else?”

“Boy, I hate to say this, Detective, but the hierarchy, or tree, is a company secret and only released if you have a warrant. Distributors are only allowed to see who is below them.”

“Can you tell me who signed Carla?”

“Tell you what I’ll do, Detective, to help you out, I’ll be on the lookout for an incoming subpoena and then the reports are all yours. But again, the amount that woman in question will make from Rose’s death is not significant. A few hundred dollars a month, maybe a thousand at most, with a handful of others on up the distributor tree also receiving a share.”

Stackhouse leaned backward in her chair and closed her eyes. A few hundred dollars a month wasn’t worth shooting a woman with a homemade silencer. Tens of thousands of dollars, maybe. A few hundred, no. “What happens to Rose’s account?”

“After two months, it’ll be declared inactive.”

“Why the two-month wait?”

“To allow time for it to be purchased,” said Hambrick.

“You can purchase someone else’s account? How?”

“It’s simple. Both sides have to agree, and there’s a hundred dollar transfer fee. In this case, Rose’s estate would need to sign off. It happens, Detective. A wife will die, and the husband will buy her account, to keep the residual income. We’re a family company, after all. I don’t care what you hear, we’re a family company.”

Stackhouse scribbled down a note—who was the executor for Rose’s estate? She bet nobody was. The court would find a distant relative or appoint a trustee.

“One more question, Mr. Hambrick, before I let you go. No, make that two questions. First, I’d like the direct number for someone who can help me with future questions—I assume that’s possible? The second is, could you look up my account?”

“Oh you bet, Detective, to both. You’re a customer? Of Rose’s? I can pull you up right here. Anything to foster good relations with our nation’s brave law enforcement.”

Stackhouse provided her name and phone number for his query.

“Gosh that names sounds familiar. Nothing comes up under that phone number, though. What about email?” he asked, and she heard typing. “No, nothing there either, hmmm, lemme think, lemme think, if that isn’t odd. If that isn’t wild. Maybe you deactivated your customer account? How do you spell that last name?”

She gave it to him again and he typed and said, “Ah-hah, here we are, Detective, yes yes yes, except… You aren’t a customer, you’re a distributor! In Roanoke, Virginia, same city as Rose. I knew I recognized the name, Detective, why didn’t you mention it earlier, I swear. I’ll be damned, you’re number fifty-three in the country! Of course I recognized the name, my apologies! Were you at our conference?”

Stackhouse stared mutely at the screen.

She was ranked fifty-three in the country, and she’d never sold a thing.

Slowly they uncovered the truth over the phone.

Stackhouse explained she was not a distributor and was thunderstruck to discover WIG thought she was.

Yes she had ordered makeup from Rose, but that was it. She didn’t go into business with her, she never signed up to sell makeup for WIG.

No that wasn’t her phone number.

No that wasn’t her PO box.

Yes that was her name and social security number.

CEO Don Hambrick’s tone turned wary when he understood the reality. Rose Felton had illegally registered Stackhouse as a distributor. Without her consent, Rose had leveraged Andie Stackhouse’s celebrity around Roanoke, and her image, to move makeup.

Why would she do that? To double dip the income. Rose signed customers and distributors under Stackhouse, meaning both Stackhouse and Rose benefited from the volume. Rose had been making twenty-five to thirty grand a month through her personal, genuine account, but by funneling money through Stackhouse’s fraudulent account first, her true income was closer to fifty. And if she had done the same with other fake accounts, the number would be higher. Once they investigated further, Hambrick explained, they would surely discover that Stackhouse’s illegal account dumped money into a bank that Rose Felton accessed. It was a corrupt and criminal practice that plagued networking companies like WIG, but Rose had been more skilled than most at the deceit.

Snippets of conversation floated back to Stackhouse.

At the airport, Staci had said, I’m surprised you weren’t at the conference, Detective. And later, when discussing the business, Staci stated, But you already know all this, don’t you.

Staci had assumed Stackhouse was a distributor. She knew.

Meeting with horrid Allyson Knowles, Allyson said, You were on Rose’s team. You’re a distributor, working under her.

Surely Rose knew she’d eventually be caught, likely when Stackhouse heard she was a distributor. Making fifty grand a month was worth the risk, apparently, and Rose had a history of fleeing and burning bridges when life got tough. She might have half a million saved up by now.

Hambrick was chattering while her attention wandered and she forced her focus back on him. He promised to put his legal team on the issue and get it resolved. He provided his personal cell to Stackhouse, if she had any, if she had any, issues going forward.

Stackhouse hung up, more confused than when she called, unsure what to do with this information.

With a sinking feeling she wondered if Captain Lott would pull her off the case. This could be considered a conflict of interest. Although she hadn’t been in business with Rose, many people assumed otherwise.

What if…

A traitorous thought.

What if she didn’t tell her captain? Or Val? Or anyone else? Wasn’t this a personal issue? Must it be included in the Murder Book?

“Hey lady!”

Stackhouse started in her chair. Val was waving at her. Stackhouse reoriented herself with reality.

“What, you don’t hear so good?” said Val.

“Sorry, I was processing.” Stackhouse stood and stretched, staring guiltily at her notepad. “What’s up.”

“Your boyfriend is missing. Any ideas?”

“My who?”

“James Rigby. He’s gone. Did you sex him to death?” said Val.

“How do you know he’s gone?”

“Missing Persons just rang. Rigby skipped Sunday lunch with his mom, missed Sunday night bowling, and didn’t show up at the office this morning. His mom’s been to his place a dozen times, and called us after each. Sounds like the last time anyone saw him was your sex party.”

“Would you stop calling it that, and lower your voice.” Stackhouse cast a look around at the amused faces close enough to hear. “It wasn’t my party, and I left still a virgin.”

“Like hell are you a—”

“You know what I mean. We didn’t leave together. I left, he stayed. I walked home. Alone.” Her stomach flip-flopped. The last she’d seen him, James Rigby had been getting drunk and handsy with Maddie Owens. “Now that you mentioned it, he hasn’t returned my texts.”

“You broke his heart and he flew off to Cabo, sounds like.”

Stackhouse grabbed her keys. “I know his car. Tell MP I’ll drive the route.”

In South Roanoke, she retraced the streets between her house and the Dawsons’ sprawling ranch on Tradd, looking for his BMW at the curb or in a ditch, and then she drove from the Dawsons to his own place, and all the adjacent roads too. Twice. No luck. She called him and it went straight to voice mail. She checked with Carilion and Lewis Gale hospitals but they had no record of James Rigby.

He had vanished.

“Boy you sure can pick’em, Andie,” she whispered, a feeling of dread mounting in her chest.

21

Several months ago, Mark Rowe sold the house he and his wife shared before she passed. He moved into Wasena, a rental townhouse he claimed was easier to maintain and that it loosened his grip on this world. “To die is gain, Stackhouse,” he’d told her.

Mark, what the Roosevelt does that mean, she’d asked. Are you suicidal?

“Far from it. I mean, I want no worldly possessions. Come by sometime and I’ll show you the meaning of spartan.”

After a fruitless search for James Rigby, Stackhouse found herself in Mark Rowe’s townhouse parking lot. She didn’t intend to drive there, but it happened anyway, like an autopilot programed to go home.

She sat on the trunk of her black Interceptor, out of sight from his windows. She didn’t want to talk with him. No, that was self-deceit; she did, but she refused. Even though it felt like her first week couldn’t go worse—drinking too much, the unsolved Rose Felton homicide, Dr. Pierce assaulting women, James Rigby missing—still, she refused to knock on his door. That would be admitting weakness.

Rowe’s termination shook her more than she admitted. He’d been her north star for three years. A constant grounding presence, an ally and confidant. Life grew crazy but he stayed sane. Life grew hard but he lightened the load. She dreamed about him, thought about him, learned from him, tried to emulate him, on some level she loved him. She didn’t need to talk now; being close had to be enough. Like a little girl waking up alone in the dark and hearing the sounds of a safe adult in the next room.

“It’s not because he’s older,” she muttered to herself, propping her cheeks against her palms. “It’s not because I have family issues. It’s just… It’s just because.”

She allowed herself ten minutes and she was on the verge of leaving when he spoke to her. “Almond sent you to execute me?”

Rowe was walking up the sidewalk, panting, hands on hips, back from a jog. He was shirtless, the first she’d seen him so, and he was as hard and rangy as she imagined, middle-age not yet loosening his skin. It was a good look.

“No,” she said, “Just break your kneecaps.”

“Go ahead. They don’t work like they used to.” He paced the parking lot, checking his watch. “You’re still driving this old thing.”

“I like old things,” she said. “How far did you jog?”

“Three miles.” He waved it off. “It’s about time you checked on me, kiddo. I could’ve been despondent.”

“You’re not despondent, babe, and you would’ve been insulted if I had,” she said. “By now, I assume, the other counties held a bidding war for you?”

“Botetourt and Floyd and Franklin all called,” he said.

“And who else?”

“Some others, bigger cities, but I’m not moving, so they don’t matter. I signed with Roanoke County.”

Stackhouse nodded. “That was my guess, Roanoke County to piss off Almond in the city. But you’ll be bored, Mark. Rich White people don’t kill each other.”

“I asked to start a cold case unit. They’ve got boxes of them.”

“Oh man. That’s a perfect fit for you.”

“James Rigby’s missing?”

She was caught off guard. “You kept the city radio.”

“Almond’s too scared to ask for it back. I’ve been eavesdropping.”

“My guess is, James had enough of me. I left him stranded the last couple times we went out, so he probably took off to Topsail Beach to get some space. I was a mess of a date,” she said.

I hope that’s all it is.

Or maybe he’s trapped in Maddie Owens’ bed.

“You’re aware he’s not good enough for you,” said Rowe.

“I think it might be the other way round. He tried. I didn’t.”

“What’s Val think of him?”

“She thinks I should be humping everything in sight.”

Rowe chuckled. “Did she tell you that her husband left her?”

“No!” Stackhouse gasped. “Shut up, that’s why she’s been down. Oh man oh man.”

“It’s not gossip. It’s the truth and you should know it, and you can tell her I said so. She’s hiding in the dark, which makes it worse. She needs light. She needs you.”

“Dammit, I should’ve picked up the clues. I’m the worst detective.”

“It’s not too late.”

“What am I supposed to do?” she said.

“You make everything better, Stackhouse. Just do that.”

“That’s the stupidest thing, Mark, you’ve ever said.”

“It’s the truth. You got any water in here?” He opened the passenger door of her car and found her water bottle. He drank and she watched his chest rise and fall and his abs flex when he swallowed. He wiped his mouth. “And Rose Felton?”

“Still open. I think the captain will yank it because Rose registered me as a cosmetic distributor instead of a customer. Could be a conflict.”

He grunted. “Maybe not. You’re short of detectives. There’s only so many people to work it. How do you like it, so far?”

A stinging question. How did she like it? The sky was high and blue, only one white cloud drifting under the sun, and she watched it and ordered her thoughts. “It’s lonelier than I expected.”

He nodded. “Tell me why.”

“Because… The crime already happened. As a patrol officer, I was catching people in the middle of one. I was responding live. I interrupted the disaster. It was constant action. But as a detective, I’m chasing one that already concluded. I’m pestering people who don’t want to be pestered. It feels like no one wants me there. It’s a lonely sensation.”

“Especially a case like Rose. She is not missed. No one cares. So why do it?” he said.

“You’re not helping.”

“There’s no reason to investigate her death. Not unless she’s of infinite worth to someone, and she is.”

“Took you long enough to get spiritual,” said Stackhouse.

“She mattered. Because of who made her, she mattered. Plus. Justice matters. And you’re the only one who can bring it.”

She nodded. “Yeah. All of that, yeah yeah. But I’m feeling this despair after one week? I won’t survive.”

“Your vulnerability and honesty are the only reasons you might. Every detective feels the pit. The despair that comes with being the only hard thing standing between chaos and order. With being the only one who cares about Rose. All the detectives feel it and none of them are brave enough to say it out loud, to deal with it.”

“Kaye doesn’t let me bottle things up. She pries.”

“She’ll keep you sane. The others push it down, and make jokes, and erupt one day. But that’s not your problem. Your problem is, you’re hung up on Dr. Raymond Pierce.”

“Of course I am. He’s still active.”

“So are a dozen sexual predators within a five mile radius.”

“It’s just…” She shifted on the trunk lid. “I feel like Dr. Pierce is the measuring stick of my career. No, that’s not it. It’s like our life’s work comes at us in chunks, and he’s it right now. His son died on my watch. He’s been assaulting women and taunting me with it. I have these other cases, but Dr. Pierce is never far from my mind.”

“When he does it again, you’ll feel guilty.”

“Yes,” said Stackhouse.

“You can’t. You want to have a long career? Talk about these things, be open and vulnerable, but never guilt-ridden. You can’t make them personal.”

“I know. But I’m obsessed. And he’s obsessed with me.”

“Two comets on a collision course. Maybe neither of you survive.”

“I’m told his practice is suffering. He doesn’t look good. Like he’s deranged,” said Stackhouse.

“He’s duplicitous. He’s two people. There’s a cost to that and it’s heavy. That’s one of the nice things about being a detective. The guilty often reveal themselves, because they can’t bear it.”

Speaking of nice things, thought Stackhouse, an unbidden notion, you look like you need a shower. Maybe we need a shower.

Good Garfield, Andie!

A car motored into the lot, a little Ford Fusion. A cute blonde stood out and called, “Hi Mark! I know I’m early. I can come back?”

Rowe glanced at his watch. “Sorry, Pam, the time slipped away. I’m caching up with Andie.”

Stackhouse waved, a sick feeling growing that she’d walked into a date. “Hiya.”

“Oh, I know you! You’re the police officer who caught the serial killer!” Pam looked like a long-distance runner, and too cheerful.

“More like, she caught me,” said Stackhouse.

“You’re famous! I saw you on the news. Do you two work together?”

“Used to,” said Stackhouse. “Until this dummy punched his boss, the police chief.”

Something about the two cops gave Pam pause. As though their intimacy was a visible, tangible thing. Her face reddened. “Wow. Okay. Punched his boss, hah.” She laughed, awkward.

“Pam, give me twenty minutes, okay? I need a shower,” said Rowe.

Pam stammered over her answer, stating she needed to buy some things at the grocery store anyway, and that if Mark still wanted to go out she’d come back in twenty minutes, haha, guess I can’t buy anything that’ll melt.

She drove off and Stackhouse tried to keep her face neutral, to disguise the pain—why not me, why not me, Mark—but she emitted the distress anyway.

The two cops waited with each other in a pregnant pause, unsure how to proceed with the inconvenient truth—Mark Rowe had a date. Without looking at her, he said, “If Pam told me she never wanted to see me again, that would be okay. It wouldn’t hurt. That’s all I can handle right now.”

Stackhouse understood the sentiment.

“Does that make sense?” he said.

She made a noncommittal noise, strangely emotional.

He patted her on the knee, her still sitting on the trunk, and he left his hand there a moment, his palm warm.

“No worldly possessions. Nothing I care deeply about,” he said.

“I think that’s stupid.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.” Rowe turned for his town house.

“Hey. What do you do when you feel that pit of despair that detectives feel? I mean. My first homicide and I’m overwhelmed. Not only is the job lonely, but it’s enormous. This is impossible. How do we expect detectives to do this? You guys, you’re underpaid, undertrained, understaffed—”

“You’re a detective too,” said Rowe.

“We won’t raise taxes to get more resources, not that I blame people, I don’t want to raise taxes either, but I’m already letting stuff slip through the cracks, and I worked last weekend, and… This is impossible, Mark.”

“That’s why not everyone can do it.”

“That doesn’t help me.”

“Survive your first month. Your first week. There’s only so much of you, and you must ignore your emotions. Emotions aren’t trustworthy. They can be manipulated by forces in this world that we can’t see, many of them malevolent. Evil traffics in lies and evil doesn’t want Rose Felton avenged, so if my untrustworthy emotions are acting up and lying and hurting, it’s a compass. I’m going the right way. Step into the despair and it loses power and you’re closer to the truth.”

“Mark.” She threw up her hands. “Say something normal.”

“It’s the reality.”

Stackhouse hopped down and yanked open her car door. “Forget I asked.”

“Put your head down and work. Keep your eyes off the storm. Nose to the grindstone during your shift, then release. First week’s the hardest, Stackhouse. You can do this.”

22

Stackhouse’s mind hummed like a power line. Inside a zone of deep work, beginning hour two of investigating Rose Felton’s customers and co-workers, she was churning through suspects. Any one of these could be the killer, but those who had an alibi were struck off her list, a task requiring days of effort, but the morning had been quiet and she was making hay while the sun shined.

Until her phone rang.

Dammit, Andie, never say QUIET!

Salem Sheriff’s Deputy Alan Davis, her squad leader with the Fugitive Task Force, was summoning her. “Suit up, Stack. We’re rolling on a Dairy Queen on Brandon Avenue. Two wanted fugitives were spotted five minutes ago. Time to earn that fat paycheck, Detective.”

She suppressed a groan. No no no. I’m working!

Twenty hot minutes later, she convened with her squad at their fake UPS truck at the Brandon Laundromat, next door to the Dairy Queen, hidden on the far side. On short notice, the Fugitive Task Force was able to muster five of its eight members, with two squad cars in reserve, ready and waiting, hidden across the street. FBI agent Gordon had answered the call, plus Roanoke County detective Carpenter. Stackhouse’s shoulder twitched at the sight of him, the big man who’d body slammed her onto the wooden floor. She pulled her tactical vest over her head and her squad leader Davis cinched the straps tight.

“We got cousins, Jose and Ramon Lopez. My eyes on the building tell me Jose is eating fries at a table near the bathrooms and Ramon is washing dishes in the back. Both wanted for felony possession and distribution and a raft of other offenses. Based on a couple battery convictions, we consider them armed and dangerous. Me, McBride, Gordon, and Carpenter, we’re going in through the front door, hard and silent, and we arrest both. We have cuffs on Jose in ten seconds and move immediately into the kitchen on Ramon. Stackhouse, you’re on the radio out back. Channel six. I want those squad cars moving the second we hit the front door. If Ramon gets squirrelly and somehow makes it out the back, you and the black and whites get him on the ground.”

Stackhouse was angry at being dragged from work to watch a door but she nodded. The good soldier. She changed channels and spoke into her radio, receiving a quick reply from the squad cars tucked across Brandon Avenue.

FBI agent Gordon suggested they wait until Jose came outside, but Davis wasn’t a man to waste time on committee suggestions. “Ears on, let’s move,” he said.

The Fugitive Task Force jogged behind the laundromat, toward the Dairy Queen but out of sight until the last second.

Stackhouse peeled away to act as a spotter at the rear door. Ideally she’d have backup within the FTF, instead of first responders, but today it wouldn’t matter. Two dope-dealing cousins inside a fast food restaurant wouldn’t be a challenge.

As her team approached the front door, moving faster now, she raised the radio to her lips. “Dairy Queen operation is hot. Go go go.”

The squad cars rolled without sirens.

Davis and his team entered through the front door, into the mostly empty restaurant. Stackhouse lost sight of them as she jogged to the rear door. One minivan waited at the drive-thru, a mom with a little boy in the front seat, small enough he should be sitting in the back.

Her heart pulsed ten RPMs faster than normal, only a slight uptick, and she was pleased, only jumping slightly when the HVAC unit kicked into gear.

The Interceptors on Brandon were approaching. Two cars, one for each cousin. She flagged one down as they entered the parking lot—back here.

Sudden shouting inside. She released the radio and rested her hand on her sidearm. Standard protocol, safety first, although Ramon was likely—

The rear door slammed open and a tall young man wearing a white apron scrambled out. Bad mustache, wild eyes, he held something cradled to his stomach.

Stackhouse drew her Glock, Weaver stance, and she shouted, “Police, hands up! Hands up, on your knees!”

Ramon panicked and charged her. Intending to attack or flee, it didn’t matter, it was an instant crisis.

Stackhouse aimed and shouted again and retreated two steps, and her mind flashed to her training, but strangely it landed on a class from law school. When to use deadly force. She registered Ramon as an imminent threat. This was self-defense. Ramon was a fleeing suspect considered armed and dangerous.

She was deeply inside her rights to fire.

And yet. A last millisecond calculation—don’t shoot him!

Instead of retreating, she closed the distance and caught him by surprise. Her shoulder drove into his ribs. The bigger man grunted and staggered but kept his feet. She dropped her gun and wrapped her hands behind his legs, her own feet churning, and she forced him sideways until he tripped, her driving him into the pavement. He stank of body odor and dish soap. The package he’d been cradling bounced across the parking lot, and she was shouting at him, trying to turn him over, wrestling for his hands. The patrol officers from the Interceptor ran onto the scene, and Ramon was easily subdued by the three cops, his arms wrenched behind his back and secured.

Stackhouse stood and claimed her firearm, and she scraped the gravel out of her palms. The cousins were Mirandized and loaded into the back of squad cars.

Her squad leader Davis apologized. “He saw us coming and bolted. We couldn’t get there.”

“Do better next time,” she said and she winked to take the sting off.

“How’d you get him on the ground?”

“I’m not telling.”

“You tackled him, didn’t you,” said Davis.

“I said, I’m not telling.”

“Stack.”

“He wasn’t armed!” said Stackhouse. Inside the box he’d been carrying, they found three eight-balls of cocaine and two syringes.

“If he had been, you could be a dead Stackhouse.”

“If he had been, I would’ve fired,” she said. “Sir.”

“Stack, if you can’t follow standard procedures for arrests, I can’t have you on this task force.”

“I understand that.” Maybe then I could focus on my job—solving violent crimes.

“You keep charging into these things. One of these days, you won’t get so lucky.”

“Would you be scolding me if I was a man?” She wasn’t accusing him, only genuinely curious.

“If you were a man, I would’ve kicked your ass over this.” He turned for the rest of his squad, leading them back to the UPS truck.

That evening, Stackhouse and Kaye were grilling in their backyard. Career women, they were good at their professions and accustomed to renting an apartment. Now, however, they owned a house. Home ownership was something the owner grew into, and they hadn’t. Their lawn needed mowing and the charcoal in their Weber grill refused to stay lit.

Fed up, Kaye soaked the charcoals until they were swimming in lighter fluid, and she ignited the grill once more and the metal drum thumped with fire and hot flames whooshed several feet in the air, burning their chicken kababs and reaching for the tree leaves overhead.

Kaye spilled her wine and cried, “The food, shit!” and Stackhouse ran for the hose. Kaye danced around the grill, waving at the fire like she could put it out, and Stackhouse unspooled the green garden hose as quickly as she could and she squeezed the nozzle’s trigger, spraying with such force that the jet shot the kababs into the grass. The fire spewed and sputtered, the grill filling like a leaky soup bowl, spilling flaming lighter fluid into the grass where it continued to burn for a harrowing thirty seconds, while visions of their entire house burning up haunted them.

“Goodness, that was the most afraid I’ve ever been,” panted Kaye. “Why are grills so hard?”

“Is the food ruined?”

“It’s in the grass, of course it’s ruined!”

“Maybe not, pick it up.”

“You hosed it down!”

“I had to! Kaye, I don’t think I’m supposed to be on the Fugitive Task Force.”

“What the hell does that mean.”

“I always do the wrong thing.”

Into this mess stepped Val Farmer, their guest, bringing a bottle of Chardonnay.

Stackhouse turned off the hose and dropped it into the tall grass. The extinguished grill hissed, the sound of failure.

Kaye looked miserably at their guest. “So, listen. It wouldn’t stay lit.”

“Wowsers,” said Val.

“We’re takeout girls. Right, Andie? Like Icarus, we flew too close to the sun. We’re great at other stuff.”

“Got any more charcoal? I can grill for you, bing bang boom,” said Val.

“It’s too late, and charcoal is impossible, we got the wrong kind or something,” said Kaye. “I’m ordering Chinese.”

“Good thing you two are hotties,” said Val.

Twenty minutes later they sat inside on the enormous couch, boxes of takeout spread between them, plates on their laps, and glasses of white wine nestled firmly into the cushions. Stackhouse cradled a bottle of water against the pillow next to her, not letting herself drink alcohol yet.

“Once you mow the grass, the bugs will bother you less,” said Val.

“Why do the bugs care how tall the grass is?” said Stackhouse.

“They live in the grass, lady.”

“Bugs live in grass? But we walk on the grass.” Kaye made a face. “Nature is gross.”

They ate in silence, Stackhouse wondering how to broach the subject of divorce. SugarLand’s “All I Want To Do” played on the radio.

Val sighed. “Let’s get this over with. That dumb turd Mark Rowe told you, didn’t he. That’s why you invited me over.”

Stackhouse blinked. “Told me what?”

“Don’t lie.”

“Yes he told me.”

Val shoved her fork at Kaye. “And she told you?”

Kaye nodded. “She told me. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Val rocked her hips on the couch, like trying to get more comfortable, always in motion. The corners of her mouth turned down and tears instantly leaked from her eyes, though she didn’t look that emotional, and Stackhouse found it fascinating the way people cried differently. “Maybe, sure, hell I don’t know. I don’t know how to talk about it.”

“It might help. What happened?”

“My husband moved out. I came home from work, and pow, the man’s gone,” said Val. “Joey. His name’s Joey.”

“Did he say why?”

She wiped at her face with a napkin. “Same ol’ story. Hard to be married to a cop. I’m too busy, too distracted, blah blah. He’s just a Jersey jerk who can’t keep his promises. None of them can.”

“You made jokes before about how your husband was miserable,” said Stackhouse.

“Oh boy, was he ever.”

“Talk about that, what’s that mean,” said Kaye.

“I’m almost happy for the guy, getting free.”

“Keep talking,” said Kaye.

“I mean, look at me. This ain’t a woman easy to be married to. God knows the guy tried. I can’t shut up, I can’t be serious. I don’t know why he didn’t take off years ago.”

“Did Joey try? To make it work?”

“Oh yeah. Tried to take me on a half dozen vacations this year. Poor kid, see? Can’t blame him, married to a sea monster,” said Val.

“It would be helpful for all of us if you’d only speak of yourself in positive terms, even when it’s difficult.”

“Did you try?” asked Stackhouse.

Val sniffed. “What do you mean?”

“You said he tried. How did you try to make the relationship work?”

Val threw up her hands, her fork flinging fried grains of rice into the kitchen. “That’s his job, not mine.”

“Val.”

“I know, I know, I can hear myself, lady. But listen, I’m not like you, I don’t know how it works,” she said.

“How what works?”

“You’re great at this! Everyone loves Andie Stackhouse, wants to climb in her pants, wants to follow her around. I don’t know how to make a man happy or make a relationship work like you do.”

“Like me?” Stackhouse had been sipping from her water bottle and she choked. “What relationship do you think I’m making work?”

“You’re always in one! Your life is great!”

“No it’s not!”

“She can’t even find her boyfriend!” cried Kaye.

“Jeez, Kaye.”

“It’s true,” she mumbled, and each woman smothered the absurd wild mirth she felt, finding it inappropriate.

Val cleared her throat. “No, I get it, listen, I do. Maybe I’m not as dumb as I look, okay? I know it’s my fault. But I don’t know what the hell to do.”

“You should fight to preserve your marriage,” said Kaye and she made a cute feminine gasp. “Oh! Sorry. That’s not my role. Pretend I didn’t say that.”

“Screw your role, I need the truth, not psycho mumbo jumbo.”

“This is a man you made miserable, but he was still trying?” said Stackhouse. “Arranging to take you on vacations? Why wouldn’t you get him back?”

“Joey Farmer deserves better than this bag of mess, believe you me,” said Val.

“Do you still love him?”

“Heck yeah I do, baby. But who the got’damn knows if that matters. Or what love even is. Or if it’s real. I don’t think you two cuties understand what an absolute dumpster fire I got burning inside me at all times. Besides, by now he’s probably shacked up with some new hot young thing like you two.”

“So?” said Stackhouse. “Win him back.”

“C’mon. I looked like you in those pants, I would. I quit having sex with the guy, just cause I hate my body. I have these awful—”

“No no no, stop stop stop,” snapped Kaye. “No more self-hate. Stop the comparisons.”

“Why’d you say I should preserve the marriage, but then you took it back?”

“I’m supposed to let you come to your own constructive realizations,” said Kaye.

“Lady, if I was capable of coming to healthy realizations, I woulda done that shit a long time ago. You think I should preserve the marriage?”

“Of course!” said Kaye.

“Why?”

“Because life is hard! And you found someone who loves you! Because it’s hard to do this on our own! Because marriage provides stability! That promise you made to each other is special and holy and it’s supposed to last until one of you is gone, not until one of you gets too lazy to try!”

“Stop shouting at me, jeezy peasy.”

“Sorry, but I’ve been drinking, and do you know what Andie and I would give to have a man we love pursuing us, offering us vacations?” said Kaye.

“Aren’t you a—”

“You know what I mean. A person pursuing us.”

Stackhouse flopped backwards on the cushions. “Now I’m depressed. I wish I had a husband who left me because I’d been neglecting him, because I would chase that sucker down and make it right.”

Val looked thunderstruck. “You’d rather be me than you?”

“To be married to a man who loved me and I loved back? Of course!”

“But I’m a fucking lunatic.”

“Then fix yourself! Sounds like he’s worth it,” said Stackhouse.

Kaye waffled a hand. “I don’t love the phrase, fix yourself. But maybe we could talk about healthier, more constructive habits.”

It was Val’s turn to flop backwards on the couch. “Now I’m more depressed. I don’t know how to fix myself.”

“Find out where he is. Apologize, if you feel it’s warranted. Ask him how he’s feeling, separated. Tell him how you feel. Be honest. Communicate,” said Kaye.

“Take your clothes off and jump him,” said Stackhouse.

“Believe me, he doesn’t want to see what I got—”

“StopStopStopStopStop.” Kaye growled. “No more of that. Though I don’t know why you’d listen to me. I’m in no place to advise. I’m dating a woman I shouldn’t be, who isn’t out, and I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

“Then she doesn’t deserve you,” said Stackhouse.

“I know. I knoooooow.”

“This humongous couch feels like it’s hugging me,” said Val. “How often can I come over and lay on it?”

Stackhouse screwed up her courage. “Do you think I should ask out Mark Rowe?”

“Yes,” both women replied at once.

Stackhouse grinned. “Thought so.”

“Do you know what I’d do to that gorgeous man?” said Val. “I would put—”

“Do it to your husband,” Kaye chirped.

“Yeah yeah, you see the problem. Dumpster fire.”

“Before I ask Mark out,” said Stackhouse, “I guess I should find my boyfriend.”

“Nah.” Val grinned at the ceiling. “He’s gone and I never liked him.”

“Me either,” said Stackhouse.

The women laughed—laughter to keep away the awful pain and truths, truths that were often powerful enough that a glancing encounter was too much. Stackhouse’s willpower gave out and she reached for the wine.

Stackhouse dreamed of being in a circus. In her sleep, she performed several of the circus acts, inept at each—tightrope and trapeze and juggling. Blurry visions of fire and lights under a bigtop tent. She fell, over and over, without landing, climbing back up to some platform high in the air, a dizzying height, the crowd not noticing her mistakes, applauding without pause.

She made another mistake training the black bear and the bear broke loose. The audience wasn’t concerned because the bear hunted her only, so she fled and locked herself in the bathroom. By looking under the door, she saw the bear pace back and forth in the hallway, walking on two feet, waiting, scratching at the door, back and forth, the ringmaster calling for Andie Stackhouse’s next trick.

She awoke with a gasping start. From the bright lights and noise to a sudden black.

In her room. The lights off. Relief at being in bed, not inside a circus bathroom. She wiped at her eyes and demanded her lungs to slow down.

Disoriented, still halfway experiencing the circus, she glanced at her alarm clock but couldn’t see it. Outside, the night was black.

She leaned over the edge of her bed, looking for the alarm clock on the floor but it was too dark. She grabbed for the lamp and pulled the string and it clicked but the bulb stayed dormant.

ClickClickClick, nothing.

“Crud,” she said. Power was out. What’s worse than waking from a nightmare during a power outage. She groped for her phone but it was gone.

She’d drank too much. Again.

As she wondered why the power would be out, her attention snagged on something outside the window. The neighbor’s house. A light burned inside one of their upper rooms. The houses beyond, all of them showed signs of electricity. The power outage wasn’t widespread, it was localized, maybe to just their house.

They’d blown a fuse? The house felt ancient and enormous and black, like she’d woken in an underground crypt.

She reached for her phone again, forgetting it was gone. Where the hell had she left it? A rill of fright trickled down her spine, the same fear of the dark everyone had at three in the morning. Or whenever it was, dammit.

She made ready to throw back the covers but an alarm sounded deep inside. All of her senses were picking up on minuscule cues, or maybe she’d innately tracked them in her sleep; whatever the cause, she experienced a mounting certainty that she wasn’t alone.

Someone else was awake in her bedroom. A pair of eyes watching her.

She swallowed and felt cold all over.

She tried rousing her courage, demanding her sanity to turn back on and register the intruder was only her imagination.

Lies. No use. She felt the person.

Where? Cautiously her hand probed the bed next to her. Nothing. Standing in the corner? Watching from inside her closet? Sitting in her chair? The room was so dark, she wanted to scream.

Scream to who?

Her father, for help. My father dying of a brain tumor.

Was that breathing? The barely audible noises a human makes, even when silent? She thought she could smell him too.

Him. Her brain latched on to the fact that Dr. Pierce was here.

Don’t let on, don’t let him know you know.

If it’s even him.

If there even is an intruder.

No. There is.

She forced herself to mumble and fake a yawn and she twisted loudly in bed, and she made noise at her nightstand, like fumbling for her phone, but she scooted the drawer open and she reached inside for her pistol. Her home gun, a little .38 special that belonged to her grandfather.

It was missing.

Dr. Raymond Pierce wished he could see her better. Wished he’d thought to purchase a night vision scope, like hunters mount atop a rifle. Seeing blind Andie Stackhouse in shades of green and black would be a treat. Or better, in the hot orange and red of thermal vision, set against the cool blue of her hair. His eyes had adjusted to the dark and her room caught enough ambient light through the window for him to witness her silhouette and outlines as she sat unmoving on the bed.

He stood in his socks in the black hallway, her bedroom door open.

Andie grew eerily still and he understood she’d put the puzzle pieces together. The power was out. Her phone had been taken. She had a visitor. He smiled until he worried she could hear his pleasure. Andie Stackhouse had every reason to be proud, to be confident and sure of her rightful place at the top of the heap, but she’d pressed too hard. The woman was too proud, too aspirational, and he reveled in her plight, her helplessness. Come back down to earth, Andie. It’s good for you.

She checked her drawer for her gun but it was safely hidden under her bed, for her to find later.

He’d been so quiet, so careful. Resisting the urge to touch her hair, her face, her neck, slip his gloved hand under the covers. He’d found two bottles of wine in the trash—Andie had been drinking too much recently, but even so, he didn’t risk it.

They were playing a game now. She couldn’t see him but she knew. The longer they waited, she knew he knew. A stalemate. Who would crack first. Not him. What a game, what a game, the only reason to go on living.

Thermal vision would betray her pulse and he would dearly love to watch her carotid artery throb with hot blood.

She stunned him by calling, “Kaye?”

A scared, strangled question. His quivering fingers nearly released her phone.

“Kaye Calhoun, are you okay? Wake up and talk to me,” shouted Stackhouse but Dr. Pierce had eavesdropped on the slumbering therapist—she slept with loud white noise blasting from her iPhone, ruining out any chance of hearing her roommate. “I think we have a visitor.”

Without her phone or her gun, Andie was just a little girl. Hard for a child to be brave in the dark, in a room with a monster. He watched her strive for courage and a plan.

“Dr. Pierce, I know it’s you,” she said. A shock! COULD SHE SEE HIM? No, he was mostly hidden, only his eyes peering around her door. Was she crying? He felt like he might be. Her voice was stuffed with emotion, terror and wrath. “Dr. Pierce, lay down on the floor and don’t move. I’m getting up and you’re under arrest.”

She didn’t, though. Fear kept her pinned and he knew the emotion well. Everyone who’s lost someone knows about fear that won’t let you move.

Dr. Pierce realized his error then. How could he escape? Andie Stackhouse was doing better than he expected. Of course she was. He assumed she would break down and cry, or be too stupid and go back to sleep, and he could slip away then, but she was addressing him, threatening to get up, impossible. She’d hear him if he fled, tracking the little squeaks made by floorboards.

What then?

In his pocket were two instruments. A syringe and a scalpel. The scalpel was an old habit that had come in handy in the past, and might again tonight as a last resort.

“DR. PIERCE,” she screamed and his heart stopped. She jumped up to stand on the bed, holding her covers in her fists. She hadn’t seen him but was acting like she had. “LAY DOWN!”

Shouting in no particular direction, shouting at everything. Shouting for her own courage. Shouting to alert her roommate. Shouting to scare him, all of it working.

“KAYE, GET UP! CALL 911!” she cried and she leapt off the bed. Dr. Pierce felt too thunderstruck to move. She charged across the room, holding her comforter out like a shield. It would provide protection, and also entangle him like a net if she caught him.

The scalpel was gripped in his fingers. His gloved fingers, his left hand. He thumbed off the protective cap of the pen knife, number eleven blade.

Stackhouse blindly ricocheted off the wall and barreled into the hallway. Dr. Pierce squeezed flat and she charged by without seeing him, without touching him, other than her toe connecting with his shoe. She tripped, Her other foot caught in the comforter and she fell, crying again for Kaye to call 911.

Quickly, smooth as a spider, Dr. Pierce stepped over the woman and descended the stairs, her noise masking his retreat. His fear and shock were far too great to remain.

“KAYE!”

“Andie!” came Kaye’s reply. “Andie, are you… What’s wrong?”

“Call— Shit, I’m stuck, call 911, NOW!”

The thrill, the rush! Dr. Pierce placed her phone on the couch, as though she’d left it there. Barely breaking stride, he was through the back door, closing it gently, into the tall grass that smelled of butane, over the rear fence, and to his car several blocks away.

He’d had every advantage and still she chased him out, moxie her only tool.

What a creature she was.

What a woman. What a woman.

He was weeping and his hands quaked.

23

Senior support technician Anna Hall set Stackhouse’s silver .38 revolver onto the detective’s desk, still in its evidence baggie.

“Sorry, Detective, I can’t tell.”

Stackhouse cursed. “I had a bad feeling you wouldn’t.”

Anna Hall shook her head, like frustrated with a calculus equation. “It’s the same with your phone. Those could be latex smudges, but if so, he was using a thicker glove and holding them carefully. Even with the magnetic brush… It’s the same with the door knob. I would never notice anything if you weren’t so convinced.”

Kaye had called 911, and the officers came charging in to find zero intruders. Stackhouse’s revolver had been located under her bed. Her phone on the couch. No Dr. Pierce. The fuse box was closed and the main breaker open, as if they’d somehow tripped it. Neither she nor Kaye could remember if they’d locked the back door, but there was no sign of forced entry.

Now Stackhouse was sitting at her desk at the station, drinking a coffee, listening to the bad news—she had no evidence, not even glove prints.

Maybe she was a lunatic, imagining things, shouting at a brain doctor who hadn’t been there. Because she was obsessed. Rumors would spread that the new detective had been spooked at shadows and called 911 because she lost her phone.

“Thank you, Anna,” she said. “Thanks for checking.”

“Sorry, Detective.”

Stackhouse took one lap around the station to clear her mind, ignoring Chief Almond watching her from his office’s big window.

Screw that guy. And his buddy, Dr. Raymond Pierce, screw them all.

On her desk, she found a note she’d missed that morning.

Victoria Shakes had called.

Who in the sweet—

Oh yes! Rose Felton’s friend, from her San Fernando Valley days working in the adult movie business. Stackhouse had tracked Victoria down and left messages via the Contact Me form on her racy webpage.

The return number for Victoria was wild, so Stackhouse researched it—a Brazilian phone number.

Stackhouse dialed it and after a series of clicks, a woman answered.

After introductions, Victoria said, “You ain’t caught the killer yet?”

“Not yet.”

“You know, that girl kinda rubbed people the wrong way. Like Rosie was always angry ‘bout something. But never nothing violent, you know. She worked hard and she did good. We started ‘bout the same time, and back then, if you did good and people bought your stuff, the studios treated you good. Not just money but perks. But then, the internet happened and everybody wanted free porn. Now no more perks. Now you gotta bring your own clothes. Studios closing down so you be filming in bad places with the air conditioning off, so the mics can’t hear the fan, you know? Hot and stanky. It ain’t like it was, that’s why I moved to Rio De Janeiro, cause they still be professional down here, but Rosie, she had enough. She up and quit. Said she found herself a man.”

Stackhouse was scribbling notes. “Did you talk to her again, after she moved?”

“Nope. Girl didn’t even say bye. Wouldn’t know how to find her. I hoped she was married and happy with some babies. I’m tired of this shit. Wish I found a man.”

“Did she have enemies?”

“Nope. Didn’t have a lot of friends, though,” said Victoria.

“Where’d she get her drugs?”

“Guy in the studio. I mean, the studio didn’t provide them. But every studio had, like, a guy. We didn’t have to go looking on the street.”

Stackhouse recalled Ned saying Rosie Valley was addicted to everything when she arrived from California. “What did she take?”

“Pills. Oxycontin. Plus weed. Everybody smokes weed, though, even my mom smokes weed. Drank a lot too, but everybody drinks. Rosie was good with her money. She saved up, even when buying too many pills. But then the internet porn crash came and we all went broke.”

“What was the studio’s distributor’s name?”

“For drugs?” Victoria made a hmmm noise. “Don’t remember his real name. We called him Loopy. Here comes Loopy to get me loopy.”

Stackhouse thanked her and hung up. She researched Loopy on NCIC and found thirteen hits in California alone, so she emailed handsome Detective Brant Dobson, with San Fernando PD, and asked if he knew anything about the studio drug dealer named Loopy. Probably she should be focused on women wearing Nikes, not men, and yet.

Before lunch, Val took a call and said, “Let’s go, baby. We got ourselves a stiff.”

On the ride over, Val forced through some awkward conversation but Stackhouse’s mind was elsewhere, until Val said, “I called Joey. I told him I was sorry.”

“What’d he say?”

“That jerk said it was the first time he could ever remember a sincere apology.”

“That’s progress, right?” said Stackhouse.

“You know what else he said? He said I gotta stop putting myself down and hitting on other men.”

“How dare he.”

“Everybody’s so sensitive these days,” muttered Val.

“So what’s next?”

“He wants to stay separated but I can take him to dinner or something stupid like that, and we’ll see how it goes.”

“Win him back, Val. He seems like a keeper,” said Stackhouse.

“I don’t trust that guy, though. Why would a keeper want to keep me?”

“Val.”

“I know, I know, I heard it, shut up, shut your big beautiful mouth.”

They found Officer Tankersley standing outside apartment 26 at West Creek Manor, off Shenandoah Avenue. He held the door for them, and they discovered Lucius Pride dead in a La-Z-Boy chair. The gunshot had been reported thirty minutes ago and Lucius was still warm. The front of his shirt was a crimson bib of blood and by crouching down next to him, they saw the entrance wound under his chin. A Taurus pistol in his right hand.

Val found a stack of mail on the coffee table. Debt collection letters, and a notice of impending divorce suit. Plus a handwritten suicide note, blaming his childhood and his dad and his wife and the guy his wife was dating.

“Impending divorce,” muttered Val, looking pale, and she stepped outside into the exterior hallway. Stackhouse waited for the medical examiner to come in and pronounce the body dead, and she wondered just how much sudden bad news it took to break a brain.

Driving back to the station, Stackhouse detoured to the big Wells Fargo bank, even though Val said, “Only a week in and you’ll be fired for harassment.”

Stackhouse ran inside and flashed her badge and asked for the bank manager. The teller pointed that direction and Stackhouse strolled the hall until knocking on Maribeth Blue’s open door.

Maribeth jumped up and ran to close the door, sealing them inside.

“Officer,” she half-whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to check—”

“What happens at those parties, stays at those parties, and we do not discuss it, especially not at my got’damn bank,” said Maribeth.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine. Is there anything else?”

“Are you fine? I know who your date was,” said Stackhouse.

Maribeth walked backwards, like being too close to Stackhouse scared her. Her eyes jerked around the room. “Yes. I am fine. I don’t want you to ask me that anymore. Is there anything else?”

“Have you seen James?”

“James who?”

“James Rigby. My date. The tax guy with a short beard.”

“Ooohhh, right.” Maribeth pinked, and Stackhouse got the impression perhaps James had opened Maribeth’s door that night. “I heard he was missing, but I didn’t do anything to him. I was already interviewed about it. He was your date.”

“We left separately,” said Stackhouse.

“Surely he’s somewhere around here. He couldn’t really be missing.”

“He’s gone gone. No car, no phone calls, nothing. When did you see him last?”

Maribeth sputtered. “I’m not sure. At the party.”

“Did he pull your number, Maribeth?”

“That’s not, I don’t… Am I compelled to answer that? Wait! Several people saw him afterwards! In the main room, because he made a joke about… Well, he made a joke that multiple people laughed at and will remember, and I don’t know where he went after that. I bet Missing Persons already knows all this. I seem to recall he left before the others did.”

“You can tell me the truth. There’s no jealousy here,” said Stackhouse.

“I am! It’s the truth! He was in the main room afterwards, with the couches and the wine, and he was telling jokes, and that’s the last time I saw him, I promise. I will swear that before a judge if you force me to. Do you think he’s in trouble? Or, like, dead?” She whispered the final word.

“I’m beginning to worry. If you hear anything, let me know?”

“Of course, absolutely.” Maribeth seemed relieved to be talking about something other than the morning she woke up naked in an alley. Stackhouse took a moment to inspect her office. It was orderly and pristine and professional—photographs of her smiling with various people, certificates and plaques on the wall. Exactly how a respected bank manager’s office should look. Maribeth Blue was dressed how a respected bank manager should, conservative yet sharp. Was it a disguise? Who was the real Maribeth, this or the partier? Maybe that was why Dr. Pierce disrobed her, to demonstrate the duplicity? “Officer? Is there anything else?”

“You were the first call I had, Maribeth.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“My first day as a detective. The first minute. We jumped in the car and raced to your place.”

Maribeth nodded. “I see.”

“It matters. To me, it does. I’d sure like to bust the asshole who drugged you and took off your clothes, Maribeth.”

The bank manager caught her breath. She took another step backwards, but changed her mind and walked quickly to the door. She opened it and she fought off tears. “You can’t.”

“I can’t? I can’t bust him?”

Maribeth put a hand on Stackhouse’s arm and forced her out and she closed the door in her face.

24

Dr. Raymond Pierce parked his Mercedes at a small brick ranch a mile outside of Richmond, Kentucky. His car bore signs of minor fender benders he hadn’t repaired.

The house at which he parked was built a hundred years ago, sitting in a row of identical homes, each no larger than thirteen hundred square feet, and shaded by oak trees planted the same year the foundations were laid. The neighborhood was well tended, the retired owners taking pride in their modest belongings in a way today’s generation couldn’t imagine.

Dr. Pierce knocked on the storm door. The interior door was open to allow the breeze in through the screen.

A handsome man walked slowly into view, moving as though stiff. Sixty-one years old, salt-and-pepper hair. Despite time and illness taking their toll, it was clear the man had been a bull in his day, blessed with the bold features men and women alike admired.

But of course he was handsome, he had to be.

Dr. Pierce put on his best smile.

“Good morning,” he said. “Mr. Stackhouse?”

The man nodded carefully. “I am.”

“Mr. Stackhouse, my name is Raymond Pierce. I’m a neurosurgeon.” Dr. Pierce raised the thick file he was carrying. “I have your medical records here and I’d like to discuss them.”

Jimmy Stackhouse Junior opened the door slowly. “You’re with the Lexington VA?”

“No, I have my own clinic.”

“You’re not the surgeon who was too damn busy to see me?”

“I’m not. I’m from Virginia.”

“Come on inside then,” said Mr. Stackhouse.

Dr. Pierce stepped into the small living room and he inhaled, slow and deep, and detected no alcohol.

“They found a mass on a CT scan,” said Jimmy Stackhouse. “Was supposed to send me to Lexington but there isn’t but one brain surgeon and he was too busy to see me, supposedly. They set up an appointment but I told them to shove it up their ass.”

“I’ve looked at the scan. I have it here with me.” Dr. Pierce had forged signatures and shattered HIPAA privacy rules to get them. Veterans were notoriously cranky patients and today that suited Dr. Pierce’s goal perfectly. “I collaborate with veteran’s hospitals.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m a great admirer of our nation’s heroes and they have only the one qualified neurosurgeon.”

“Have a seat?”

“Thank you, no, I prefer to stand,” said Dr. Pierce. “Do you have any family?”

“None to speak of.”

Like being slapped.

Dr. Pierce saw then the man’s last twenty-five years as if they’d been painted on a mural. Wounded in the Army and coming home to claim disability. Growing frustrated with the government and society, feeling neglected, developing an addiction to alcohol and pills. His wife dying, his daughter running off, his brain fraying, bitterness and resentment festering, until now he was nothing but hate. When asked about his family, his daughter wasn’t worth mentioning. Dr. Pierce suppressed the ire. Andie Stackhouse was the only good thing about this husk of a human.

“A bunch of crooks, if you ask me, at the VA. Sucking off the government’s teat, never sacrificing a damn thing, never working,” said Mr. Stackhouse.

“I understand entirely.”

“You’re not with them?”

“Absolutely not, Mr. Stackhouse. I have a private practice.”

“A buddy of mine, a medic in the Lebanon Civil War, he’s now a doctor that makes house calls,” said Jimmy Stackhouse. “Still to this day. That’s how it should be.”

“He sounds like a good man.”

“You’re a brain surgeon?”

“I am. A good one. Research me, Dr. Raymond Pierce. After you do, perhaps you’ll take my offer seriously.”

“What offer’s that?”

“I’m a better neurosurgeon than the man you’re waiting on in Lexington. If he’s too busy to see you, do me the honor of being my patient. Allow me to perform the surgery, Mr. Stackhouse. Pro bono, as a thank you for your service.” Dr. Pierce’s mouth spread into a wide smile, his chin betraying a slight tremor. “We can operate as early as this weekend.”

25

Handsome Brant Dobson of the San Fernando Valley PD returned her email. Someone in Vice knew Loopy, real name Jere Holly, but said that Loopy was in prison, claiming to have met Jesus and now acting as an unofficial chaplain, but then so did a lot of the inmates. Loopy had been in for a year.

Stackhouse scrubbed at her forehead and typed him a thank you email.

“No one killed Rose,” she muttered. No one even could kill Rose. They were playing online poker or at a conference in Florida or in prison or in South America.

Captain Lott emerged from his office and called, “Yo, Stack. Where’s Val?”

“The morgue with this morning’s suicide,” she replied.

“Turn up your radio, Detective. We had a shooting in Northwest. First responders cleared the scene and Detective Seay is en route. Get your butt up there.”

Although it wasn’t a rebuke, Stackhouse felt stung. She jogged to the car pool but found her Crown Vic buried, so she took the first thing available.

The shooting occurred on Mercer Avenue, one block from Kelli McDonald’s old house. She kept a picture of Kelli in her locker. She parked in the line of cruisers and jostled through the gathered crowd and flashed her badge at Officer Palma, logging her into the crime scene. Officer Moses Elliott met her on the steps of an old two-story I-house, a common design for Roanoke City, and gave her the bare bones.

“Neighbors say two guys got into it. Both fired pistols. One’s dead, the other’s hit but he ran,” said Officer Elliott.

From within the house, Detective Seay called, “That you, Stackhouse? Interview the crowd, would you?”

Over the next hour of talking to neighbors in the hot sun, the same story repeated often enough to solidify. The house belonged to Tre (actually Tre’s mom but who the hell knew where she’d gone) and Tre was messing around with Diamond Reece, but Diamond Reece was also seeing Rick Rick on the side. Rick Rick found out about Tre last week and Rick Rick beat the hell out of Diamond Reece but the police didn’t do a damn thing because they don’t care about poor Black folk. Tre took a bat to Rick Rick’s car yesterday while Rick Rick was at work at the steel mill, so today Rick Rick came to Tre’s house and everyone heard gunshots and Tre took off in his Chrysler, but he was limping so they assumed he’d been hit. Rick Rick didn’t come out. Rick Rick had a shaved head and burns on his hands from working with molten metal—it’d been his own damn fault and he got no worker’s compensation for it.

Standing outside, Stackhouse called Seay inside the house and said to check the victim’s hands. Were they burnt? Yeah, that matched the description of Rick Rick, last name Warner. The other shooter was hit too, so Stackhouse would check the hospitals.

She raced to Carilion and told the nurse, “I’m looking for a man named Tre. Possible gunshot wound. He’s Black, medium build.”

The nurse nodded and pointed. “He’s been here twenty minutes. He crashed his car into the wall coming in.”

“He’s alive?”

“He’s in emergency surgery. He was hemorrhaging and required an immediate transfusion to prevent exsanguination. Cross your fingers.”

Stackhouse waited outside the ED surgical room until a physician’s assistant emerged to speak with her. The bullet passed clean through Tre’s thigh. They got him under, stopped the blood loss, and were administering a transfusion. He’d be taken upstairs soon to sew the deep wound closed, and after that it would be about pain management. Stackhouse snapped on mask and gloves, entering the cold room to photograph Tre’s face and wounds. She called it in, requesting an officer stay at the hospital to Mirandize and cuff him when he woke. These were good jobs for Sergeant Sims, a man too overweight to do much else.

She bought a smoothie on her way back to the station, sweaty and grouchy that hours of her day had been wasted, but relieved she wasn’t the primary detective on the shooting.

Captain Lott’s mind was cluttered with manpower problems.

The station had caught a break—it’d been a slow couple weeks, but that wouldn’t last. Crimes Against Persons was six detectives short (and even when they filled those slots, that was the absolute minimum, still a far cry from optimal) and down a lieutenant, not to mention suffering from the brain drain of losing Mark Rowe. But he saw no help on the horizon. Being a cop had once been an honorable position—keep the peace, protect and serve the public, maintain a civilization, wear the blue with pride—but public sentiment had turned. He blamed it on Napster. That damned music sharing program. Before Napster, stealing had been evil. But then it became possible to share music files, tantamount to stealing, and evil had shifted over to judging and narcing. Don’t you dare judge us for stealing music, don’t you dare try to enforce the law. Stealing became the standard.

Without a baseline for good, without an ultimate objective truth, what were cops other than traitors? Get out of our way, we’re here to eat the apple.

However. The economy was crashing. Lots of folks losing their jobs. Maybe enough people would become desperate to fill the station ranks.

That didn’t help him today with his manpower issues.

The doors to the shop opened, admitting Detective Stackhouse. She was fresh from the hospital, related to the shooting on Mercer.

Police stations as a general rule felt cold and clammy. He’d never worked in one that felt warm. Keep the temperature down, reduce germ transfer, tamp down the energy level of the drunks, who knows. Cold and clammy, except when Stackhouse was around. Lott was a happily married man, one of the few not in love with Stackhouse, but even he could be warmed by her fire. It wasn’t just how she was made either, it was her spirit. How she carried herself. The defiant upward tilt of her chin, the dance of her ponytail, the fire in her eyes, the way she dressed. She cared.

If Lott had a full shift of Stackhouses, his manpower issues would be over. The academy would have a waiting list.

Lott waited until she finished uploading photographs and he called her and Detective Farmer into his office. His management style, as the head of Violent Crimes, was to gather regular informal updates from his detectives and then get out of their way. He was popular. He met more frequently with the younger detectives, including Stackhouse, still fresh in her mentorship with Val Farmer.

Val gave him the rundown on her open investigations, plus yesterday’s probable suicide.

Stackhouse was already stretched thin by the job. She felt distressed and guilty at having no good updates. She stated Maribeth Blue’s case was going nowhere, even though it belonged to Special Victims. She reported no strong leads on Rose Felton’s homicide. Missing Persons still hadn’t located James Rigby, nor his car, an unusual update from a CAP detective but he knew they’d been quasi-dating. She had potentially ID’ed today’s second shooter, Tre, at the hospital.

Lott nodded and ran over a few more details and said, “Okay good, Val, you can carry on. Stack, have a seat.”

“Oh baby, you’re in it deep,” joked Val on her way out.

“No she’s not, shut up and close the door.”

Stackhouse sank like she’d done something wrong. Captain Lott had never given her grief over her rapid rise to patrol sergeant and detective, but neither had he praised her. Police detectives needed no false reinforcement.

“Relax, Stack, we’re just talking.”

“Yes sir.”

“Something you’re not telling me,” he said.

She frowned. “How do you know?”

“Countless hours interviewing witnesses and interrogating suspects, you learn to spot someone hotfooting it.”

“It’s in the file. I’m not hiding it. But I didn’t want to draw attention,” said Stackhouse. She looked sick.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Rose Felton. Last year, I bought makeup from her. No big deal. But what she didn’t tell me was, she registered me as a distributor. So she could use my name and likeness, and double-dip the income. I found out last week. The WIG CEO said the ruse was sophisticated. She even gave me a PO box and burner phone number. Their legal team is looking into it.”

“Damn, Stack.”

“Yes sir.”

“You don’t need to call me sir. This isn’t the military,” said Lott.

“It’s a habit.”

“Helluva first week. Then again, with you, it usually is.”

She tensed and refused to comment.

Lott said, “When’s the last time you and Rose communicated?”

“The night of the WIG party. A year ago. She asked if I wanted to distribute and I said no, I only wanted the makeup, and that was that.”

“Do you financially benefit from being a distributor?”

“No. The CEO said something about me potentially being entitled to some money but I’m not expecting it or pursuing it,” said Stackhouse.

“Damn,” said Lott. “What are the odds.”

“Astronomical, sir.”

“How often do you buy makeup?”

“Three times so far, in a twelve-month period. Online. It’s delivered to my door by UPS. I don’t know who gets the credit for the sale, though. Maybe Rose, maybe a woman named Staci.”

“Stack,” he said.

“I know. I should have told you. But I don’t want to lose the case.”

Lott leaned back in the chair and swiveled to see the detective bureau’s big board. Manpower issues. Damn. Damn damn damn. “Our ass could already be grass. A good DA will barbecue you, even though you did nothing wrong. Kinda did nothing wrong. Good idea, documenting it in the murder book, but we gotta put someone else on this case.”

She twisted in her chair like she might throw up. “Captain, I didn’t know she registered me as a distributor.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“We didn’t talk. We didn’t communicate. She’s a stranger to me. WIG hasn’t paid me a dime,” she protested.

“You can’t be the lead, Stack. You know how this game works. It doesn’t matter who killed Rose if we can’t prove it. And we can’t prove it if a defense attorney gets it dismissed, which means we gotta be damn near perfect. If a judge hears that the lead detective was discovered to be connected to the victim and we did nothing?”

“I’m not connected to her.”

“Yeah you are. Don’t be stupid,” said Lott.

She flinched.

Lott knew she could handle some insults. She was tough. You want to be a cop, you get called stupid when you act stupid.

Her shoulders slumped. “Yeah. I know,” she said.

“We need to tell the judge and the jury that, although you did nothing wrong, we immediately assigned the case to someone else, and that we double-checked all your work.” Lott turned his eyes back to the big board. “Kip Broome. He’ll play ball. His whole family’s down with a stomach bug, though, and he’s out for the next day or two. Until then, Val is lead, and that’s that.”

Broome was Stackhouse’s age, but had ten years more experience than she did. Lott was banking on Stackhouse catching all the hints he was dropping about the lead detective. A good cop would spy the opportunity.

“Until Kip Broome comes back,” she said, “I’ll wrap a few things up?”

He nodded. “Get Val to sign-off on anything you do. Document the hell out of your work. Cover your ass. But the next shit that comes in the door, that’s yours. Rose Felton will be in someone else’s hands. Okay?”

She didn’t answer.

He popped upright in the chair, grinning. “Rookies are such a damn mess. Always living and dying with their first cases. I love it. But Stack, c’mon. Think about it. Before the year’s out, you’ll have worked a dozen homicides. I mean, you worked one today.”

“That’s part of the problem, sir. How do any of these cases get solved? There’s no time. No wonder detectives burn out. How can I close Rose’s case if there’s always another popping up? ”

“You’re hung up on Rose because she was your first, but you gotta think like a machine. You’re a machine, Stack, working the case best you can, before moving onto the next. If you live and die over each Rose Felton, that’s when you burn out. She’s just a file. One of dozens. We need you more than Rose needs you.”

“Is that what Mark Rowe would say?”

“Mark would say something spooky about Jesus and then I wouldn’t sleep tonight. But yeah, I think so. Mark worked more cases than anyone because he could think clear and cold,” said Lott.

“I understand,” she said. “I understand I have a job and that means working a lot of cases, but she’s not just a file. Rose mattered. Justice matters.”

“Now you sound like Mark. And you’re right. Rose mattered, so don’t ruin our case by doing something stupid.”

“Yes sir,” she said.

“Just because it’s your first, that doesn’t make it more special than the others. Do your best and move on. You’re in this for the long haul. Good? Good. Clear anything you do with Val, and carry on,” said Captain Lott.

She threw him a small salute, and then winced, like she wished she hadn’t. When she reached the door, Lott said, “Hey. I miss Mark.”

“Me too.”

“You know he woulda killed for you, right?”

“Oh?” The word sounded too innocent and Lott knew he’d hit the mark.

“Yeah. Part of me wonders if Almond said the wrong thing about you that day, and that’s why they got into it. Everyone knew, don’t rag on Stackhouse when Mark was around,” said Lott.

She nodded. “Good to know. Thank you, Captain.”

Stackhouse allowed herself a quick walk around the block. A mental health break. She’d known Captain Lott would take the case away from her, and she acknowledged he was correct to do it, that it shouldn’t bother her. Still, her blood boiled. The Rose Felton homicide was more shrouded than most and she’d worked it well. She’d made no mistakes and yet she was being punished for something she didn’t do.

No, that was self-pity. It wasn’t punishment. The result was the same, though. Watching hours of Rose Felton footage, she felt like she knew her, like she owed Rose justice, and Rose was being yanked away.

Just because she was your first, that doesn’t make her special.

Cold hard reality.

She focused on her anger rather than Mark Rowe.

He woulda killed for you.

So what. That didn’t matter. She and Mark Rowe had been colleagues, and now they weren’t. She couldn’t think of him as more. Couldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t. They were wrong for each other. He was already dating someone else. He expected to die soon, for heaven’s sake. She was lonely, that was all. She’d been single for years, pursued by all the wrong men, her self-esteem shot, wondering what was wrong with her, and just because Mark Rowe was single too, and an admirable man, that didn’t mean they were destined to be together. Nor even that they should be together.

In fact, she suspected it would be a train wreck, if they tried. She was young and he was attracted to her. He was older and wise, and she was attracted to him. It was natural for there to be chemistry. But it would be a corrosive chemistry that fulfilled neither.

Keep telling yourself that, Andie.

You’re doing great.

But she suspected it was the truth.

Back inside the station, she explained the situation to Val. “So until Broome gets back, you gotta sign-off on anything I do.”

Val was typing on her computer, using only two fingers. “Rodger dodger. Sounds like a hoot.”

“I won’t let the case consume me. I know we’re short staffed and have piles of work to do.”

“Right-o,” said Val.

“But I want to go back to Rose’s house. One more time. Poke around her office.”

“I don’t care.”

“Really?” said Stackhouse.

“You never listen to me anyway. Go ahead. Oh, all that great makeup and perfume Rose had? Bring your old girl Val Farmer some of the good stuff. I guess I should start caring about how I look,” said Val.

“I’m gonna go, if you’re sure.”

Val made a shooing motion. “If you find new evidence, call me. I’ll come find it.”

Stackhouse smiled. “Okay, I can do that.”

“Yeah yeah, cutie, take off. Only an hour until quitting time, and don’t forget the makeup.”

Stackhouse fixed her eyes on her little white board.

Swinger parties

Ex-boyfriend

Porn industry

WIG enemies

Racing to Rose’s house, she called the station’s cyber crime unit. Last Friday, she’d requested they break into Rose’s computer. Now, on the phone, Stan the Cyber Techie chewed a candy bar into her ear. “I was at the house yesterday. Baller place, right? Not what I expected from a porn star. I downloaded all Rose Felton’s hard storage. Nothing juuuuicy. No nudes, a huuuuge bummer. Buncha video edits of her putting on makeup. Detective Eric Kincaid has them.”

“Thanks, Stan, and quit eating candy bars.” She hung up

Eric Kincaid was good and would alert her if anything helpful popped from those tutorial videos, but she doubted it.

She parked in front of Rose’s ranch and hurried inside, praying none of the sex-party neighbors would see her. She walked straight to Rose’s office in the basement, tugging on the white latex gloves. Downstairs, regret plucked at her heart. If she could do it over again, she would pursue whoever the hell had been in the basement when she entered, instead of clearing the house. She glared at the world through that rear glass door, letting her vision walk up and down the pathway leading to the alley and the neighborhood beyond, where the intruder had vanished, although they hadn’t found any shoe impressions in that direction.

Sitting at Rose’s desk, she idly pulled open drawers. Nothing new to learn, but she felt she should be doing something in the remaining time she had on the case. Her first case. Not a special case, just her first one. Fifty percent of homicides went unsolved. If she wanted to work in law enforcement, she must steel herself to the regret and disappointment.

Rose’s desk was not organized the same as when she left it—signs that Cybercrimes had taken the computer apart to access the hard drive. She didn’t understand hacking, other than a vague awareness that parts of a computer’s storage could be accessed physically, without the password.

Which they still didn’t know.

The house felt more incongruous to Rose, now that Stackhouse knew the woman better. This was the tasteful home of a conservative, who decorated in khaki and worried about things like crown molding. Not Rose, who smoked and drank and balled the neighbors, and who must’ve felt displaced in this house with small rooms. Like she didn’t belong. Where did Rose belong?

She called Stan the Cyber Techie again. “From what you copied from Rose’s computer, can you see her search history?”

“No, without her password, we’re limited. Limited as heck. Girl had saved video in hard storage, big media files we could copy and break into. No nudes, though. Her operating system is a big fat zero, which means we can’t access her internet browser, for example. What kinda porn do you think porn stars watch?”

“I bet they’re desperate for love.”

“What? I didn’t catch that,” said Stan.

Previously, Rose’s monitor had been sitting on top of the CPU, which was laid flat. Now the monitor was sitting beside the CPU, evidence of the Cyber Crime’s work. “Why didn’t you take the computer with you?”

“We could’ve, but the monitor and CPU are heavy and huuuuge. She paid a fortune for that rig. Easier for me to go there. If it was a laptop, I’d have yanked it. But we got all the files we could get. And I assumed you would’ve cracked the case by now, Deteeeective.”

“Why can’t you hack the password? It happens in movies,” said Stackhouse.

“Ask James Bond to do it for you, then,” said Stan. She’d wounded his pride.

Stackhouse pushed the power button and the machine booted.

“What happens if I guess wrong?” she asked.

“No harm. I tried a few passwords. Her name and birthday and the normal number combinations. I reached the limit and it locked up. It’s on a timer, so you’re free to try again. Good luck.”

The CPU clicked and hummed and asked her for a password. She entered WIGGIRL123 and the screen warned her she only had four guesses left.

Stackhouse hunted for clues, even though half a dozen people already had—in the drawers, under the desk, on the back of the CPU, in the closet, anywhere Rose might’ve written down random numbers and letters.

Nothing.

She checked her watch. Thirty minutes until Val went home. She was tempted to haul the CPU and the big monitor to her car, and deposit it in Cybercrimes and demand they crack it. But it was big and their work space was always crowded, and they’d have hacked in by now if they could.

She paced the basement, alert to hiding spots or notepads, seeing nothing. “Talk to me, Rose.”

Returning to the office, she pursed her lips. Stan was correct. The monitor was comically large.

A memory flashed in front of her eyes, her running down the stairs and chasing the intruder off. The intruder who’d been here an entire day after Rose had been murdered. There was no good reason for the intruder to still be here, in the basement, other than the computer. It was something she’d previously assumed, the same as Val, but the notion came back again stronger. What was on that computer worth risking your neck for?

The password was on a timer. After it locked, you had to wait before trying again. Had the intruder returned to attempt more passcode combinations? Perhaps because the CPU was too big to cart off inconspicuously? Stan the Cyber Techie said if it had been a laptop, he’d have yanked it. Maybe the intruder felt the same.

On a whim, she called Ned, the ex-boyfriend.

“How you doing, Officer,” he said into her ear. “Caught the sum’bitch yet?”

“Working on it. What’s the password to Rose’s big computer downstairs?”

“No idea. She didn’t let me near it. She said I was so stupid, I might break it and she needed it for work,” said Ned.

“Give me your five best guesses.”

“Hell, I don’t know how to do that. Did you check the safe?”

Stackhouse blinked and her mind ran through facts like a rolodex. “What safe?”

“Oh my gawd almighty, you haven’t found her safe yet! Not too bright, you cops, are you. It’s hidden in the wall. I knew that combo, though she could’ve changed it. Try 12399. Stupid, ain’t it.”

Stackhouse jumped up from the desk chair and pivoted on her left foot, turning a full circle, looking at the walls. “Where? Which wall?”

“Upstairs. One of the spare bedrooms, the pink one, in the closet. Damn, I should’a come raided it myself.”

Stackhouse took the stairs two at a time, a hot feeling building, like a blood hound catching a scent. She remembered the pink room. The closet doors slid into pockets in the wall, and she stared at the boxes stacked inside. The contents had been inventoried and determined to be various items that came with the house—manuals to the kitchen appliances, a list of paint colors, phone numbers for the contractors who’d worked on the home in the past ten years, phone books, packs of nuts and bolts that went to who-knew-what, carpet samples, snippets of drapes, sections of quarter round and crown molding, extra light bulbs, etc.

“Don’t hang up,” Stackhouse said. She put the phone on speaker and set it down, so she could use both hands hauling boxes out of the closet into the big empty room. Then she paused. Wait, Andi, think this through. “Ned, actually, I’ll call you back later if I need you.”

“Suits me fine. I’m supposed to be fixing this cable box anyhow,” said Ned.

“12399?”

“12399. Used to be.”

“Thanks.” Stackhouse hung up and she hefted the next box off the top of the pile. And the next. With the top layers displaced, it became clear the bottom boxes hadn’t been moved—they’d been opened and examined and closed again. Stackhouse slid them out and the closet was empty, except for the standing mirror upright against the back wall.

Her reflection was smiling but it was nervous and panicky. Chill out, Andie! She tucked her gloved fingers behind the mirror and pulled the edge toward her, swinging it open like a door on smooth hinges, revealing a tall steel safe. Gun-metal gray, made by ULINE.

Found it. Oh wow, oh George Washington, oh wow.

She touched the keypad and the digital display blinked on.

Each key beeped. 1-2-3-9-9.

The display chirped happily and the inner gears clanked, the heavy door releasing. Using one finger, like it might burn her, she tugged it open just far enough to peep inside.

26

The sun was hot near the treetops, turning the evening sky gold. Val parked behind Stackhouse’s car and slammed the door, and she regarded Stackhouse suspiciously. “It’s quitting time, lady, this better be good.”

Arms crossed, leaning against her Interceptor, Stackhouse shrugged. “I spoke to Ned, Rose’s ex-boyfriend. I think you should look for a safe in Rose’s spare bedroom.”

“We never found a safe.”

Stackhouse spoke levelly. “I think you should look there. According to Ned. Maybe you’ll find one.”

“Maybe I’ll find one?” said Val.

“Right. Maybe you will. You’re the lead detective. Ned gave me a possible combination. Maybe you’ll be able to open the safe, if you find it.” Stackhouse held out a pair of latex gloves. In her other hand, she held a camera. “Who knows.”

“Who knows. Maybe I’ll find a safe and everyone will think I’m Sherlock and I’ll get a raise,” said Val.

“You deserve one.”

“I deserve one, you bet your cute ass.” They walked inside and Val looked around. “This way?”

“Who knows. But I’m pretty sure it’s that way.” Inside the spare bedroom, Stackhouse drew apart the closed closet doors. “Maybe we should move all these boxes?”

“We already did. But maybe we should do it again?” said Val.

“What’s that? Is that a mirror back there?” Stackhouse grabbed the top box and she set it inside the room. “Let’s check it out, huh, Val?”

“Golly, sure thing, kiddo.” Val helped her and they quickly emptied the closet. “I see nothing special except the mirror.”

“How about that.” Stackhouse set the video camera on a box and hit record. “Maybe it’s nothing, but Ned suggested we check it out.”

Val tugged on the mirror and it opened and Stackhouse was gratified to hear the woman gasp, the same as she had. “Oooh baby.”

“Nice work, Detective. Ned said to try 12399.”

Val waved at the camera. “You’re recording? In case it’s booby-trapped? Here goes.” She punched numbers and the safe beeped and Val swung the door open. “Holy cow. I mean, ho-leeee cow.”

The safe’s interior was divided into three smaller compartments. The upper two were stuffed with cash. Val plucked off the top bundle. “Hot damn. A thousand dollars in twenties. There could be a hundred grand in here, maybe two or three hundred. Rose didn’t trust the banking system?”

“She made fifty a month for two years. Unless she blew it all on coke, she still has hundreds somewhere. Probably a bank.” Stackhouse lowered to her knees, to examine the bottom compartment, which contained paperwork. The deed to the house. Her car. A birth certificate. Near the bottom, she found a notepad covered with scribbles. One of the scribbles read, Password — 12KITTEN34!??.

“Gotcha,” said Stackhouse.

Val called for permission to work overtime, and while she and a crime scene tech bagged the evidence in the pink spare bedroom, Stackhouse tried 12KITTEN34!?? on the office CPU and voila, she was in. The computer opened onto Rose’s home screen.

Stackhouse set up the camera and hit record, documenting herself. Cover your ass.

On screen was evidence of Rose’s cluttered mind. Folders and files were scattered without order. Lists of clients, unedited videos, chaotic word processing documents, meaningless spreadsheets. Stackhouse squinted at the screen, covering her mouth with a gloved hand, alert for anything an intruder might’ve wanted.

She opened the web browser and looked through Rose’s surfing history, silently apologizing to the woman for the invasion. Facebook, Twitter, WIG’s web page for distributors, her bank, her email, and YouTube dominated the results.

Rose had saved all her passwords into the machine, sparing Stackhouse from additional headache. She could log into each website.

Rose used Yahoo Mail. Her inbox was littered with junk, but her outbox took Stackhouse’s breath away. Rose had been in regular contact with consumers and her team of distributors—sweet-talking the customers and encouraging/cajoling her team—but what caught Stackhouse’s eye was the alarming amount of hateful messages Rose fired off. To everyone. She menaced her bank, she cursed out the cable company, she threatened people Stackhouse didn’t recognize, she harassed old distributors, she maintained various grudges; it would take hours to look through these. Like her home, Rose’s online personality seemed split between a bright artificial facade and a darker reality.

Stackhouse surfed to the Wells Fargo bank page and logged in. She whistled and closed it again. Three hundred thousand in checking and savings. Worth killing over.

She made a phone call.

“Stan.” She leaned back in the desk chair and stretched. “I have bad news for you, babe. I’m bringing you a gift. A big heavy gift.”

“That’s Walter White.” Kaye pointed at their big television. She and Stackhouse were lying on their oversized couch and Kaye was watching Breaking Bad. Stackhouse felt too tired to go to bed.

“The bald guy?”

“He wasn’t bald at the beginning of this episode. He’s cooking meth.”

Stackhouse yawned. “One episode? Meth doesn’t make your hair fall out that fast.”

“He has cancer, so he shaved it. But it’s a metaphor. He’s changing. He’s taking on a new persona, turning evil. Isn’t that great?”

“You’re drunk,” said Stackhouse.

“Nooooo, only a little. But think about it. We watch shows all the time about people who stay the same. They don’t change. They’re static. They don’t grow, don’t mature, they certainly don’t devolve. This guy, he used to be a high school teacher, but he’s turning into a villain, and oh, his brother-in-law is a cop.”

“Kaye. It’s so late.”

“It’s not even eleven. Grow up, sweetie. We’re adults. We can stay up forever.”

“I can’t move. Why is this couch so big. I’m stuck,” said Stackhouse.

“Walter was a high school teacher but now he just confronted Tuco, the drug pusher, and blew up his hideout because they beat up his friend.”

“That doesn’t seem like something a villain would do.”

“Before he left, though, he cut a deal to make more meth. He’s going bad in stages, little by little, out of desperation, but he likes it. I could teach seminars on this,” said Kaye.

Stackhouse yawned again. “Okay.”

“His pride is the impetus to his deconstruction. That and his cancer. Pride and fear. I have a prediction what’ll happen next.”

“I don’t care, babe.” Stackhouse’s laptop was open on a cushion nearby and it whooshed. A new email in her inbox.

“I think he’ll kill his brother-in-law, the cop. Wouldn’t that be wild?” said Kaye. “I hope this show gets renewed for a second season.”

“I hope the cop does not get killed,” mumbled Stackhouse and she pulled her computer closer. The laptop’s fan was running in high gear to keep the machine from overheating. The email was from WIG headquarters. The CEO Don Hambrick was writing to inform her the illegal distributor account had been taken down, and the CFO and her team had decided to award Stackhouse a percentage of the income produced off of her likeness, payable next month. Mr. Hambrick and the leadership of WIG would do whatever they could to assist with her investigation and he appreciated her efforts to prevent bad press.

Her eyebrows rose. That was a decent chunk of money. For doing nothing at all.

She could use it. Her laptop was struggling. Her wardrobe hadn’t been refreshed in forever, unlike the lucrative years working in Washington. She budgeted carefully, which meant eating out rarely.

This was the second time Hambrick had mentioned avoiding bad press. He seemed extra sensitive to it, so much so it vibrated Stackhouse’s antenna. She googled ‘Work It Girl, International’ and ‘scandal’ and various other combinations.

She clicked on links but nothing caught her eye, no news articles, until she found herself reading about Rose’s murder and one of the comments below mentioned a second murder. A second murder? wondered Stackhouse. Who was the first? Someone else chimed in, yeah just sooooo sad, and someone else, hope I’m not next!

Stackhouse did her best to sit up straighter in the mire of cushions and she searched again, until happening upon a discussion on Facebook from a year ago. Cori Black, a prominent WIG distributor in Virginia Beach, had been found dead, shot in her home.

“Shut up,” said Stackhouse.

The odds of that were astronomically bad, two successful WIG distributors from Virginia shot in the head within a year. Couldn’t be a coincidence. None of the detectives had connected the dots yet because they didn’t know about Cori Black.

Stackhouse sighed.

She couldn’t accept the WIG money and remain on the case. If she took a financial reward, it would be seen as a bribe. Not only would she be booted from the investigation, the whole department would suffer. A good DA would laugh at them, one of their detectives accepting a kickback soon after she discovered a second distributor had been shot. Stackhouse had to choose—the money or the investigation.

She’d get a new computer one of these days. But not today.

She opened CEO Don Hambrick’s email and replied, Mr. Hambrick, thank you for the generous offer, but I must decline. The investigation is ongoing. Perhaps you can use the money as a grant to a charity, in Rose’s name. In the meantime, I would like to schedule a phone call tomorrow morning to discuss Cori Black.

Lying in bed later, demanding her mind switch off, her thoughts continued to drift toward her father. Was he awake? Lying in bed too, terrified about his diagnosis? That vision ate at her, him alone and scared.

She had the next few weekends off.

Probably, probably it was time to reach out to him. Something more than a letter. A phone call. A knock on his door. Something, anything, else she’d have a lifetime of sleepless nights full of regret.

27

Stackhouse arrived to work three hours early. She didn’t want overtime pay; she wanted extra time without supervision. Today was most likely her final chance to work the Rose case, because Kip Broome returned tomorrow.

This early, the station was quiet. No, not quiet, never say quiet. The drunks were sleeping, the nightshift’s skeleton crew was dragging, and the world hadn’t woken up yet to tear itself apart. The Barn didn’t feel like a tomb, more like a graveyard, cold and eerie in the time before the sun came up.

Before doing anything else, she checked for updates on James Rigby, and found none. He’d been missing for six days now. Every year, six hundred thousand people went missing in America, and the bones of four thousand unidentified people were discovered. It happened. But not usually to successful tax attorneys. His mother and his friends were active on social media, asking for help. Yesterday, Missing Persons informed Stackhouse that the tip hotline was busy with callers suggesting Andie Stackhouse had killed him, because they’d been seen together recently.

Guilt ate at her concentration, knowing James was still missing. She wondered if it was somehow her fault. Maybe she shouldn’t have left the party alone. Maybe she should’ve refused the invitation in the first place. She had three days off approaching. Even though Missing Persons had already contacted hospitals, she would do it again, and drive the route to Topsail, a place he mentioned as his favorite getaway.

Despite the nagging self-doubt, she had to focus. If she couldn’t catch Rose’s killer, she wanted to give Kip Broome the most complete file she could.

Rose Felton’s computer sat in the Cybercrimes lab. Though Rose’s homicide didn’t constitute a cybercrime, Stackhouse had needed a place to store the CPU and monitor. A place where she could work on it, so that a defense attorney wouldn’t accuse her of improper procedure. Before booting it, she looked through yesterday’s evidence log.

The safe contained $220,000 in cash; bank statements for the previous eighteen months; last year’s taxes—yikes, no one had explained to Rose how an SCorp could save her a bundle; the deed to her house; the deed to her car; and her will.

She spent the next two hours working through Rose’s emails, her Facebook messages, her Twitter threads, and her YouTube comments, compiling a list of individuals Kip should contact. Much of it was banal work-related correspondence, but not all. The vitriol she spilled in her personal messages bordered on abuse.

Even sweet Staci, the distributor whom Stackhouse had picked up at the airport, hadn’t been spared. Four months ago, Rose told her, U think complaining makes money? U think self-pity makes $$? honey i don’t have time for ur weak ass complaining. i don’t got time for bitches. I gotta work. Work with me or shut the fuccccc up. I need runners and maybe ur not a runner, maybe stay a broke ass teacher, or maybe maybe maybe u could start caring and work that a$$.

That was mild, compared to the hate reserved for Loma Stubblefield, the highly-ranked WIG distributor in Knoxville. She and Rose messaged back and forth on occasion, alerting the other that her infractions had been reported to WIG headquarters. Recently Rose had bragged to Loma, i got two hundred grand in the bank baby and another two just setting around my house ain’t nuthin u say gone hurt me, u freak bitch.

Rose bragged often about the money in her bank account. She used that number as a tool to bludgeon people.

Time marched on and Stackhouse was compelled to attend the morning briefing, sitting beside Val, glad when the watch commander didn’t call on her for updates, because she had none.

While listening, a thought occurred to her—why hadn’t ViCAP pinged when she entered Rose Felton’s murder? ‘Work It Girl, International’ should’ve returned a hit when she entered Rose’s information, because of Cori Black’s death last year. That’s what the ViCAP database was for, to create links and matches far beyond what cops could. Had she done it wrong? She slipped out of the briefing early and pulled up Cori Black’s homicide on the FBI’s database.

“Those sons of bitches,” she muttered.

Whoever logged Cori Black into the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program listed her employer as Working Girls. A typo. A typo that could’ve narrowed her search, but instead cost her six days.

Cori Black had been murdered in Williamsburg, and Stackhouse had already left a message with their homicide department. She picked up the receiver again to chew them out, to get a lieutenant on the phone and explain to them their own incompetence, but she still needed the help of that department. Cops could be surly and they might stonewall her if she yelled at them.

She set the handheld back into its cradle, said, “Those sonovabitches,” and made a note to alert them to their mistake when they called.

Before they did, Don Hambrick, the CEO of WIG, rang her.

She was feeling hot and angry at the world. “Why didn’t you mention Cori Black?”

“I thought you knew, Detective,” he said, loudly, the way he said everything.

“Bullshit.”

“And besides, I don’t know what I’m allowed to say, what I’m not. I’m a businessman, not a lawyer. If I said the wrong thing—”

“You said nothing, which I could call suppression of evidence,” said Stackhouse.

“You have my apologies, Detective, and I’ll do my damnedest to make amends now. What can I tell you?”

“Tell me about her.”

Hambrick heaved a great sigh, and Stackhouse was struck with the realization she was doing it again—pestering people who didn’t want to be pestered. Investigating crimes the world wished would go away. Too bad. He said, “I didn’t know Ms. Black. She was an up-and-comer, like Ms. Rose Felton. Remember, I didn’t know her either. It was a terrible tragedy, I was told, and that’s about it. With a workforce of over ten thousand distributors, something dreadful happens every week. The amount of condolence cards I sign…”

“Did you speak with the Williamsburg police then?”

“I did, yes.”

Stackhouse was looking at Cori Black’s page on ViCAP. There was nothing about Don Hambrick. Which meant either he said nothing of consequence, or that Williamsburg had failed again. “When you heard that another distributor had been shot in the head, you should’ve told me. I need to know whatever you know that I don’t.”

Hambrick rattled on about not remembering details, and about there being too many distributors to know them all, and his desire to help the police, which Stackhouse thought a crock. What had Lott called it? Hotfooting. He was hotfooting around a fact.

Stackhouse thought she spied it. “When was last year’s conference? What week?”

“I don’t recall the exact—”

“Look it up, babe.”

“It was late Spring.” She heard keys clicking and he said, “The last week of May.”

Stackhouse felt a rush, like running downhill, sped up by the discovery of a clue. “That means Cori Black was murdered during the conference.”

“Yes, it does,” said Hambrick.

“Just like Rose was. You weren’t going to tell me? Two WIG hotshots murdered during the WIG conference, you don’t think that’s germane?”

“Officer, I don’t know what you—”

“What was Cori’s ranking? Look it up. Shouldn’t Cori have attended the conference?” said Stackhouse.

“At the time of her death, she was ranked twenty-ninth.”

Stackhouse whistled. “Out of thousands? She was making bank.”

“Like I said, she was an up-and-coming rocket ship.”

“Had she purchased a ticket to the conference?”

“Yes,” said Hambrick.

“Why was she at home?”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember, nor do I know, Detective, how to find that out. Private lives are private lives.”

“Who bought her account? Look it up.”

“I have it here. Her mother bought Ms. Black’s account, and it’s still active and drawing a good four-figure monthly income, even after a year. That’s the power of residuals. This is no pyramid scheme.”

“Was Cori on the same… What do you call it? The same leg as Rose Felton?” said Stackhouse.

“Within the company’s organization, or tree, they were on different branches,” he said, loud in her ear.

“Why would—”

“Stack!” Detective Erica Frantz was waving a department phone at her. “Williamsburg PD for you, line three.”

“Mr. Hambrick, I’ll call you back.” With no small satisfaction, Stackhouse pressed the button on the handheld’s terminal to hang up on Hambrick, and she selected line three. She felt good, she felt empowered. “This is Stackhouse.”

“Stackhouse, this is Sergeant Devito in Williamsburg. I worked the Cori Black homicide. I hear you got a related stiffy?”

His tone, his vernacular, plus his mistake on ViCAP, Stackhouse immediately didn’t like this man. “I do have a victim, Rose Felton. I have a hunch the same person killed both these woman, but I’m looking at your entry on ViCAP, Sergeant, and I’m not seeing many details.”

“How do you mean?”

“For one thing, there’s no toxicology report,” said Stackhouse.

“I’ll pull it up, while we’re talking. I hate computers and I hate the fucking ViCAP. What gives you the hunch?”

“Both women worked for the same company, were successful, were forced to skip an important work conference, and both were shot in the head.”

“Yep, that’d do it. That’d give me a magnum-sized hunch. An eight-inch hunch. Alright now, hold on, let me find it…”

While she waited, she asked, “Williamsburg has no leads on Cori Black?”

“No leads. We’re short-staffed and I haven’t thought about this case in weeks. Alright now, here’s her file. Yeah I remember this one.”

“Was Cori shot with a homemade silencer? Plastic bottle stuffed with a paper towel?” said Stackhouse.

“How about that, Stackhouse, we got a match. She sure fucking was.”

“Why is that not on ViCAP?”

“As I previously mentioned, I fucking hate computers, Stackhouse,” said Devito.

Stackhouse screwed her eyes shut. Now wasn’t the time to push this man, probably fifteen years her senior. “Cori Black was supposed to attend a conference for work, but she was home. Any idea why?”

“Yeah, she was sick. Actually the girl was shot while on the toilet.” He chuckled. “Shot in the head, blown into the bathtub. I’ll send you the photos.”

“My victim was sick too. What are the odds of that?”

“Pretty damn slim. With what?”

“A stomach bug,” said Stackhouse. “Same as you, sounds like.”

“Pretty damn slim, I’d say.”

“We found a women’s size nine Nike sneaker under a window. You?”

“Not that I remember. But I don’t remember much else about this one. The photograph jogged my memory, is all.”

Stackhouse didn’t want to talk to this man anymore. “Email me the file, please? I’ll do the same. I’ll look it over and call you back.”

“Email, yeah, I got a girl here who can do that.”

“I have your email on my screen, so I’ll contact you, and you just reply with the file attachment.”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll sit here waiting on it, pins and needles,” said Devito and he disconnected.

Stackhouse jumped to her feet. “We’re getting close, Val!”

At the white board, from her list of suspects, she crossed out,

Swinger parties

Ex-boyfriend

Porn industry

She circled, WIG enemies.

“Get this. Cori Black was an up-and-coming WIG girl, killed at home during last year’s conference. She stayed home, sick with a stomach bug.”

“Same as our girl. How was Cori killed?” asked Val.

“Shot in the head with a homemade silencer. While she was on the toilet.”

“Ooohoo, I bet those are good photos.”

The email came and Stackhouse printed the file, so she wouldn’t have to stare at a screen.

She went straight to the toxicology.

Cori Black had linaclotide in her system. A powerful laxative.

Rose Felton had it too.

Stackhouse jumped up again, an involuntary response to excitement. She felt like a shark circling, closing in, and she did circle, walking around the desks, watched by amused older detectives.

“I think the women were drugged,” she told Val. “Someone kept them home by making them sick. Linaclotide gives you bad diarrhea. Staci said Rose Felton couldn’t get away from the toilet. There’s no way it’s a coincidence that Cori had it too."

Val Farmer’s fingers were laced across her stomach and she was reclined in her chair and bobbing up and down. She watched Stackhouse work. “Keep talking, lady, let it happen.”

“But why? Why would the killer keep them home from the conference? He clearly knew where the women lived. Why not kill them the week before the conference? Or after?”

“God, I miss caring. Remember when we were young and gorgeous, like Stackhouse? And our first cases kept us up at night?” Val called to the detective bureau.

“Yeah, that’s it, we were young and gorgeous like Stackhouse,” said Lou Mullis.

“Not you, Lou, I mean, jeez.”

“Shut up and help me, Val,” said Stackhouse, taking big steps over the braided power cords leading to the island of desks she circled. “Why kill these women during the conference? Where’s the benefit to that?”

She circled and circled, fielding suggestions from the eavesdropping detectives.

Why would the killer not want them at the conference? Was it preventative?

Was something at the conference?

Was someone at the conference?

Was it important both victims were from Virginia?

It’s money. It’s always money. Right?

Unless they were both dating the same man? Although neither report mentioned a love interest, other than swinging.

No, it had to be WIG, it had to be their success, that was the thing connecting them.

Officers Hurst and Moon walked by, patrol officers in her former squad, and Hurst winked, and Moon waved emphatically, and Stackhouse smiled and waved back, part affection, part obligation, she was too busy to think about them.

Too busy, but the memories came flooding back anyway, her vision clouding with it. Of Kelli McDonald, and her sister Naomi, Naomi slaughtering cops to cover her homicidal tracks. Both sisters dead now, because Naomi hated Stackhouse too much to let it go. That gruesome night, Naomi and Stackhouse battling it out, a fistfight to the death, until Kelli arrived with a gun.

Naomi almost got away with it.

Covering her tracks…

Inside Stackhouse, gears were churning. She felt the warm glow of a new insight.

Out loud, she wondered, “Could our killer be using the WIG conference to cover his tracks?”

“His or her tracks,” said Val, clicking through emails. “How?”

“I don’t know. If it was Staci, for example, who murdered them, I’ll be stunned. I’d never suspect her, because she was supposed to be in Florida. It’s the perfect cover. She didn’t answer my calls for over a day, claiming she lost her phone.”

“Oh, I see what you’re cooking, kiddo” said Val. “Use the conference as an alibi. Both years. I couldn’t kill them, I was in Florida. But in reality, the killer wasn’t there. The killer just told everyone she was. Or he was.”

“Are there any photos of Staci at the conference?” wondered Stackhouse. “She did not like Rose.”

“Staci’s that cute lady you pulled off the airplane?”

“It’s not her. Probably. I’m only thinking out loud. It could be anyone who wasn’t there.” She cocked her head. “Who wasn’t at the conference, but was supposed to be? That’s a good question.”

“We know it’s not Allyson Knowles,” said Val. “That bitch was on stage waving, both days. On your suspect list, you can cross off the top earners, because they were being interviewed as part of the program, yeah?”

“Staci wasn’t on stage. She told me she missed the cut.” Stackhouse sat at her computer and surfed to Staci’s photographs on Facebook. She found a collection of Staci at the conference, smiling with friends, learning about new products, listening to guest speakers. These photographs were strong alibis. Which WIG distributors didn’t have alibis? Hambrick said his workforce was ten thousand strong. Oh man. This could take forever.

Feeling a little deflated, she called WIG headquarters and requested the list of conference attendees the last two years. They knew to comply with police requests, and Stackhouse had the lists in her email inbox ten minutes later.

The lists were spreadsheet files, able to be sorted by demographic.

All ten thousand WIG distributors hadn’t attended the conference, but four thousand had. Stackhouse wrinkled her nose. Too many. She refined her search to Virginia. Gotta start somewhere. That narrowed it down to five hundred, an unusually large percentage of the total, but WIG had been founded in Virginia, and grown outward.

Five hundred. Still too many.

She would compare the two lists, and cross reference them against Rose’s emails, and her phone records, and do the same with Cori Black, and narrow down a suspect list to verify their alibis at the conference.

If someone on that list had only pretended to be going to the conference, Stackhouse would have her man.

Or woman.

She sighed. It would take days to whittle the list and check alibis. She didn’t have days. Kip Broome came back tomorrow. The best she could do would be to give Kip a thorough—

Val shook her shoulder. “Come back to earth, lady, you missed your radio. Grab your stuff. Jogger got stabbed on the Greenway, and we’re up.”

Stackhouse grabbed her cell. “Dang it, Val.”

“I know, I know, a woman got stabbed and your life is hard, let’s gooooo.”

28

Sasha Goddard had been ‘stabbed’ by a homeless man off his meds and prowling the Greenway playgrounds despite multiple warnings to stay away.

Stabbed—Sacha might need two stitches in the back of her shoulder. Traumatizing as hell, thought Stackhouse, to be attacked at the park, but scraped was the more accurate term. No physical therapy required. The homeless man had been caught at the bridge near Franklin, and his Swiss Army knife taken. Erica Frantz took lead, thankfully, and Stackhouse was back at her desk before lunch, irate that she’d wasted ninety minutes. Plus she had another Thursday lecture to attend that afternoon, concerning local gangs.

She promised herself that if she buckled down today, tomorrow she’d go searching for James Rigby at the beach, and that promise freed her mind to concentrate on the mountain of evidence. She had spreadsheets of WIG conference attendees. She had Rose’s emails. She had an abundance of online photographs. She had Val’s blessing, and coffee, and determination, and a grain of fear at being wrong, and hopefully several uninterrupted hours to work, and she set to it.

Looking back on it later, Stackhouse recognized her discovery as a miracle. Needles in haystacks are never discovered within the first five minutes, but that’s how it happened. She was surrounded by detectives and sergeants and lieutenants and first responders, all plying their trade, frustration after frustration, grinding it out, but lightning struck for her.

Sitting at her desk, pen in hand, headphones clamped over her ears, her iPod still playing the first song, the early throes of deep work not even begun, the first name on the list tugged at her attention, and although she’d already written it off, she investigated it anyway to cover her bases. She brought up the Facebook photographs despite already viewing them and she nodded to herself—yep, alibi in place. And yet, before she crossed the name off her list, she clicked and zoomed. Just to be safe. Just to be safe, to double-check that the… Huh. That’s interesting. Stackhouse checked her spreadsheets and surfed backwards a year on Facebook. Yes, again, alibi in place. But…

But.

But but but. Squinting, tilting her head.

Could it be? Stackhouse reconsidered the photograph taken at the restaurant on her screen.

Her mind worked over the previous week.

Land grab. Tickets. In Tampa, on stage.

No makeup or perfume missing.

Size nine, women’s Nikes. Bigger girl.

Powerful laxative.

You’re barking up the wrong tree.

“Oh,” Stackhouse said and she jumped up, ripping the wired earbuds out of her ears. “Oh oh, Val, I got something.”

“No you don’t, get back to work.”

“I’m serious. Come look, come look.”

Val lowered into Stackhouse’s chair and Stackhouse knelt beside her, talking through the connections and showing her the photographs, mouse clicking. Her mentor listened in silence, not even rocking in the chair, her relentless energy quieted. At the end, Val said, “I’ll be damned.”

“You think?”

“It’s circumstantial, though. We don’t have probable cause here.”

Stackhouse was nodding. Her mind dwelled on something Mark Rowe told her months ago. Only fifty percent of homicides are solved. We always know who did it, Rowe told her. We just can’t prove it legally.

“I know,” said Stackhouse. “You’re right, but I know how to get it. Let me at Captain Lott.”

Several hours and a flurry of planning later, Stackhouse and Val waited at the corner of Huntridge and Stayman Drive, in Bonsack, simmering in the June heat inside Val’s unmarked car. Despite the air vents humming, they felt much of the ninety degrees. The neighborhood before them was new construction. Cheaply built houses designed to look flashy, and crammed together with no yards to speak of, and Stackhouse thought it an appropriate metaphor for America, self-conscious flash without sustaining substance, falling apart at the first tremor of trouble. The cheap houses were attached to a nicer community, with well-to-do residents who couldn’t be happy about the crappy cars driving their streets.

A radio sputtered, “He’s rolling. Car fourteen in pursuit.”

“Roger that,” responded Stackhouse, checking her watch. “Car six moving.”

Val dropped into drive. “Here we go.”

She motored halfway around the neighborhood loop and stopped at a house that looked like all the others. A red Kia Spectra sat in the drive, personalized VA plate reading BOSSBCH.

Stackhouse’s heart was hammering. This was more meaningful than a patrol officer knocking on a door, something she’d done hundreds of times. First responders were summoned to places. They were called, they were needed.

Detectives, however, inserted themselves. They arrived unannounced.

Sure, a killer needed to be caught. But also in limbo was her reputation. Her self-confidence, ready to be smashed or bolstered. A lot of eyeballs were watching.

Allyson Knowles answered the door.

Like a cheap Barbie, sneering inside a cheap house. Number fifty-three in the company. Her monthly income wasn’t enough to make her wealthy, but enough to make her arrogant. Enough that she could look down on teachers and nurses, and force her husband to take her name, and retire him from CVS so he could be her bitch.

“Ms. Knowles, good afternoon,” said Stackhouse.

“Oh my gaaaaawd, you again. Didn’t I tell you?” She spoke to Val and jabbed at Stackhouse with a forefinger. “Did you look her up, did I tell you? She worked with Rose.”

“You did.” Val bounced on her toes. “You were right. This ol’ girl is a WIG girl.”

“I know. I know, I was right.”

“Rose signed me up without my knowledge,” admitted Stackhouse. “She stole my name and my photographs, and she double-dipped her income through me.”

“I knew it,” said Allyson. “I fucking knew it, I knew that skank was cheating. If you ask me, I bet she did it with others, too. I bet there are other illegal accounts, why stop with just you, you know?”

“I spoke with the CEO. He said Rose was exceptionally good at the con.”

“I’m sure she was. She used to be a porn star, after all. And a hooker. She never made money legitimately,” said Allyson, and she didn’t pronounce the final word correctly. She peered at Stackhouse with more interest. “You spoke with Don Hambrick?”

“On the phone, several times.”

“I’ve met him. When I was on stage in Tampa, the last two years. Backstage he even hit on me.” Allyson smirked, like she’d won something. “Next year I expect to be invited to the top earners retreat. Who knows what’ll happen there.”

“Do you do the same thing with your husband? The double-dip?”

“Of course I do. All the married girls do it. Why do you think I married Lonnie?” Allyson snorted. “Believe me, it wasn’t for the sex. Double-dipping isn’t cheating when you’re married. It’s legal. All the married girls funnel money first through our husband’s account, and then to ours. It’s within the rules. Some of the single women sign up their moms or sisters or something, and funnel it that way, promising them a cut. Don’t ask me how those bitches do their taxes. So, what, you’ll quit being a cop and sell makeup now, I guess?”

“No chance. I told Don to keep the money. He offered me the account, if I wanted it,” said Stackhouse. She was sweating. “It’s mine, after all.”

“Kiddo, maybe you should,” offered Val. “Cops don’t get paid enough. I saw Rose’s bank statements.”

Allyson’s face tightened. “Remember. She was a cheating whore.”

“It’s a land grab, though, right?” said Stackhouse. “Don’t you and Rose already have all the customers?”

“Are you kidding? Only like one percent of Roanoke uses WIG makeup. There’s ninety-nine percent still to go. I’m going to clean up. I will own this town. On second thought, cancel that account. I can’t compete with those cheekbones. Cancel that account and sign under me instead, sweetie. That way we don’t compete.”

Stackhouse glanced at her watch. “Maybe I could be up on stage one day, like you?”

“I don’t know. Just cancel that account and buy your makeup through me. Anyway. It’s time for you two to go bother other people.” Allyson set her hand on the door, ready to close it. “I was on the phone.”

“It’s funny, thinking about Lonnie selling makeup.” Stackhouse grinned. “He doesn’t fit the mold.”

“I already told you, all married women do the same thing. It’s not just me.”

“You two must have closets full of makeup, with the monthly shipments. Rose sure did.”

“Of course. I mean, I sell most of it, but I have some laying around. Jealous?”

“I love the stuff,” said Stackhouse.

“Okay, look, I’ll bring you some samples and then you can get the hell off my porch.”

“I noticed something, at Rose’s house,” said Stackhouse, aware of the clock ticking. “Her makeup wasn’t stolen. It’s good stuff, as you said. But, stacks of it were sitting around.”

“It’s great stuff. It’s luxury makeup. The killer must’ve been an idiot. You two want concealer? Eyeshadow? Bronzer? Hurry up.”

“Maybe the killer was an idiot. Or maybe the killer already had a lot of WIG product. Closets full of it,” said Stackhouse. “The killer didn’t need anymore.”

“Maybe, who knows.” Allyson closed her eyes and sighed. “Never mind. Just go. Please. Thank you for coming by, or whatever, now go.”

“The killer didn’t steal any perfume, either,” noted Val. “Like, really nice bottles. Can you believe that? Dior and Chanel, ritzy stuff.”

“Sure, whatever.”

“During the investigation, that part bothered me. Why not take the perfume? If you’re a killer, surely you wouldn’t object to stealing? Heck, even my partner Val here, she asked me to steal her a few bottles. I bet you would’ve, right, Allyson?”

Allyson’s face twitched, like she didn’t know whether to nod. “Maybe. I don’t know. Yes, probably. If I was the killer, I would’ve taken the perfume. See? It’s not me.”

Stackhouse snapped her fingers, like remembering something. “Also. Did I tell you? We found shoe impressions outside the house. Too big to match Rose. We think they belonged to the killer.”

“How great for you. Good bye.”

“A woman’s Nike sneaker.”

“I was in Tampa,” snapped Allyson.

“Here’s my thought process, Allyson, as I thought it through. Why wouldn’t a killer, a woman wearing size nine Nikes, take some WIG makeup? After all, it’s a luxury product. Because she already had a lot, probably.” Stackhouse had so much adrenaline running through her, her hands were shaking. “That answers that, but, why wouldn’t she take the perfume? Every woman understands the value of Dior and Chanel.”

“I told you, I’m busy and I don’t caaaare, gaaaawd this is annoying.”

“Because, Allyson, maybe she is a he. A man. A smaller man with smaller feet. Maybe he borrowed his wife’s shoes,” said Stackhouse.

“I…” Allyson said.

“Wouldn’t that be a shock to the wife? Oh boy oh boy, it would, though.” Val chuckled, bouncing on her toes. “To find out her husband wore her shoes to kill someone, and now she’s implicated. Yikes!”

“Yeah, yikes,” said Stackhouse.

“I was in Tampa, how many—”

“Lonnie wasn’t,” said Stackhouse.

“He… I showed you the airline tickets.” Allyson’s protest lost steam.

“I saw. Very convincing. You had me. But I looked over the photographs. I saw the pictures of you two, but I noticed an oddity. There are no photographs of Lonnie on stage. None of him at the conference. It’s you two smiling at a restaurant, or under a palm tree, but not at the conference. It’s like you two staged those photographs, beforehand, to look like he was there, and then you grouped them with the photographs actually taken while you were in Tampa alone.”

“This is insulting and I refuse to discuss it anymore.”

“If I ask the other conference attendees, they’ll tell me they saw you but never Lonnie, assuming he was up in the room or in the bathroom or out golfing, or whatever lie you told,” said Stackhouse, feeling it now, closing in. She knew she’d guessed right. But she didn’t have enough for an arrest yet. They needed more.

Allyson’s eyes had reddened and her lips pressed together, thin and pale.

“I saw you two, at the airport, him helping you with your luggage,” said Stackhouse. “I thought you looked tan. But Lonnie? He looked orange. Like he’d used bronzer, to appear like he’d been in the Florida sun for a week”

“You two are such…” Allyson’s voice shook. “You two bitches don’t know anything.”

“Can we come in?” asked Val. “Maybe look through your shoe closet? Dig up a pair of Nikes?”

Stackhouse’s radio whispered. She didn’t hear the words, but she guessed the meaning. It was showtime.

A car was approaching, the small sounds of an engine reaching them.

“If we arrest Lonnie for staying in Roanoke to kill Rose,” said Stackhouse, “I wonder if he’ll tell us it was your idea?”

“Boy oh boy, then you’ll really wish you talked first, huh, lady?”

Allyson looked like she might fall backward.

“Wanna bet?” said Stackhouse. “Let’s bet twenty-five to life.”

Allyson squirmed like she was being stabbed, an invisible dagger to the ribs, fear and outrage.

Lonnie’s little Toyota Yaris puttered into view. He eased next to the curb, but his eyes latched onto Stackhouse and Val. He mouthed shocked profanity, easy to lipread. Val turned, giving him a view of the badge on her belt, and she made a show of pointing.

“Here he is now,” said Val. “Thanks for your time, Allyson, we’ll ask him if it was your idea.”

Lonnie didn’t stop the car. The wheels inched forward, his eyes widening.

“Where’s he going?” asked Stackhouse.

“Uh oh, is that old boy running?”

“I didn’t do nothing,” Allyson shouted, an eruption of panic. “I was in Tampa! You can’t blame me for something he did! He did it!”

Stackhouse read Lonnie’s face like a seasoned professional would. Lonnie Knowles was a man tired of working at CVS as a pharmacy tech while his wife stayed at home and complained. He was a man frustrated with his car and career and life choices and his height, and she bet he ran into girls all the time who commented on his muscular build, while he dreaded coming home most days to a woman who called him her bitch, and now the police were in his yard, and they were pointing at him, and his wife was screaming, He did it!

Lonnie had done it. Because his wife paid the bills and she told him to do it, and now she was selling him out.

Lonnie stomped on the accelerator without thinking, not knowing where he would go or what he would do on arrival. Stackhouse was running, fitted performance jacket flapping like a cape, Val behind. Lonnie made it one house before two unmarked squad cars waiting in ambush hit their sirens, and they pulled into the road, an instant impassable clot. Sudden noise and lights. Lonnie’s escape was cut off by the car tailing him, driven by Sergeant Fry.

The Toyota Yaris desperately cut around Officer Palma but she drove into him, a crunch, and the impact nosed the little car’s bumper up on top of hers, so the steering wheel lost maneuverability, and a vehicular escape became immediately impossible for Lonnie. His door banged open and he stepped out.

Stackhouse reached him first, shouting, hands up, hands up, turn around, let me see those hands, but Lonnie was scared and indignant and he reached for something behind his back.

An awful moment, one that society asks law enforcement to endure on its behalf, one that keeps sworn officers awake. A suspect refusing to obey, reaching for something unseen, demanding officers make hard decisions.

Stackhouse was nearest. She heard her own voice, and the voices of others behind her, mingled into madness with the wailing sirens. How could anyone be logical in the storm.

Her first instinct was to fire. Squeeze the trigger again, again, again, and eliminate the threat.

Her second instinct was to close the distance. Close and engage, keep his hand away from a gun. She wanted to scream, to fight, to tackle.

Sergeant Fry’s voice was calling, calling, Stackhouse’s training taking over, and her feet stopped, muscle memory and wisdom assuming control of her actions.

She lowered to a knee to steady her aim, and to get out of the other officers’ line of fire.

“Lonnie, let me see those hands or I fire,” she said.

Her voice was hard as a rock and he flinched being struck by it. No empty threat. She was giving him a two-second warning. Her Glock was steady, her finger pointed alongside the barrel but ready to curl.

Then Val arrived next to her. Then Sergeant Fry. A unified wall. Officer Palma was flanking him. Then Officer Thacker was too. Overwhelming force bore down on Lonnie.

Both Lonnie’s hands rose, slow, empty, and he turned to face the Yaris, and he set his palms on the hot roof, and they saw a pistol in a holster on his hip. Somewhere outside of the scrum of cars, Allyson Knowles grabbed a bag and ran. Out the back door, into the adjacent neighborhood she fled, where the residents spotted her and called it in, and she was picked up five minutes later, crying and claiming Lonnie had done it all.

29

WIG makeup was good. A step up from the market standard. It was spreading like wildfire, using social media and friend-networks to grow, and WIG rewarded individual distributors to make it happen. A fortune waited for the brave and enterprising.

Allyson Knowles had realized this, over two years ago, that whoever gathered the most customers in a hurry would make millions. The trouble was, other women were better at it. Better at communication, better at the sell, better at the ask, better at marketing, better at friendship.

Cori Black from Williamsburg, for example. She excelled at networking, gobbling up women, and Allyson Knowles despised her, and so she convinced Lonnie of the wisdom of eliminating the competition. Kill the prospector, the land is ours.

Lonnie had beaten a couple assault charges ten years ago, and his chemicals were off balance due to steroids, and he hadn’t needed much persuasion. He stayed behind during last year’s WIG conference, slipping a prescription laxative into Cori’s latte at a coffee shop, and then slipping into her house to spike water bottles while she slept the night before her flight. She couldn’t reach the airport, too sick, so she stayed home, and Lonne pulled the trigger.

Allyson Knowles spent a week in Williamsburg afterward, hosting WIG parties, ‘land grabbing’, but she wasn’t likable enough. Not everyone could sell.

A year later, Rose Felton was building a damn empire, right in Allyson’s hometown. Rose Felton the porn star, of all people, and Allyson once again told Lonnie he had work to do. She helped establish the alibi, and Lonnie crafted another homemade silencer.

Unbeknownst to Allyson, Lonnie had gone back to Rose’s house, twice, trying to break into her computer and find her safe, because he’d seen the emails Rose had sent to Allyson, bragging about her money.

If he could find some of that, he’d be long gone, leaving Allyson behind.

The story spilled out as Stackhouse and Val and Captain Lott visited one interrogation room and then the other, attorneys begging their clients to be quiet but the couple’s anger had risen too high. Allyson screamed that Lonnie was guilty, and an idiot who should spend his life in jail, not her. Lonnie thought Allyson should burn along with him; she was the mastermind, after all.

“Go search Allyson’s bedroom,” he confessed to Stackhouse. “She told me, she said Loma Stubblefield was next. She already had the thing planned out, you’ll see. It was her idea, the whole damn thing.”

Tired and grinning outside the interrogation room, Stackhouse told Captain Lott, “Kip Broome, my ass. I don’t need his help.”

Lott laughed, and he knocked on Chief Almond’s door, catching him up. Stackhouse’s first week, she bagged the killer cold.

Almond forced a smile.

“My hat’s off to Roanoke’s finest.”

Stackhouse stayed an hour late, writing the incident and arrest reports at her desk in the detective bureau. Nightshift was searching the Knowles’ house, and they’d called her to confirm finding size nine women’s Nikes under the basement bed, and the shoes would soon be compared to the impressions from Rose’s house. That would have to wait though, because while they spoke on the phone, the nightshift was summoned to a shooting in Northwest. The world continued turning.

Alone now, Stackhouse’s glow had faded, the adrenaline worn off, and she was crashing from the high. Her stomach soured and she was sipping on a Pepsi and eating bagged trail mix from the machine to ward off the blues. On the corner of her desk was the Murder Book printout. Although unnecessary, she would add some final papers to the stack. A symbolic victory.

How thick would it be, by the time her career ended?

With the excitement over, engaged in busy work, her mind was free to wander and it latched onto her estranged father and his brain tumor. Her aunt had provided few details. Was the tumor malignant? When was the surgery? What were the chances of survival? Should she visit?

Of course she should. But could she? What would she say? Would he even open the door? How long would she stand there facing a closed house…

“Focus,” she told herself. “Focus, Andie.”

Get this done, and then move on to more problems. Finish, and then consider your father.

Finish, because you promised tomorrow you would tackle another mystery—where the hell had James Rigby gone?

30

Before going home, she obeyed a direct order from her captain, to meet the crowd at Martin’s for drinks. Her first week, her first homicide, her first closure, surely a toast was in order. Captain Lott, Val Farmer, Lieutenant Street, Captain Titus, Moon Ruby, and a dozen others were in attendance, already drinking when she strode in.

A cheer went up. Reddening, she waved it off, and a beer was pressed into her hands. A perfect evening and she felt warm.

How? How had she done it?

It was the perfume, she explained to the listeners. Most women would’ve pocketed the luxury Dior and Chanel bottles, especially if they were murderers. She’d recently been to a party where the hostess had to beg her guests not to steal her luxury perfume. Those bottles had bothered her since the first night, which led her to narrow the search down to the men. Sherlock Stackhouse, they called.

During her second beer, she spotted Mark Rowe. He’d been phoned by someone—come celebrate Stackhouse’s first closure. When their eyes met, Stackhouse saw that a wall had dropped. He watched her unguarded, as a man watches a woman without caution. His lean body and good hair and the glasses and his triangular smile, all the single women had eyes for the man, but he was focused.

They finally met at the bar and he asked about the arrest. They stood close as she told the story again, and her mind was fuzzy, not with too much alcohol but with too much everything. Their fingers were brushing and he smelled good, and he wanted her, and then they were in the parking lot talking, in the dark, four years of longing spilling over, they were whispering, more than whispering, and when their lips touched, all restraint evaporated. They lost themselves in the other.

“Mark,” she said.

“Yes.”

“What about Pam? That girl you—”

“I called her the night I saw you again. I told her I couldn’t,” said Mark. “We never went out.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not,” he said.

“Come over.”

“A wise man told me, never let yourself get too lonely or tired or hurt. You’ll do something you otherwise wouldn’t. I’m all of those things.”

Smiling into his skin, she said, “Mark, talk normal, for God’s sake.”

“Come to my place. I don’t have a roommate.”

“Not like this. Give me half an hour.”

“No. Why?” he said.

“Because I just finished my shift. I’m gross and you’re perfect. Not like this. Thirty minutes only, and I’ll come over.”

They tried to leave the other, to go their separate ways, trying and failing for twenty minutes, and then Stackhouse was racing home at 10pm, grinning and talking to herself.

“Calm down, Andie, calm down. You’re not seventeen, you’re a grown woman. It’s happening, but chill ooooouuut.”

She couldn’t.

Don’t think about it, don’t think, don’t think, just go, go go go to that perfect man before he comes to his senses.

She showered and shaved and dressed in something skimpy and easy to rip off. This shirt would shatter any of his remaining reservations. Dodging Kaye’s questions, she darted back to her car with damp hair, giddy.

Like a demon hot from hell, Dr. Raymond Pierce swept in beside her, from his concealment in the hedge. So lost and delirious was Stackhouse, at first she thought it was Mark Rowe, and she smiled into his hand. The pin prick at her neck could have been the teeth of a lover, not a needle’s bite. By the time she saw the dark reflection in her car’s window, of the tall brooding attacker, it was too late to fight back.

Insensate, she slumped into the arms of a desperate doctor.

31

“My partners and I, we constructed this surgical suite rather than sell out to Carilion. The total cost was two million, but we recouped the investment after only thirty months. Fortune favors the brave, Andie. Everyone came to us. The governor, with an ependymoma. Professional athletes. Movie stars from Virginia, one with a pituitary tumor. My two partners retired after five years, able to because they owned their business, instead of working in the Carilion coal pit. I was the youngest and only I remain.

“It looks like a museum to vanity now. To my eyes, this suite is a tomb. Look how white. How sterile. I toiled eighty hours a week for a decade, the decade I should’ve been a father and husband. Attending soccer games. Teaching my sons to drive. Drinking wine on my front porch.

“That’s time that I cannot get back. Time that I sliced off and tossed into the trash, along with the glioblastomas. My wife died, and although we weren’t happy, she was a stabilizing force. She was evidence that I mattered. A reason to go on existing.

“I raged, Andie. Against life and God and hell and death. Against aging and money. I saw men and women young and arrogant, and I despised them. You only know about the women, Andie. The men never confess. They didn’t understand about time, about consequences. Nor did my son, Preston.”

For Stackhouse, those words had been flowing since the earth was formed. As natural to her as her heart beat. She couldn’t remember a time when the man wasn’t speaking. With her eyes closed, and sleep losing its power, his voice bound her to the world. The man talked and droned, drawing her up from the depths of unconsciousness. His confessional was a smelling salt, an ammonia waking her.

She lay on something unyielding and painful. Not a mattress, her cheek was smashed.

A hard floor. Not tiled, but slip resistance. She pressed against it to sit up and her head swam, like she was on a boat.

“The hydromorphone wears off quickly, a necessity because time is of the essence. Soon you can stand,” he said. “I regret the manner in which I was forced to take you, Andie, but you wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

Odd sounds reached her ears. A methodical chirping. A slight hiss. She couldn’t move her left leg, like it was caught. Who was talking? None of this made sense.

Mark?

Where was she?

She reached for her ankle, half blind, but these weren’t her pants or shoes. This was her leg, wasn’t it?

“What?” she croaked.

“The water bottle by your hand, Andie. Sip.”

She focused hard on her shoes. They looked like rubber theater clogs. And her pants were the pale blue of nursing scrubs.

Why was she sitting on the floor? Next to her was a strange table, above her head.

She opened the water bottle and drank, coughing and wiping her mouth with a sleeve.

“Mark?” she said.

His response was a long pause. She felt danger as though a brown bear was in the room. Finally, “No.”

She grabbed the table to stand.

“Careful. Don’t pull,” he said.

She let go. She was sitting in the middle of a bright room. The table rested on one hydraulic leg. From her point of view, she saw stainless steel refrigerators, and carts like in a hospital, and, above her, lamps spread out on white arms like a spider of light.

“Andie, what you must do will at first seem impossible. As though you’re asked to fly. But I assure you, it’s possible. Under my tutelage, you can do it. One of our dirty little secrets is, the work is simple carpentry and if you obey me, it will be easy. You have a brave spirit and steady hands and a sharp mind.”

A doctor walked into her view. He wore the same scrubs as her, but also a surgical apron and blue gloves, and a mask over his mouth and nose. She knew his voice from another time and life.

“Don’t stand yet. I don’t want you pulling the table. It’s only us, after all. We couldn’t manage.”

“Okay,” she said, confused but happy to stay seated.

“Andie, we must discuss your father.”

“My father.”

“He has a brain tumor. Your Aunt Mary told you. Do you remember?”

A jolt to her languor. “Yes of course.” She drank more water.

“The mass was found when he complained of a headache. The veterans’ hospital in Kentucky employed only one neurosurgeon and that man was unavailable and so your father went home, angry and belligerent with the system.” The doctor tried to crouch to her level but couldn’t. Like he was too stiff. He remained standing. “So.”

The voice clicked into place, and a realization dumped over her like cold water. “Dr. Pierce.”

“Yes.”

“Where am I?”

“My surgical suite. The growth on your father’s brain, Andie, it’s a meningioma.”

“Dr. Pierce, how did I get here?” Stackhouse felt fear and she tried to stomp on it with anger.

“A meningioma is the most common type of brain tumor. And it has the highest recovery rate. God favors some, Andie, it seems.”

She tried to gather her feet but her left leg was caught. A thin chain was coiled around the table’s large hydraulic leg and fastened to her left ankle with handcuffs, probably her own. She was trapped.

The fear became harder to resist. “Dr. Pierce.”

“Andie. Deep breaths. Drink the water. If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

“Why am I here? This is in your office, downtown?”

“Not far from the hospital. The second floor.”

Her heartbeat ran wild. This felt like the beginning of the Saw movies she’d watched. “Let me go. Now.”

“No. We have work to do.”

“What work?”

“Stand up. I cannot assist you, though. Don’t hold onto the table.”

The chain was long enough to provide twenty-four inches of movement. She slowly rose, and discovered a body on the table above her. A corpse under a sheet, his head exposed.

Shocked, revolted, she reared away, visions flashing into her mind of Dr. Woo’s morgue and autopsies.

“No, dammit, Pierce!” she shouted, reaching for the doctor.

“Andie, don’t,” he said, backing away. “We must be cautious.”

Her chain caught and she fell, and the table shuddered. On all fours, her stomach heaved. Sweet Abraham Lincoln.

I wasn’t ready.

“Who is that?” she said. “Pierce, what the hell are you doing.”

“Look again.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” he said.

“I throw up during autopsies.”

“He’s not dead, Andie. Listen to his heartbeat monitor.”

Sweat broke out over her whole body, a waking nightmare. “You’re killing him.”

The mad doctor laughed. “Such a morbid young woman. I’m not killing him.”

“Who is it?”

“Stand up.”

“Dr. Pierce. You’re going to prison. You understand that?”

“I don’t plan to.”

“You kidnapped a police officer and chained her to an autopsy table. At the minimum you’re insane.”

“It’s an operating table. Rise, Andie.”

“No.” She grabbed her chain and looked for a weakness.

“You must. You’ve been asleep far too long. We don’t have time.”

“Have time for what?” She jerked the chain and fought off tears. The room was cold. Where was her phone? Who knew she was here? Kaye? Her mind tore through avenues of rescue. “Have time for what, Doctor?”

“Time before his sedation wears off.”

Her stomach roiled and she closed her eyes. “This doesn’t make sense, Dr. Pierce. Let me go.”

“Rise, Andie. Cooperation is the only path forward.”

She did, on shaking knees. She faced away from the body on the table, to be safe. Dr. Pierce stayed out of range.

“As I said, your father’s tumor is a meningioma and it’s on the surface of the brain, or the arachnoid. We’re fortunate. As far as craniotomies go, this will be simple, Andie. See for yourself.”

Through the panic and terror, she detected the implication in his words. Horrible. Unimaginable. Impossible.

Her voice wavered. “Dr. Pierce. Who is on the table?”

“Your father. Jimmy Stackhouse. He’s alive and under the control of anesthesia.”

Her therapist’s words in her ears—breathe, Andie, count to ten. Calm the body and the mind will follow.

She made it to four.

“That’s not possible,” she said.

“He was willing. Honored, he told me.”

“The last I heard, he was in Kentucky.”

“Right you are, Andie. Living out his days on disability. A bull of a man, still.”

Her shaking hand found the table. She hadn’t spoken to her father in over fifteen years. Hadn’t seen a photograph of him in ten.

She swallowed but it didn’t help.

“Me,” she said. “Kill me, not him.”

“What did you say?”

“It’s me you want. Let him go. Kill me.”

“Andie. If you combine—”

“Dr. Pierce. Please,” she said.

“I’m listening.”

“Did you hurt him?”

“No. We’re here to heal, Andie.”

“What did you do?”

“I’ll show you.”

“No. Please just tell me. Let him go.”

“His recovery will be swift. He’ll return home in two days,” said Dr. Pierce. “If you cooperate. But if you don’t…”

She already knew the answer but it didn’t make sense. “Recovery from what?”

“Brain surgery. A craniotomy. Right now.”

“You’re operating on my father.”

“No, Andie,” he said. “We are.”

She sat down again, the chain clinking. The blood drained from her face, and lightheadedness arose, the world soaring around her. A noise in her ears that she recognized she made. On the verge of fainting and vomiting and madness.

Dr. Pierce bent at the waist, next to her. A straw in her mouth. Orange juice. Sweet and tart. She gave the same thing to victims in the field to ward off shock.

“Drink, it will help,” he said. “If you cannot stay awake, Andie, well, your father is in trouble.”

“Dr. Pierce, let him go.” She felt dizzy and sick. He was close enough to grab but she couldn’t. “Please.”

“I won’t. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“A portion of his skull has already been removed.”

“Ohmygooooosh.” She leaned forward and swallowed to keep from drooling on the ground. “Put it back.”

“Not until the growth is excised.”

“Then excise the growth.”

“I can’t do that either.”

“Why not?” She turned away from the offered juice box and set a hand on either side of her to steady herself. “Dr. Pierce, why not?”

“That’s a question with several answers.”

The world was stabilizing itself. Again. Blood returning. Her stomach gave assent to her demands. “Dr. Pierce. Listen to me. Give me my phone. Give me the handcuff key. I want out of here.”

“Now is not the time for a meaningless show of force. Now is the time for work.”

“Give me my phone,” she said.

“Your father needs your help. The stakes couldn’t be higher. Succeed or fail. Life or death. Villain or goddess.”

“I can’t possibly help him, because you’re insane!” she screamed the final words, shocking them both.

Her words echoed around the room.

He drew a chair forward and sat in it, as though exhausted. “This is taking too long, Andie. Time is of greater concern than you realize.”

“Call 911. Get good doctors here.”

“I’m the best in two hundred miles. Or I was. Have you noticed my car? I’ve been involved in multiple fender benders in the previous six months. Imagine that fucking irony. The state’s premier neurologist, suddenly he can’t park.”

“I don’t care.”

“The time for games and questions is over. We must move and I will shoot straight with you. My practice is on the verge of collapse. There are three pending medical malpractice lawsuits against me. I will lose all three. And after the truth emerges, you cops will try to imprison me.” He cleared his throat, like the words were too heavy to carry. “The awful truth is, Andie, I discovered last year I have Parkinson’s disease.”

In her traumatized state, Stackhouse couldn’t work up sympathy.

“The tremors have begun,” he said. “Especially in my hands and jaw. I’m stiff and slow, and my coordination is impaired. I cannot perform the surgery. You must.”

Above her, Stackhouse could see the pinky and ring fingers of her father. He always had big hands. She’d forgotten. She wondered how his mutilated left leg was holding up, or if it’d been replaced by now. Multiple restraints held him fast to the table. “I don’t know how to respond to that, Doctor, because I no longer feel like I’m speaking with a person in control of his sanity.”

“Follow my orders to the letter, and you will prevail. Obedience to me is all. But we must move quickly.”

“Why must we move quickly?”

“He is sedated with Sevoflurane. It does not last forever.”

“Give him more,” she said.

“There is no more.”

“Why not? You’re lying.”

“I’m not. The electrodes on his skin are monitoring the neurons firing in his frontal lobe. Once the waves begin to increase, I cannot prevent his waking.”

“What happens if—”

“I administered two forms of anesthesia, Andie. One to sedate him. One to paralyze him. Common procedure. We must finish before the Sevoflurane is out of his system, otherwise it’s the nightmare scenario of him waking in the middle of his surgery, but unable to move.”

The chain was clenched in Stackhouse’s fists. She pulled. She puuulllled and screamed, and she pushed at the cuffs around her ankle but not even if she de-gloved her skin would they come off.

She was crying. “Dr. Pierce. Please. He’s my father.”

“We must work.”

“I can’t.”

“I can’t either. I quit taking L-DOPA and I brought no dopamine agonists. Look at my hands, Andie.” He raised them. “Look how they shake. Preparing the patient was extremely difficult and I could kill him if I do more.”

“Why did you quit taking your meds?”

“To force your collaboration.”

“Why, why, why do you do this? Why do you hurt people? Why do you think this is your responsibility!”

“There is another complication, Andie. The skull and dura are highly vascular. Your father is bleeding. If we don’t move now, the blood loss will be too great. He will bleed out. He could suffer an aneurysm. Come. Let’s begin.”

He didn’t offer her a hand. He stood, as though stiff, and he walked to the far side of the operating table. The far side of her father.

Stackhouse had a moment to herself. A moment she saw as if from above, watching someone else. A woman in a sadistic nightmare. She knew that woman must act. Until something changed, that woman had no options, but she also knew that woman was strong. That woman and the antagonistic doctor had reached the climax of their struggle. He was taking his best shot and she had to survive or lose.

Dr. Pierce had called in favors to grant her entrance into a prestigious law school. He had given her career advice. He had put in good words with the mayor. He had told her he could make her the sheriff. Other women, he tore down. But not her. Her, he built up. Now forcing her to become an emergency surgeon.

She could do hard things. The woman she examined always rose to the challenge, no matter the cost to herself.

That woman wouldn’t let her father die.

That woman wouldn’t allow the mad doctor to win.

At the moment, she wasn’t a detective. She was a first responder. She stepped into chaos and brought order. She was the line between good and evil. She stopped destruction, kept it from the innocent. She could do this.

Stackhouse rose.

Her father lay in a partial incline, his skull immobilized with a metal claw. He was dressed in scrubs similar to hers and draped with a blue sheet that covered him from chin to toes, only fingers poking out. His head was covered, but she could see his face.

That nearly undid her.

He’d aged. The last she’d seen him, he was forty. Now he was sixty. The urge to touch him, to hold him, was as foundational as the earth’s core.

She fought a sob. “He looks dead.”

“We watch his brain activity on the monitor.” Dr. Pierce pointed at a black screen scrawled with colored lines rising and falling like mountain ranges. A tube was snaked down her father’s throat, connected to the ventilator. His head covering was open at the crown, although Dr. Pierce had it temporarily draped with gauze. One of the noises she heard was a suction device, draining blood from the open brain, which she still couldn’t see. “Behind you, on the cart. Don the hair covering, then the smock, and only then the blue gloves.”

“Is there no other way?”

“You are your father’s only hope, Andie. The tumor must be removed. Life or death, depending on your performance. Your obedience.”

Her eyes shifted from her father, to the neurosurgeon on the far side of the table, and then to the wall behind him. She hadn’t examined that part of the room yet.

A man slumped on a little water-resistant couch, eyes open, watching them. She knew him.

This shock, on top of the others, felt smell. “James Rigby,” she realized.

“Our audience.”

“You abducted him.”

“He intruded into your home one night uninvited.”

James Rigby looked white and greasy and he was gagged, his eyes half open. “Is he awake?”

“He can hear you and see you, but he’s paralyzed. Just enough Vecuronium so that he can keep breathing. Once the surgery is complete, perhaps I’ll release him,” said Dr. Pierce. “Or perhaps not, we’ll see.”

I can’t deal with that now.

My father, my father, is dying, unless I operate.

UNLESS I OPERATE ON HIM.

Freak out later. Work now, before the sedative wears off.

Stackhouse turned to the cart and the surgical uniform waiting for her.

32

James Rigby’s mind was clouded but he understood that Andrea Stackhouse returned from the cart a changed woman. No, not a woman. Not a cop anymore. She approached the table as a surgeon. She’d willed herself to it. She’d put on the gloves like armor, and fury burned in her eyes.

Her look frightened him as much as the doctor did.

Rigby had lived several days in a paralyzed terror, inside a car trunk, he thought, though the medically induced coma made problem solving impossible. He’d been moved to an empty closet, kept there a day or two—it was hard to determine without the sun—free to shout himself hoarse, and fed under the door, deli meats and slices of fruit and flat trays of water. No explanations, no communication. Finally a tube had been inserted under the door and the closet filled with laughing gas. He’d surfaced in the operating room, expecting the worst, his mind racing with torturous scenarios, but the doctor had ignored him, other than injections and finally he’d wheeled Andrea Stackhouse in on a wheelchair.

He hadn’t expected that.

The doctor was speaking softly to her. “Andie, I will expose the operating area now. This will be a shock. But tell yourself, this is a mannequin. An operating dummy. Not a real person. It’s not a human, it’s an exercise. If you panic, he will die.”

“I can do this,” she said. Her eyes latched onto James, the last time for several hours.

The patient had already been intubated when Rigby had come to, hours ago, and Rigby had wondered if the man was dead or being harvested for organs or God knew what. Then, the worst hour of Rigby’s life, he’d witnessed the surgeon operate, preparing for Stackhouse’s arrival. Pierce had sliced open the scalp and pushed it back like leather, holding it in place with strong blue clips. Rigby received the impression that Pierce usually worked with a second pair of hands assisting, because he spoke the entire time to himself and to others who weren’t present, swearing as his medicine expired and his hand tremors worsened. Fortunately for Rigby, his diaphragm was relaxed—he would’ve choked, if he vomited. The doctor opened the skull with a clutched drill, like a mason would a cinderblock. Next came a saw that vibrated and filled the air with dust. The doctor had to wipe bone dust off his glasses, that was the grimmest part. Swiping the patient off your lenses.

Now, in the present, Pierce removed the gauze with a flourish and Stackhouse closed her eyes and turned her face away. Humans weren’t supposed to have their brains exposed.

She cursed and leaned on the table.

Dr. Pierce watched her like the trauma was nourishment. “Ghoulish, isn’t it. Breathe, Andie, breathe. In, out, focus on the rhythm. Considering the circumstances, I chose not to use a keyhole approach. The sight can be alarming, like a human pot of chili, but he’s doing well. His hairline was exceptional for a man his age, so we left it intact. The dura is removed and now you see the mass.”

“No I don’t fucking see the mass,” said Stackhouse.

The view was not hidden from Rigby. He could look up the length of the patient, see his face and exposed crown, the cap of it missing, removed enough for him to glimpse reddish pulp, surrounded by blue clips holding back the scalp.

“Typically an anesthesiologist will be present in the control seat. I will play that role, along with acting as your assistant. And mentor.”

“This is insane.” Stackhouse’s words puffed at her mask. “You could’ve done this yourself.”

“Ah but where’s the fun in that. No growth down that route. No forced servitude. What you must do, Andie, is separate the tumor from his brain tissue underneath.”

“How?”

“You will create a plane between the tumor and the healthy brain tissue. You will work slowly, pulling and cutting. The yellow forceps on the tray at your right elbow. It looks like tweezers, yes. You’ll use it to provide traction, and the longer silver instrument, yes, that’s a Bovie pen. It will cut and cauterize at the same time. Are you ready?”

“No. Let’s do it,” she said.

“Trust in me and listen to my words and do exactly as I say. I am your everything. To begin, Andie, I want you to simply touch the tumor with the tweezers. You must inure yourself to the contact. I promise he cannot feel it. Yes, like that—don’t drop the instrument! Force yourself to believe. Force yourself to be more. This is the entire tumor. Watch as I outline it with my vacuum nozzle. You see it now, you see the difference between good brain tissue and the unwelcome growth. Pull the tumor very gently with your forceps. The tweezers, yes. Yes. The tumor is inducing its own blood supply, that’s where the flow is coming from, and why it seems to have a pulse, and why I use this clear solution and suction. Switch hands, please, the forceps in your left. The electrocauterization tool is the more delicate and powerful instrument. Gently tug at the edge, here. See under here, see, that is the plane we will be enlarging. You must pull slightly, Andie, and touch the Bovie pen to that plane where they meet. Press the button and it’s electrified, as though hot. Try. We will see the coagulate is immediate. Do it now. You must, do it now. Yes, good, like that, Andie, see how you increased… Sit down, quickly, sit, on the chair behind you, quick. Hold your instruments in the air, let them touch nothing. You must be better than that, or he dies. Take a moment. Breathe, Andie, focusing on in, out, in, out. I know, the smell of singed flesh, but he cannot feel it. Take a moment then we must continue. This line, on the monitor, that is where we watch for increasing brain activity. You’re following orders well, as I expected. You are entirely mine. Let us proceed. We see how thick the skull is. To protect the brain. God’s design is remarkable. There are few atheists in my profession. We will continue with the traction, or pulling. According to the MRI, the deeper parts of the tumor could be intertwined with the brain, but at this stage there is no danger. Now set the Bovie pen down and take the micro-scissors. Yes, that one. Odd, isn’t it, that surgery uses basic tools like scissors and drills. Gently pull with your left hand, and with your right you grab the smallest connection, using the hook of the scissors, and you cut. Cut. You’re nothing but a butcher, so cut. Even smaller than that, we’re severing threads. The more delicate we are, the lesser the chance of injury.” As they worked, Dr. Pierce’s eyes snapped to the monitor again and again. Rigby knew Stackhouse had taken longer to rouse than he expected. They were behind schedule. “Along the plane, the tool does the work. Do you see the suction tube shake in my hand? Precision would be impossible for me now. I’m not an atheist, but I’m furious. A cruel joke, though perhaps it’s deserved. We continue to develop the plane. We coagulate and we cut, separating as we go.” As they worked, Dr. Pierce adjusted the lamps over Stackhouse’s head, keeping her work space bright. He was busy with instruments he didn’t name, coaching her as she worked in her own silence, the clink of metal tools like music. Once he came to Rigby to administer another injection of Vecuronium to keep his muscles inoperable, patting him on the head like a dog before returning to the operating table. “We pause. This section. Do you see how the tumor appears indistinguishable from the healthy brain issue? This is beyond you, so we move on from this spot and we start here, developing the plane from a new angle. Take a moment to appreciate our work. Note how much of the tumor is free. Under my tutelage, there is life. You could still have a career as a surgeon, Andie. This is a good time to stop. To pause. Tools down, hands up. Sit. I will feed you. You need water and calories. You have been at this for over an hour, and I honor your strength.” Dr. Pierce took off his gloves and washed his hands. He pulled down her mask and provided her with a cup and straw, and then a banana and crackers and small bits of chicken. He let his fingers brush her lips, each time, and he fed himself too. Stackhouse didn’t speak but she ate. Her white gloves were speckled with red gore. Her eyes didn’t fix on the doctor, but stayed remote, as though she’d separated herself from reality. He restored her mask and then snapped on fresh gloves for himself. Rigby thought Pierce’s strength was fading. He shook more and his posture stooped. The former energy in his voice waned. He stretched and rolled his neck and leaned a hip against the table. The monitors continued their vigilance. “I am adjusting his medication, fed intravenously into his arm, from this anesthesia machine. We monitor his blood pressure here. A good doctor in the control chair would’ve already done it, but there is no emergency. We continue now. The same tools. You see the tumor is coming loose. During my residency, a neurosurgeon noted how much it resembles a good piece of raw, fatty filet mignon, and now we cannot help but… But no, this is not the place. We continue. Switch instruments and now cauterize using the Bovie pen. Yes, we control the bleeding, like that, and now we cut again. Remind yourself the brain does not have nerve endings, it is not sensitive to pain. Once the tumor is removed, Andie, our work is not done. Prepare yourself now, there can be no let down. This solution keeps the brain wet and clean, preventing infection. Alert me if you need more water. You must be sharp. Good, we continue. I think we may get lucky here, as the tumor doesn’t appear invasive. Pull back here, and yes, we find a best case scenario. Fortunate because our time is short.” A long silence then, as they worked. They were lit from the lamps above and the refracted light below, operating in their own light bubble. Other than murmurs to herself, Stackhouse hadn’t spoken in hours, nor had her perfect posture surrendered an inch. Rigby thought she muttered words, “Head down. Nose, grindstone. Work now. Don't think,” over and over. The doctor watched her as much as he did the patient, artwork he could not get enough of. Eventually, when he spoke again, the doctor’s voice took on a weary quality. “Time is short indeed. Isn’t it. All the time in the world until it's gone. Don’t chase money, Andie. It’s not something you can catch. Nor success or recognition. It’s smoke, always farther off, not something you can hold. Pause there, Andie, we try it from this angle here. Yes, better, we are nearly there. Don’t rush, force yourself not to rush, this is not the finish line.”

At last, she spoke to him. “Am I reading that monitor correctly? Are his brain waves increasing?”

“Yes, they are.”

“He’s waking?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet? Then there is a rush.”

“Rushing leads to mistakes. We must not err. He is your father, after all. Focus,” he said, though he began watching the monitor more closely. “Change to the Bovie pen, we cauterize the bleeding vessels, and back to the scissors. Your hands are tired, I know. By lifting there… Oh!”

Stackhouse raised her left hand. In the forceps, she held a piece of red meat. Her chest rose and fell deeply, eyes wide.

“We are victorious. We have excised it, Andie. Your father is disease-free, thanks to my directions and your compliance. As neat a job as we could hope for. Set the tweezers down, we’re not done yet. What we do… Andie.”

Stackhouse flung the forceps and the tumor away, as though they burned her, and they crashed into the corner. Rigby’s chest tensed in surprise, the first sign his muscular control was returning. Stackhouse bent herself over her father’s stomach and she released a sob. Until then, the enormous task of surgery had been shouldered without effort. Not only the physical but the tremendous emotional toll of working on her father. She cradled his midsection and cried.

“Andie.”

Her voice was thick. “I need twenty seconds.”

“Do you need to eat again?”

“No.”

Dr. Pierce shuffled around the table. Exhausted. The disease was pronounced in his form, and he moved as though injured. He prepared another mask and set out more gloves for her. “You must put on new gloves. Also, you are in a caloric deficit.”

Stackhouse rose up, and tried to wipe her eyes on her shoulders. “We don’t have time to eat.”

His eyes flicked to the monitor. Even at a distance, Rigby could see the increasing activity. “You’re right, we don’t. The clock ticks. Change gloves, we hurry now.”

He helped her tear off the ruined gloves and tug on a fresh pair, and a clean mask, and he washed his hands, which didn’t want to obey and he dried them and put on more white gloves, tugging until they tore and he was forced to start over. “We will place Surgicel into the opening. A hemostatic…” He took a deep breath. And another.

“Doctor?”

A sigh, and he rubbed at his face with his shoulders. “Sorry. We’re tired. Remaining upright is a challenge.”

“Then you shouldn’t have set up this ridiculous farce. Tell me what to do,” she snapped.

“Surgicel is a hemostatic agent. It will prevent bleeding going forward, through chemical reactions. There, on the tray.” The doctor filled his lungs. “I can apply it, here. Precision isn’t paramount. While I do, take those tools, yes, like needle-nose pliers and the string. You will sew the dura closed.”

“I can’t sew.”

“You have to, Andie.” A note of panic in his voice. “We close the dura flap. Like so. I will do my best to hold it into place, and we suture.”

“What does that mean?”

“Pierce both layers of the dura with the needle and then up through the other side. Like sewing. I assumed all women could sew. We’ve identified your fatal flaw, haven’t we. The modern woman. Yes, but tighter. It should be water tight. Tighter. Don’t… Don’t drop the needle, Andie!”

“Then don’t ask a cop to do brain surgery, Pierce!” Panic rang in both their voices now.

“That one is better. Do you need glasses? This is precise work. Of course you don’t, you have young perfect eyes.”

An alarm sounded. From the safety monitors.

“Is he waking up?”

Dr. Pierce closed his eyes a moment and nodded. “He is. Tune out the danger. You should’ve worked faster.”

“How long?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not an anesthesiologist.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know! I’m sorry, Andie, I thought… I thought we had more time.”

The electrodes turned his brain waves into a mountain range on the monitor.

“Turn that alarm off,” she ordered, and he did. “Keep him under.”

“I can’t! Continue your sutures.”

“There must be something you can do, Doctor.”

“I used all of my Sevoflurane. I have no more inhalants. Traditionally the anesthesiologist brings his own.”

“No more inhalants? What does that mean?”

“Through the tube, into his lungs. Focus, Andie.”

“You cannot let him wake up!”

“It’s… The brain itself is not sensitive to pain. Remember. Our best bet is to finish as quickly—”

“No. I refuse to let him wake up in the middle of brain surgery, unable to move, missing part of his head. Fix it.”

Dr. Pierce’s steely resolve and arrogance was dissolving. “What solutions do you think we have?”

“I don’t know! What did you give James?”

“Vecuronium, but that’s not a general anesthetic, and I’m out. We work, Andie, that’s all—”

“That’s all you’ve done your whole life, Doctor, work work work, but now you’re out of time. We’re both out of time. Figure something else out!”

“There is nothing else.”

“His IV! Use that.” She pointed at the tube leading from the patient’s arm.

“I don’t…” Dr. Pierce examined the anesthesia machine, as if seeing it anew. The weariness had dulled his mind. He stepped to the tall machine, a fancy cart with drawers and the tubes and pumps and the monitor. “His IV. Interesting. I didn’t prep for this.”

“I don’t care. Find something.”

The alarm sounded again.

“Doctor,” she warned. “He’s waking.”

“I’m searching!” He rifled through the drawers, vials crashing. He grabbed things Rigby couldn’t see. “You took too long, Andie. I wasn’t expecting… Nothing goes as I plan. As we plan. We plan and we plan and God’s sick sense of… Wait. Wait. Here! Okay, this will do, our salvation. Ketamine.”

“Ketamine is what drug addicts use.”

“With good reason. It’s powerful in this form, a general anesthetic. That is, it will knock him out.” His hands shook. “Quick thinking, Andie, we’re light on our feet. I knew you would be, when forced. But I cannot manage the needle…”

Watching the patient, helpless, Rigby wondered if the man’s left foot twitched, or perhaps it was his own terror.

Stackhouse held out her hand. “Here. Tell me what to do.”

“Take the vial and hold it upside down.”

“Turn off that damn alarm, Dr. Pierce.”

He did as instructed. He pushed a vial and a syringe into her hand, and he dropped the glasses back onto his nose to read the accompanying literature. “Four milligrams. Only four. Insert the… Good. Now draw. Only four. Yes. Flick for the air bubbles. Now inject here, into his IV nozzle. You must depress slowly. Very slowly. That dosage should be administered over sixty seconds.”

The alarm screamed again and the doctor smacked a button to silence it.

Stackhouse pressed and waited, pressed and waited, praying quietly, “Don’t wake up, don’t wake up, please God,” her eyes on the monitor graph.

The syringe emptied and they stood at the bedside, staring at the mountain range of neuron activity in the frontal lobe.

“It was unwise to mix sedatives,” said the doctor.

“Everything you’ve done has been unwise. I’m doing my best.”

“Your best was good enough. By a hair. We make an effective team. You see why I arranged the surgery thus.”

“No,” she said. “That’s madness.”

“Consider what we accomplished. Now you realize who you are. What you could be. The relationship with your father is restored. That deep wound inside is repaired. Consider yourself reborn, with our future vast and fresh. No longer a mere—”

“This isn’t about me, Doctor. This is about you. Life went sideways and you think you can fix things through me, but you can’t. Your sins can’t be forgiven by my sacrifices,” said Stackhouse.

He was struck into silence.

As they watched the line, an eternity, slowly the waving line flattened. Her father was deep asleep again.

“We did it.” Pierce walked backwards, a stagger, until collapsing onto the chair next to Rigby. He stank of sweat and desperation. “You did it.”

Stackhouse returned to her work with the needle and thread. She toiled diligently, muttering to herself several times, “Tighter, Andie,” and, “Waterproof. Head down.”

Dr. Pierce was crying. He shot his gloves away from himself, littering the floor, and he set one hand on Rigby’s head.

He sniffed. “Sideways. What a safe, sterilized way to describe it. My life went sideways. That’s an insult to the agony. Yet, you’re right, Andie. You’re astute and correct about it all.”

“Quiet, Doctor.”

“My lofty goals are a sham. Look at this. Look at me. This is madness. I arrogated the role of arbiter onto my shoulders and I pretended I was God, when he fell asleep at the wheel. But you’re correct. I think…” His fingers clenched into Rigby’s hair. He was powerless to stop the doctor. “I think on some level, it’s as banal as I’m in love with you.”

“This isn’t love, Doctor.”

“Maybe it’s as close as I can manage.”

Ten minutes passed and finally she announced, “I’m done. The stitches are tight, there’s no more bleeding. Come look.”

“I cannot.”

“Then tell me what to do next.”

“The skull flap will be replaced and sealed with a plate, and the scalp restored. But not by you. Your father will be under several more hours. The ketamine is strong. His body has even forgotten to breathe, and he’d be dead without the ventilator. Forty-five minutes from now, my nurses will arrive. It’s nearly morning. They will read the messages I left for them, and hurry to this operating suite, and they will summon a surgeon to finish the job. In the meantime, Andie, one more thing we must do.”

Stackhouse’s hands hovered above her father’s head. Clearly she wanted to finish the work, to make him whole. She stood alone, covered in Jimmy Stackhouse’s blood, trying to fix the world, and Rigby was in awe of the woman. “Where is the missing piece of skull, Doctor? At least let me put that back in. Sweet Lincoln, what a thing to say.”

“I cannot go to prison, Andie. I won’t.”

“You don’t have a choice, Dr. Pierce.”

“It’s awful of me to ask you this, Andie. I regret it. But I must. I insist you execute me,” he said, and Rigby flinched.

“I won’t do that. Obviously.”

“You must choose. Take my life, or someone else dies.”

Her eyes flicked up. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Doctor, I’m too tired for this.”

Dr. Pierce’s left hand rose from his pocket. His thumb flicked off the cap of a pen knife, a scalpel, number eleven blade. “If you don’t execute me, I will open the artery of this fucking tax attorney. He will bleed to death as you watch.”

“Pierce.”

“His life is only the warning. Because if you still refuse, I’ll do the same to your father. On the other side of the table, you cannot prevent it.”

“Dammit, Pierce, stop it.”

“My health is gone. My wife is gone. My son is gone. My practice is gone. My liberty will soon be gone. Andie. You must do me the honor,” he said.

Rigby’s pulse pounded in his ears. He wanted to shout, Do it! But he was barely able to hum, like screaming impotently inside a nightmare. The razor was mere inches from his face.

“Doctor. Please don’t do this.”

“Choose. Or I will choose for you,” he said.

“Don’t cut him. Cut yourself, if you’re determined to die. I can’t reach you to stop it.” She kicked at the chain.

“I lack the courage. My final humiliation. Besides, surely I deserve an ending splashier than that. Don’t force me to kill this excuse for a man.”

“How would I even attempt it?”

“The bottom tray of the cart. You will find a pistol. It once belonged to Naomi McDonald. I claimed ownership when she dropped it. It’s loaded with two bullets. From that range, I’m not sure you can hit me in the head. So two in the chest should suffice.”

Stackhouse didn’t budge but she eyed the cart.

“Dr. Pierce. There are vials of various medications in the drawers of the machine cart. I suggest you take something to relax. You’re not thinking clearly.”

Pierce grabbed Rigby’s head with his right hand. Through his muted panic, Rigby detected the doctor’s involuntary muscle tremors. The left hand brought the knife closer to his neck.

He hummed as loud as he could.

“No! Stop. Stop it, Pierce.”

“Pick up the gun, Andie. Now.”

Stackhouse turned to the cart. To reach it, she forced the chain at her ankle to its fullest length. She snapped off her white gloves and balled fists and opened them, and she opened the drawer. When she rose again, she held a suppressed pistol.

“Yes,” he said.

“This was used to kill your son, Dr. Pierce.”

“I know.” His hands shook harder. “I know. I want it this way. Executed by Andie Stackhouse.”

Stackhouse ejected the magazine, examined it, and slammed it home. She pulled the slide back enough to inspect the chamber. After the delicate surgical instruments, the gun looked clunky and sacrilegious.

“Two bullets.”

“Yes. I’m ready. I’m so tired, Andie, and none of this has worked. None of it. I have faced the end and my palace is ashes and it’s over and I’m withering.”

“There is dignity in life, Doctor. We are more than our palaces. If you believe in God, you’re a created being. It’s not too late to end well,” she said.

“Don’t patronize me. You’re in your thirties. You know nothing of loss. My grief is so colossal that you would die under the weight. Choose now before I kill this man for the joy of it.” The point of the blade slid neatly into Rigby’s neck, only a fraction of an inch. He felt it as a hot glow and his tear ducts activated.

She held up a hand, like stopping traffic. “Okay. Okay. Calm down.”

“You will do me the honor.”

“I will,” she said.

Rigby didn’t understand how Stackhouse remained standing. All that the doctor demanded of her.

“I want you to set the knife down so you don’t cut him by accident. Or intention. That’s part of the deal,” she said.

“You’re in no position to bargain.”

She spoke with a hard, cop voice. Calling on hidden reserves to survive. “Neither are you. I have a gun, now. If you murder him, I’ll put one in your shoulder and we’ll wait for the nurses to arrive. Maybe you’ll bleed out, maybe you won’t. The ignominy you’ll suffer, rotting in prison.”

“What a woman you are.”

“That’s not for you to decide. You were never the judge. Set down the knife.”

“Very well, Andie. There can be no trickery, after all. You’re chained to the table and I will put the knife near enough to reach, if I must execute him.”

“I understand.”

Pierce leaned forward and set the blade on the ground. “Thank you, Andie.”

“Close your eyes.”

“As you wish.” Pierce leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His breathing was ragged, despite his calm words. “Surprise me soon, and the misery ends. I’ve been ready for weeks.”

“Any final words?” said Stackhouse.

“Yes indeed. A verbal suicide note. I wish you to know that my intentions, although misguided, were for—”

CRACK.

CRACK.

Both Rigby and Pierce jumped. Though suppressed, the gunshots were enormous in the room. One bullet ricocheted into the medical cart. The other into the wall beyond.

Pierce grunted, as though hit.

Rigby had been staring, unable to take his eyes off. Stackhouse knelt as the doctor spoke, stepping on the chain, pressing the barrel hard into one of the thin links, and she fired both rounds into the metal.

The bullets passed through the chain link, caroming beyond. The oval metal link broke in half on one side. Not fully severed but enough that Stackhouse could slip the adjoining link out of the broken piece, and she was free.

She ran limping across the room, crashing into the cart. The metal tray popped her surgical instruments into the air.

Dr. Pierce realized the betrayal. His eyes flared open and he saw her coming. With a snarl, he rolled his stiff body off the chair, onto the floor, blocking her so she couldn’t reach the knife. He clawed for it as she fell on top.

Wrestling on the floor, Stackhouse was outweighed by fifty pounds, and Rigby could do nothing but hum and moan, tears in his eyes. Pierce cradled his body around the weapon on the slip-proof flooring, scrabbling with hands that mutinied. She screamed and pulled him off, but he grabbed purchase on the little scalpel in time. They crashed into the couch and chairs and Rigby was jostled enough to slide free, slumping like a bag of sand, dangerously close to the knife fight. Stackhouse grabbed Dr. Pierce’s arm, him bigger and stronger, but she pinned the arm down with her body weight. His hand shook and gyrated, jabbing and slashing, but she held his wrist like it was a viper, suffering superficial cuts, both fighters screaming.

The doctor was exhausted and hadn’t been eating well for the last week, the disease ravaging him unchecked. He couldn’t contend with the cop in peak condition. She pried the hilt from his fingers but he wrapped his other arm around her neck and bent her backwards, depriving her of oxygen, and the weapon skidded across the floor, into the same corner as the forceps and bloody tumor.

No weapons, body versus body, man versus woman, sweating, she was kicking, her hand bleeding, shoving at his arm until able to squirm loose and suck in the oxygen.

Training and exercise and fury prevailing, she hit him in the face to stun him and she fought her way behind the doctor, climbing on his back, she clenched him in a rear naked choke hold. The same move he’d clumsily tried on her. Squeezing his neck, her arms severed the flow in his carotid arteries. He reached for her face. He reached for Rigby. He grasped for anything to help. Face purpling. He reached and his hands trembled and his eyes bulged with all the indignities he fought his whole life to prevent, and his fight faded. Faded, faded, and he fell limp.

She released him, the doctor unconscious but alive. She panted and gasped and cried, and she kicked the doctor away from her. She stood and wiped her face, smearing hot crimson.

“James. You alive?”

He hummed.

The doctor’s blood flow had resumed, and now so did his consciousness. His mind woke up and he groaned and rose to all-fours, but Stackhouse jammed the Ketamine syringe into his shoulder and depressed the plunger with her thumb. The remaining contents of the barrel flooded cold into his muscles and he gasped and swatted at her.

“You disappoint me, Andie. I thought you had… Had more of the woman—”

He blinked and swatted at her again, fighting ghosts, words slurring, and the Ketamine switched off his consciousness, and he slid back to the ground, fully sedated.

Stackhouse dropped the syringe. Her hands bled, droplets near Rigby’s face.

“He’s out,” she panted. “I’ll be right back.”

She ran from the room, which had heated to a hundred degrees, Rigby thought, his face on the floor near the doctor’s, and he was able to say, “Hurry,” left alone in the surgical suite full of men unable to help themselves.

A minute later Stackhouse returned, speaking into a phone, barking specific directions. She verified Dr. Pierce wasn’t moving, nudging him with her rubber shoe, and then she set the phone down to lean over her father and hold him. Relief at last, her head relaxed onto his stomach and she told him she was sorry, careful not to touch his skull. Rigby was able to lift his head to watch. When the first responders arrived, she kept them far from her father, his guardian warning about infection. Officers Rigby didn’t know took their orders from her. Pierce was unable to be roused, so he was raised onto a gurney and handcuffed and wheeled away by men in blue. Rigby was hoisted and propped in the corner of the couch by police, and cared for by a nurse. Only when masked and gloved surgeons approached her father did Stackhouse release him. Stackhouse collapsed next to Rigby, too tired to move, allowing her hand to be tended. Rigby was transferred to a wheelchair and strapped into place by a chest restraint, and the last he saw of Stackhouse, she was falling asleep where he’d once waited for help.

No one dared wake up Stackhouse in the operating room, this woman warrior bathed in gore, so Val Farmer washed up and sat next to her on the couch as Jimmy Stackhouse was injected with antibiotics and his skull flap reattached, the noise of carpentry turning Val’s stomach.

When Stackhouse finally roused, her father’s surgery complete, Kaye was there, cradling her sweaty head and whispering, “Sweetie. Why does this keep happening to you.”

33

A month later.

Late July in Kentucky, the sky reaching into creation, blues from the founding of the world. Four windows down, Andie Stackhouse let the East wind toss her hair, driving the straight stretches with her eyes closed.

A day off. Focusing on here and now. The Murder Book closed for the weekend.

She softly braked into the gravel outside a small brick house on a quiet street with humble, well-tended homes under towering oak trees. Though her heart fluttered, she had steeled herself on the drive and so she quickly stood out, not willing for her father to wonder if she was waffling.

She smelled a charcoal grill in the back and some golden memory tugged at ten-year-old Andie Stackhouse, though this wasn’t her childhood home. Her father could grill; she and Kaye couldn’t. Life was better with a man around. From the trunk, she plucked a basket, and she managed the sidewalk on knees that felt weak.

She knocked on the screen door and Jimmy Stackhouse called to come in, that he was out back. She quaked but didn’t run.

Inside, she struggled to breathe through the knot in her throat. Her father’s house. The home of a man who’d lost everything except disability, some of it his fault, some of it not. He’d cleaned—the trash in the kitchen overflowed.

Go go go, Andie, This shouldn’t be scarier than brain surgery, but somehow…

What if he doesn’t like me.

She strode through the kitchen and out the rear screen door, into the haze of a hot grill, where her father tended hamburgers.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, kid.” He didn’t make eye contact. He didn’t go to her, so she didn’t go to him. But maybe that was the whole problem? “I gave up alcohol. Get that out of here, would you.”

“Absolutely.” From her basket, she plucked the bottle of wine—the nicest she could afford—and tossed it into the galvanized trashcan and replaced the lid. You idiot, Andie. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault. I wasn’t strong enough.”

She hadn’t seen him in weeks, not since the hospital released him. “You look good. You have your strength back?”

He waved a big hand. “Don’t know that it’ll ever come back, an old man like me.” He scooped four big beef patties onto a plate and said, “Good timing. They’re hot.”

The heat touched eighty-five degrees and his house wasn’t air conditioned, but the two screen doors allowed for a steady cross-breeze, a pleasant compromise. They sat at the bright kitchen table, and he was uncomfortable, and she regretted forcing this reunion on him.

He plated her a burger and french fries, and she declined to mention she hadn’t eaten meat since that night in the surgical suite. It wasn’t a permanent switch to vegetarianism, just a hideous memory. Today was a good day to get over pain.

She ate a bite and forced it down. “It’s good.”

“I’ll pray for our meal.”

“Oh. Yes, right.”

He bowed his head and she smiled grimly at his exceptional hairline and the faint scar where his scalp was stitched back together. “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen.”

“Do you attend a church?” he said.

She wished she could lie to him. “I don’t, no.”

“It’s good for you. Keeps me healthy.”

“I believe it,” she said.

“I don’t mean to preach.” He set down the french fry he was about to eat. “This is weird, ain’t it.”

“A little. I can go?”

“That’s not what I meant. You just came. You’re a hell of a good-looking little girl, you know that?”

The blood drained from her face and the emotion gathered behind her eyes. “Thank you.”

“I guess I never got a good look at the hospital. Or I was too high on meds. But damn, you look like your mom.”

“Dad.” She snatched a napkin and pressed it to her eyes. “I’m not sure I can do that right now.”

“Sorry, I get that. But damn, it’s really something.”

In his voice, she detected the presence of opioids. “I’d like to see a picture of her, at my age.”

“I got some around. How old are you?”

She told him.

He grunted. “Not long before she died. Get yourself checked, you hear? All the time.”

She caught herself before saluting. “I will.”

“You’re prettier than she was, I think.”

“Dad. She was a model.”

“Well.” He winked. “Maybe I helped some too.”

From her basket, she withdrew a packet of magazines and newspapers. “I don’t know if this interests you, but I collected articles about your surgery. You made about a dozen.” In her own voice, she detected the presence of childhood twang.

He unfolded the Roanoke Times article. “You and your mother, both too pretty to stay out of the papers. She used to be in here, for the department store ads, wearing her underwear sometimes. The boys gave me hell for that, I can tell you. There he is, Dr. Pierce.” He closed the paper and set it down, and he too took a napkin. “That son of a bitch.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“You should’ve shot him. Bastard lied to me.”

“He lied to a lot of people,” said Stackhouse.

“Pierce’ll never get out?” He dabbed his eyes.

“No. A fate worse than death, for him.”

“Good. Good. I hope they gave you a promotion,” he said.

She managed another bite of hamburger. “I’m already over-promoted. No more for me anytime soon.”

“A medal, at least?”

“Probably. But I don’t care about them.”

“Wouldn’t a medal help your career?” he said.

“I have medals. Every so often I get myself into trouble and have to dig out, and they give me an award for it.”

“You always were a trouble maker.”

She grinned and her cheeks were pink. “I’m trying to outgrow it.”

He crumpled the napkin into his hand. “Do you enjoy the work?”

“I do. I closed another case yesterday,” she said and she refused to pause for approval. “I survived my first couple weeks and now I feel like I can swim.”

“They ought to give you a medal. I mean, that’s a hell of a thing you did.”

What she wouldn’t tell him was, the mayor and two local delegates had approached her about upcoming elected positions. She’d quickly grown into a legend, and she would dominate any local sheriff’s election. But she had her final year of law school on approach. And then…

Then she didn’t know. The dream of the FBI still loomed, and yet some part of her wondered if she was supposed to move toward something other than becoming an agent at the bottom of the pole.

“Are you dating anyone?”

“Um,” she said around a bite of french fry.

“Too private?”

“No, it’s—”

“Ah, pardon my manners. I forgot the lemonade.” He limped to fetch a yellow pitcher from the fridge and poured it into a glass jar for her. “So excited, I plum forgot.”

He forgot the ice too. She drank to give herself time before answering.

James Rigby was over. She’d been kind but firm.

She and Mark Rowe had never finished their date. He’d come to see her but they both had raised barriers. It was the wrong time. So wrong her skin had crawled. Not at him, but at life. She’d be no use to a man yet, nor did she want one. Maybe once she was able to successfully eat an entire hamburger.

“I’m not dating.”

“You’re cursed,” he said. “You’re too high a quality person. Too pretty. No one is good enough.”

“That’s not it. There are some good men around, I hope.” Her memory flashed to the man around the fire on Tradd Street. The handsome elementary principal who hadn’t come to her room for sex.

Her mind felt like a wild skittish horse, bolting wherever it wanted. Throwing away the wine had been wise.

“Or you’ll be like me. You’ll be alone most of your life,” said her father.

“I’m not alone.”

“The lesbian, you mean.”

She smiled. “Yes, Kaye. She’s part of it.”

“But you’re not?”

“No.”

“You could be? I mean, I don’t know how it works now.”

“It’d be easier that way, it feels like. But I like men,” she said. “How about you? Dating anyone?”

He drank lemonade and shrugged. “Ms. Burch down the street won’t leave me alone. Bah. She’s too old. She’s almost my age. And I don’t know that I’d be much use to a woman.”

She wondered how often she used phrases she learned from him. “Is she cute?”

“She’s made well.”

“I think you have a couple strong decades left, Dad.”

“We’ll see. She’s a drinker.”

“Uh oh,” said Stackhouse.

“Thank you for visiting. I know it’s a drive.”

Stackhouse realized she was intensely happy, sitting in this tiny kitchen. Terrified too. “I enjoyed the drive. It forced me to relax. What time do you need me to go?”

“I don’t. It feels good with you here,” he said.

“Would you stay at our place now and then? We have a third bedroom.”

“In Roanoke? The lesbian wouldn’t mind?”

“It was Kaye’s idea,” she said. “For your checkups. I’ll come get you and you spend the night with us.”

“I couldn’t impose.”

“I hope you will.”

“I, ah…” He choked up again. “That’s awful good of you. I don’t know that I deserve it.”

She mustered her courage and took a risk. “You’re all the family I have.”

“I’m…” He cleared his throat. They were both crying. “That’s a hell of a thing you did. The surgery. I don’t know how.”

“Me either.”

“Well. You know. I appreciate it.”

“Somehow, it was an honor,” she said.

“I’m…” he said again. He waggled a hand between them, like me and you, and he indicated the world around. His face was purple and his eyes wet. “You know. About everything. About us. The past. I’m… I’m so…”

“I know, Dad. Me too.”

“Me too,” he managed and he grabbed her hand. Slender fingers inside her father’s, his thick and quivering. “Couple of sissies, aren’t we.”

She laughed and wiped her eyes again, and they sat in a healing silence, holding hands, staring through the screen door, down the gravel street through the green fields, and a dormant part of their souls began to hum with life.

Epilogue

At the Virginia Correctional Center for Women, the inmates unloaded the delivery trucks. The trucks reversed to the dock, and under the close supervision of guards, the boxes were unloaded on carts, sometimes searched for contraband, but mostly the guards didn’t care. In fact, often they benefited from the incoming illegal goods.

Today, a day long in the making, women young and old unloaded cold-storage containers at the industrial refrigerators. Hidden from cameras, two inmates helped a third lower into the emptied container, while a fourth kept watch. This small operation required the cooperation of the head chef, three prison guards, and an insider with the National Food Group. The lid was resealed and the container carted back to the waiting delivery truck. The guard who watched this was pretending to be occupied elsewhere, though she cried at the thought of losing Jane.

The containers were secured, the door slammed down and locked, and the driver lumbered forward, along the path to the double-gated exit. Once inside, both gates closed, security guards looked under and over the truck with mirrors and cameras, and the cargo door was raised for inspection. After clearance was granted, the front gate trundled aside and the truck departed in a cough of diesel.

Two miles down 522, across Maiden’s Bridge, the driver braked along the side of the road and ran to the back. Up went the door and she unsealed container after container until finding the correct one, and she helped the stowaway to stand.

“Sorry it took so long, Ms. Newton.”

“That’s okay, Josie. You’re doing great.” Jane Newton stretched and she helped her reseal the containers, and she joined Josie on the bench in the cabin. “Look. Look at this big beautiful world.”

Josie had been one of her foster daughters. So had the prison guard, Hilde Charlton. During the previous three years, she’d charmed and cared for enough inmates and prison personnel to arrange for her escape. She’d become their mother, their friend, their confidante, and sometimes more when necessary. With so many redundant testimonies covering each other, the means of her breakout might never be discovered.

At her feet was a bag of essentials. From it she took deodorant, a shirt, and pants. She squirmed out of the jumpsuit and said, “Good riddance.” She applied the deodorant and she shimmied into the new outfit. A newspaper article fluttered free and she picked it up, reading the headline for the hundredth time.

ROANOKE COP INTERRUPTS BRAIN SURGERY TO SAVE FATHER.

Jane pursed her lips. None of the articles made sense. She knew important facts were being withheld from the public.

One thing was obvious.

Dr. Raymond Pierce had failed in his quest to either save Andrea Stackhouse or sacrifice her. Men could never be trusted. She brushed her long blonde hair and considered the rainy countryside passing by.

Before reaching Powhatan, Josie braked the National Food Group’s truck again, this time next to a Honda Civic. The driver was another of Jane Newton’s foster daughters, waiting nervously at the wheel.

“Josie, you were very brave. Thank you,” said Jane. “I will never forget this.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Newton. I guess, good luck? Don’t get caught?”

Jane touched Josie’s face and she climbed down from the delivery truck, shouldering her bag. Inside the Civic, she kissed Maven’s forehead. “Maven. It is so good to see you. What a lovely woman you turned into.”

The Civic’s windshield wipers squeaked. “Yeah yeah. Let’s do this, Ms. Newton. You got anybody hot on your tail?”

“Not for several days.”

“Good. My family, they don’t need to know shit about this. Where to?”

Jane flattened the news article onto her leg, running a fingertip along the photo of Andrea Stackhouse.

“To Roanoke.”

Dear Reader,

Thanks for reading!

When I met with a surgeon to discuss the scene in the operating room, he said, “You want her to do what?”

My thanks to Dr. Farrar and the Roanoke City Police Department for all the help.

If you like Stackhouse, keep reading. There’s more below. I’m crazy about her, and hope to write her story until I’m eighty.

What’s new with me, in 2024? After ten years of writing about a private detective, I became one myself. (What, why?) For research purposes. For the thrill of it. To work with a friend.

These days, after I finish writing, I grab my black backpack and head out to hunt. Finding individuals, and surveilling and documenting them. My daughter calls me a spy, and that’s essentially what I do. It’s tremendously fun and exciting work, and the next Mackenzie novel will reflect what I’ve been learning about the profession.

I’ll try to post about this work occasionally on my Instagram—AuthorAlanLee.

Thank you again, for reading. You’ve made my dreams come true.

See you soon, with a Mackenzie mystery!

-Alan

PS. Leave a review! Small guys like me are toast, if you don’t.

PPS. Do you like Stackhouse? Then you must read more about her. The Girl Who Would Be Sheriff series is essentially the prequels to a larger story. In the book you just finished, at the sex party, Timothy August references his son, a cop working in Los Angeles. Set in modern day, that cop returns to Roanoke to open his own shop, and Stackhouse partners with him to catch a homicidal maniac working within the halls of a local high school. That begins a larger story that you’ll fall in love with. Trust me—August Origins is next on your list of books to read. Here’s an excerpt:

Chapter One, of August Origins

Sheriff Stackhouse stepped into my new office on a Tuesday afternoon. I recognized her from recent campaign posters, and I, a gentleman sleuth, stood.

She read the name on my door, “Mackenzie August.”

I nodded. “Sheriff.”

The Washington Nationals were playing a day game against the Mets, and I thumbed the volume down on my laptop, where I’d been listening. It was ninety degrees outside and my air conditioning struggled. Too hot to serve the four subpoenas waiting on my desk.

I disliked sweating.

“Are you free,” she said, “for a chat?”

“I’m great at chatting. What about?”

“A homicide.”

The sheriff was followed by a man who resembled what a cop should look like—thick, hairy forearms, snub nose, buzz cut, maybe forty-five.

Two clients. I remained calm.

He threw me a nod.

“You look like your father,” said the sheriff. “Which is good.”

I indicated the client chairs opposite my desk.

She sat and shifted to accommodate a pistol and badge clipped to her belt, and she crossed her legs. She wore tight khakis that flared at her lace-up Kate Spades. Her white button-up shirt was tucked in, sleeves rolled up, collar flicked wide.

Though I was fifteen years her junior, I was not unmoved. She was good looking. Damn good looking. I’d heard her described as good breeding wasted on public service.

“You’re bigger than I thought. Taller and…” She held out her hands like this. “And broader. You played football at Radford University, if I recall,” she said.

“That team? They never won a game.” Buzzcut poked through the stuff on my bookshelves. He resembled a Rottweiler. Not good breeding.

My office was on the second floor above a bookstore and the restaurant Metro, on Campbell. Outside my window, millennials streamed for the farmer’s market, and we could hear their voices.

I came this close to buying a bottle of scotch for my bookshelves last week. I was good at my job, but would clients know it without one? Did other detectives display scotch on their bookshelves? Philip Marlowe did.

“I read about you in the papers.” Stackhouse brushed something invisible off her knee. “The Los Angeles thing. The North murders, a real disaster.”

I sat. “It was. That’s the reason I left.”

“Sergeant Sanders and I are working on the homicides together. We’d like your assistance.” She reached toward Sergeant Sanders and he placed an iPad into her hand. She powered it on and ran her finger across the screen. “First I’ll verify a few details. You were born and raised here, Roanoke, Virginia. Played football at Radford and earned a dual degree in English and Criminal Justice. After graduation you moved to California and joined the Highway Patrol. Transferred to the Los Angeles Police Department. After two years, you were assigned to homicide. Promoted to detective. Got mixed up in that high-profile North fiasco. Took a leave of absence that became permanent. Moved to South Hill, and taught English for one year. Came home, got your private detective license and hired out to local law firms. How am I doing so far?”

“In California,” I said, “I was the precinct chess champion.”

She returned to her iPad like she wasn’t impressed, which was ridiculous.

“You fought in underground cage matches in Los Angeles. You were reprimanded multiple times for insubordination. And last year you shot your coworker.”

Buzzcut sniffed his approval. “Shot the bastard twenty times.”

“He needed it,” I said. “All twenty.”

“Despite the reprimands, your former supervisors had good things to say about you. Captain Bonham told me I’m a horse’s ass if I don’t hire you. You come highly recommended by Brad Thompson Law in Salem. He says your work is so much better than your peers’ that he’ll hire no one else and the other firms are catching on. You’re not married. Finally, you have a son named Kix.”

“Last but paramount in importance.”

She clicked off the iPad.

“I’m here to offer you a job, Mr. August.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I’m not interested in police work.”

“Good. I’m not interested in having you in my office.”

“Rude.”

“Roanoke has a gang problem. A significant one,” she said.

“Roanoke doesn’t have gangs. Roanoke has illegal organized groups involved in territorial disputes.”

She smiled. Kinda. “You’re quoting me. From the article in the Times a few weeks ago. That was bullshit I fed to the press. We have a gang problem.”

“I knew it.”

“Roanoke’s problem is narcotics. On the East Coast, cocaine and opiates are smuggled in from South America and the Caribbean. Much of it is warehoused in Miami and Atlanta, waiting for distribution. But the drugs don’t stay there. Unfortunately for us, Roanoke is the halfway point between Atlanta and New York City. Seven hours each way. Billions’ worth of drugs travel up and down Interstate 81, and Roanoke is the perfect rendezvous.”

Buzzcut Sergeant Sanders spoke up. “We’re a staging area. A shit-ton gets stashed here by the local gang.”

“Bloods,” I said.

“Yes. Crystal meth hasn’t hit us yet, thank god,” said Stackhouse. “We’ve got our hands full of cocaine.”

“And you want me to tackle this problem.”

She smiled again. Kinda. “It’s a bit beyond one man.”

I pointed at Stackhouse. “You’re the sheriff. And he’s the police. You represent different departments.”

“This is a joint endeavor,” she said. “I’m taking point but I’ll collaborate with the chief of police, and with Sergeant Sanders.”

“I met the chief,” I said. “Or what’s left of him. We shook hands and I nearly killed him.”

Buzzcut did a snort.

“I heard you was funny,” he said.

“Were.”

“What?”

“Were funny, or are,” I said. “Not was. It’s complicated because are and were are both plural, but you does not take singular verbs.”

“The hell are you talking about?” he said.

“Don’t blame me, Sanders. It’s the rules.”

“English teacher,” he said.

“You betcha.”

“Sanders, close your mouth,” Sheriff Stackhouse said. “We’re here because we need help. I have it on good authority a heavy hitter has recently moved to town.”

“Define heavy hitter.”

“Gangs don’t have strict hierarchies or leadership, per se. You know this from Los Angeles. Roanoke is even less organized than most. The Bloods are subdivided into neighborhoods, like Lincoln Terrace. But the sets do recognize older and more powerful members. Apparently, the Roanoke Bloods has one. An important one. Nicknamed the General.”

“Your sources are low-ranking gang members?”

She nodded.

“Correct. Incarcerated and willing to snitch for reduced prison sentence.”

“How do I help?” I said.

“By returning to the classroom. I’d like fresh eyes and ears inside Patrick Henry High School. I believe the General is active there.”

“You want me to teach.”

She nodded more. “Yes. Tenth-grade English.”

“This would interfere with my thriving private detective enterprise.”

“Think of me as a ten-month client.”

“You can’t afford me.”

She gave me a half smile, genuine this time, and shifted in her chair. “Sexy talk for a broke PI.”

“That’s economic profiling. I’m loaded.”

“Yet you live with your father.”

“The August boys stick together.” I made a dignified fist for visual aid. “Solidarity.”

“No interest in teaching?”

“The schools have resource officers. You don’t need me.”

“ROs wear uniforms. Hard to get fresh intel. They’re cops, in other words, and I need a snitch.”

“You said this was a homicide investigation.”

“The General is killing people. Young women,” she said.

“Ah.”

“I need someone to listen in the tenth grade. That age is beginning to drive. Becoming more active in gangs. If we identify some of the General’s new recruits, we can catch him. We know you can handle this because of your well-publicized heroics last year.”

“I sympathize with your investigation. But I’ll pass.”

She sucked lightly on her pearlescent front teeth and tapped her index finger on the chair’s armrest. “What is your hesitation?”

“I like my job,” I said.

“You liked teaching. You were applying for jobs like this last year.”

I shrugged. “Not interested. But thanks.”

“I offended you. I said something uncouth, but I’m unsure what. I didn’t realize men could be so prickly.”

“Only us sensitive types.”

“Come on, Mackenzie. You do not strike me as a sensitive type.”

“I’m not. Yet I still decline.”

She stood and inspected me with pursed lips. Rather than pushing her point, she walked to the door. “I’ll be back. I’m not giving up on you yet.”

“You’ll need to wait behind my many clients with bags of cash.”

“Think about it. Please.”

“Because you asked nicely.”

Sergeant Sanders shot me with his finger and followed her out. He left the door open and the heat poured in.

Chapter Two, of August Origins

The following morning my son Kix and I sat in the kitchen eating breakfast. He was almost two and concentrating on scooping bits of banana into his mouth using an adult spoon. He spurned baby spoons for reasons I hoped would become clear when he began speaking in full sentences.

He was a good-looking kid. Got the big blue eyes, long lashes, and sudden smile from his mother. His biceps and deltoids, however, left a lot to be desired and he wasn’t keen on curling reps with his firetruck. He took a draught of milk, slammed the cup, and gave me a grin.

Life was good.

We lived in the Grandin neighborhood. Big house on a big corner lot off Windsor Avenue. Big enough to have two staircases, sheer lunacy. A restored 1925 classic brick foursquare, so Timothy August said, with wraparound porch and interior craftsman woodwork. The yard was shaded with hundred-year-old pine, maple, and magnolia trees.

No mother, no cousins, no grandparents, just us August boys. When Timothy August found out we were moving to Roanoke, my old man put his trendy condo in Hunting Hills up for sale and bought this place on the condition we move in.

In my thirties, living with Dad. Just like I planned.

Kix requested more bananas. I told him to use his manners. He did, though he couldn’t pronounce the “L” in please yet. I acquiesced anyway.

Timothy August, my father, entered. Brown loafers, pressed chinos, blue sports coat. With three buttons, the saucy creature. He poured coffee from the carafe, sat, and snapped open a newspaper. “Morning, boys.”

“No one reads newspapers anymore, Dad.”

“Only those of us with class, son.” He lowered the paper long enough to smile at Kix, who responded with sunshine. “Hello, grandson.”

Kix pointed at his food and expressed concern. Dad agreed. I got more coffee.

“Busy day?” he asked.

“I’m thwarting an evil apartment building which is being sued by clients who have fallen on the stairs. The proprietor arranged an impressive cover-up but I am undaunted.”

“One of Brad Thompson’s assignments?”

“It is.”

“Sheriff Stackhouse phoned last night.” Timothy tilted his head down far enough to examine me over his stylish bifocals. “She told me about the job offer.”

“Embarrassing. What kind of sheriff would call my father about it?”

“A determined one.”

“You two must go back,” I said.

“Everyone knows her. She is revered. We’ve both lived in Roanoke for the past twenty-odd years, so…”

“Perhaps you noticed she’s a smoke show.”

“Is she single?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“She’s aging remarkably well. She’s only four years younger than me. WDBJ 7 is running out of reasons to put her face on screen.” Timothy sipped at his coffee. “Will you accept her job offer?”

“I’m not inclined to.”

“I told her you wouldn’t.”

“How’d you know?” I asked.

“Too many bosses.”

“I dislike bosses.”

He nodded and returned to the paper. “Which is odd. Because they always seem to enjoy you.”

“I’m enjoyable. But I’d rather not report to a principal, vice principal, English supervisor, department chair, and sheriff.”

“I figured. Still,” he said behind his paper. “Still. Seems a shame. That school needs good teachers. Which, according to your previous supervisors, you are. Switching gears, is your fight tonight?”

I nodded. “Coming to watch?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Wimp.”

“You’re a violent man.” He sighed. “Probably take after your maternal grandmother, another reason I won’t watch. Shall I drive Kix to Roxanne’s? I’m leaving in five.”

“No thanks, I need the jog.”

Kix and I prepped and stepped outside. I strapped him into the jogging stroller, shoved his bag into the storage pouch, and tightened my laces.

All of Virginia seemed to be boiling but especially Roanoke, which rested in a wide valley that trapped moisture. I broke a sweat within a block and was soaked after five. Like running in a sauna. Wearing a thick robe. After a mile I could’ve probably slipped through prison bars. But the overhanging leaves were a deep rich green and almost worth it.

Kix loved Roxanne’s. She stayed at home with her daughter Lucy, who was the same age as Kix. Roxanne’s husband taught at Roanoke College.

On my return trip, sans stroller, an unmarked squad car slowed beside me and kept pace. Dodge Charger, eighteen-inch performance tires, 340 horsepower. I did the math in my head and decided I couldn’t outrun it. Maybe with fresh legs. I decelerated to a walk.

The driver’s window buzzed down. Sheriff Stackhouse. “Give you a ride?” she said.

“I’m disgusting.”

“Just the way I like it, babe. Hop in.”

I did, and she handed me a manila envelope with my name on it.

Inside were photographs of teenage girls lying dead on asphalt. I shuffled through, a familiar sick feeling in my stomach. Five years of carnage in homicide hadn’t inured me. “This is cheating.”

“You’re damn right it is. I’ll get you however I can.”

“These are victims of the General?”

“Keep going,” she said. “Three girls in the last twelve months. All Roanoke City.”

After the photos I found a medical examiner’s report. Each girl was beaten, raped, and shot. Same pistol. Gang markings were carved onto the ankles. Different DNA samples were discovered with each. “Rites of passage.”

“Yes,” said Stackhouse. “Same method of murder, but different men. Or boys.”

“Crank the air-conditioning.”

She hit a button on the dash and the air increased.

“I think your gang problem is getting worse,” I said. “None of these girls are White. They make the news?”

“Barely. Two of them are undocumented illegals, so….” She shrugged, an angry motion. There was a note of steel in her voice I hadn’t registered yesterday. “If they were White, it’d be a national story. Our planet infuriates me.”

“These are brutal, even for a gang rite of passage. You think the new General is escalating things?”

She nodded. “I do.

“You have a madman on your hands.”

“Our hands. You live here too.”

I grunted.

The best detectives always grunt.

“I figured you out,” she said.

“Yikes.”

“I asked you to be a narc. I used the word snitch. I insulted you, in so doing. It’s beneath you and I apologize.”

“I do not get insulted. If I did, though, I’d forgive you,” I said.

“We need you to detect. Not to snitch.”

I slid the photos back into the envelope. My career as a private cop was taking shape and I didn’t want to be tied down. Those photographs, though.

“There are worse things,” she said, “than working undercover, you know. I’m getting desperate, Mackenzie. Let me take another shot at you.”

“Sure.”

“I want you for ten months. After that, I’ll quit molesting you. You never have to meet with me or Sergeant Sanders, unless you want. I’m after additional eyes and ears, not more meetings. We know the gangs have infrastructure within the school, but we don’t know how they communicate. Despite all security measures, the schools are infested with drugs. Raids turn up stashes but few culprits. The gangs recruit soldiers within the halls, arrange hits, rumble between classes, you name it. We’re making no progress, and those gang initiation murders scare the hell out of me. If I could get some intel on the structure and hierarchy…”

“The General could be identified.”

“I’m worried about escalation, so I’m throwing myself at you. Help us find this guy. Whatever you want. You run your own show, you set the terms.”

“I enjoy Krispy Kreme doughnuts.”

She smiled. “I will hand deliver them weekly.”

“If you show up even once at the school, I’m out.”

“Understood. I was being funny. Like you.”

“I have prior obligations, so I’ll need additional days off.”

“I can arrange that with school administration.”

“No meetings. No hassles. I know your number. No reason to bother me.”

“I’ll give you space to work.” She was nodding. “All the space you want.”

“When does school start?”

“One week.”

“Okay. You’ve got me for ten months.”

Continue the story, HERE.