Innocent of Murder

Lessons in Murder, Book 11

Edale Lane

Innocent of Murder, Lessons in Murder, Book 11

By Edale Lane

Published by Past and Prologue Press

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Edited by Melodie Romeo

Cover art by Melodie Romeo

This book is a work of fiction, and all names, characters, places, and incidences are fictional or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

First Edition, 2025

Copyright © 2025 by Edale Lane

Contents

Acknowledgements

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

More Books By Edale Lane

About the Author

Acknowledgements

I wish to thank my beta readers for their timely and invaluable contributions: Marguerite Schaffron, Debbie Fahlman, Cathy Ramadei, Roe Swierczewski, Karen Fitz, and Marybeth Shay. Appreciation also goes to my proofreader, Dione Benson, and my partner, Johanna White. Last, but not least, I thank you, the readers, for supporting my work.

1

Labor Day, September 2, Roanoke, VA

Jenna danced her fingers across Randi’s bare skin between teal bamboo sheets. “Are you ready for round two?” Her blue eyes sparkled enticingly at Randi on a lazy holiday Monday morning. Bandit, the monarch cat in charge of the residence, rested at the foot of the queen-sized bed, meticulously licking his white paws with complete disregard for the humans who had a bothersome tendency to rock the mattress. The astute German shepherd, Byron, lay across the threshold, ensuring no one came or went without his consent. At the sound of Jenna’s voice, he lifted his head, ears perked in expectation; when no one got up, he stretched back out with an audible sigh.

“I’m game if you are,” Randi replied with teasing allure, her hands already claiming Jenna’s flesh. “I don’t get you all to myself often enough, and I can’t believe you got the day—”

In a flash, Jenna clamped her hand over Randi’s mouth. “What—are you crazy? Don’t even say it! Supposed to be a genius and yet she tempts fate like that,” she added sidelong to the cat.

A muffled sound emanated from Randi’s lips beneath Jenna’s palm, sounding a little like, “I’m sorry,” while kissing her hand and nipping at her fingers. Before Jenna could respond, Randi flipped her over, claiming the high ground. Medium-length light-brown hair cascaded around her shoulders haloing an interesting face of equal parts sweetness and mischief. The glow of warm brown eyes that could transform Jenna’s shittiest day into a Macy’s Parade shined at her, begging for forgiveness. The sheet slid down the line of her back, revealing the most awesome, irresistible nude body straddling her.

The summer had flown by in a whirl of bliss and an unending honeymoon high. Randi’s surprise of whisking Jenna off to Disney World, where she could enjoy days of fun and wonder she had missed as a child, had been inspirational. It was the most fun Jenna could ever remember having, probably because Randi was there to narrate and entertain her with tanker loads of trivia when they waited in lines for thrilling rides and amazing attractions. A plush Thumper the Rabbit sat in a chair by the window smiling at them as proof while they enjoyed their adult entertainment.

They found their rhythm with ease, blood pumping, hearts beating, with every sensual motion, each tantalizing touch on key in a blending harmony that was both fresh and familiar. Randi had shared her pleasure at perfecting the art of pleasing Jenna while Jenna reveled in sending Randi into spasms of ecstasy. The giving and taking were both delicious to the point of delirium, and Jenna understood it was more than carnal, more than hormones and chemicals reacting to produce a release. It was what Randi would dub a spiritual experience. OK, maybe it didn’t reach that pinnacle every time, but sex with her wife was always satisfying, leaving Jenna with the full-on impact of being loved.

“Sometimes I feel as if I’ve always known you,” Randi confessed in a euphoric stupor, lying tangled in Jenna’s embrace, “that long before I met you, you were there with me, waiting to be discovered. Then, when I did, I somehow knew we were meant for each other. It’s hard to explain, but when we’re connected like this—body, heart, and soul—it’s like we’re puzzle pieces that fit together to create something beautiful.”

How could Jenna respond to something like that? Randi always came out with the most profound, poetic ways to express bottomless emotions that transformed Jenna into a puddle of mushy sentiment for which she had no words. So, she replied with a deep, passion-filled kiss, caressing the cheek that occupied the pillow near her own.

Conjuring a response, Jenna admitted, “I can’t imagine what my life would be like, who I’d be, without you. I bet I’d be a mess, still running in a hamster wheel, repeating day after day, doing my job to perfection because it was all I had. Because of you, I have friends, am back in touch with my family, and have the most amazing wife.”

“You’d have friends without me and might have gotten back in your family’s good graces,” Randi modestly proposed as she trailed light fingertips on intricate paths over Jenna’s skin.

A laughing snort popped from Jenna’s mouth. “I’d have probably been stupid enough to try getting back together with Tori so she could rip out my heart again. I’d be a blubbering idiot, and, while I might have gotten Vince cleared of his murder charge, I’d never have been in a stable enough place emotionally to forgive everything and put it all behind me. You’ve helped me grow as a person, Randi, and I don’t mean the five extra contentment pounds from your cooking, no matter how healthy you try to make every meal.” She smiled, eyes twinkling at the woman she loved.

“Me, helped you?” Randi scoffed and smacked Jenna’s lips with an appreciative kiss. “If you hadn’t shown an interest in me, I’d probably still be in the closet, living vicariously through my sapphic romance novels, wishing for Princess Charming to come and whisk me away on her valiant steed. I don’t think I’d ever have been ready to put myself out there. I needed to rescue you so you could rescue me. Does that make any sense?”

Warm satisfaction rippled through Jenna’s already tingling, overloaded system. “It makes perfect Randi sense, and that’s the only kind I’m interested in. I’d suggest we never get out of this bed, but, unfortunately, nature is calling.”

Randi laughed. “Pesty nature! Why don’t I make breakfast and, when we’re done with all the mundane necessities, we come right back here to pick up where we left off?”

“Brilliant plan!” Jenna exclaimed and headed to the ensuite.

***

Tuesday, September 3

School at Roanoke Community College was in its second week for the fall semester, and Randi was teaching all the same classes as last year, only the schedule was slightly different. She had no night classes—which suited her just fine—although she had an eight o’clock on Tuesday and Thursday mornings that required some early rising. Despite a crowded morning and early afternoon timetable, Randi finished sooner in the day, allowing her more time at her dojo for her youth class. No, helping Sensei Yoshito Moro didn’t pay, but it covered her membership fees, and she had the honor and prestige of being his assistant, which meant more to her than money.

Situated on the edge of downtown, House of Kime dojo presented a peaceful, inviting atmosphere. Live plants and artistically-painted wall fans adorned the entry, with a small office set off to one side and restrooms to the other. The cushioned, mat-covered gym floor consumed most of the long building with its narrow, street-facing front. The upper belts practiced at the far end with Moro while Randi gathered with her beginners near the front. There were benches for students to sit to rest or put on their sparring gear and chairs along the front wall for parents or friends to sit and watch.

“Forward punch, advance, punch, kick,” Randi called out. Her group of nine boys and girls, ranging in age from six to thirteen, formed into two lines, executing each basic move as she called them out. They had already done their stretches and warm-ups and wouldn’t be sparring as this was a forms day. Randi would take them through elementary stances, blocks, punches, and kicks, then they would practice their forms to prepare for their belt tests. For that, she divided them into two groups—the white belts and the yellow belts. Her little six-year-old proudly took his spot with the taller yellow belts.

“Here, Wally, stand by me,” invited Chelsea Simpson, a twelve-year-old girl who’d started karate about the time Randi and Jenna returned from their honeymoon in May. Tall and gangly with ginger hair, a face blooming with freckles, and glasses held in place by an athletic band, Chelsea might not have looked like much to the passing observer, but she was as smart as a whip and a dream to work with.

The little boy hopped in line between her and her friend, Anna Chavez. At thirteen, the brown-eyed brunette had more developed breasts and hips than Chelsea but was at least four inches shorter at five feet even. Randi suspected Chelsea would reach her height of five-nine or more before she was done; she couldn’t promise the same for Anna, especially given her Hispanic parentage.

“Who knows the yellow belt form backward and forward?” Randi asked, anticipating who would answer.

Chelsea’s eager hand waved in the air. “Me, me!”

Randi laughed. “OK, Chelsea, let’s see it.” When the twiggy student ran through all the moves without a mistake, Randi said, “All right. Make sure everyone in your group has it down pat while I work with the white belts over here.”

Moving to the other students, Randi took up a position in front of them, placed her right fist in her left palm over her head, and bowed. The kids mirrored her actions. “Now, let’s go through it together with you watching me and do what I do. After a few practice run-throughs, we’ll try the form one at a time. Remember, you don’t have to go fast. Precision is more important than power.”

“But power doesn’t hurt!” proclaimed an eager little boy, spurring the others to giggle.

“No, it doesn’t. Now, stance. Breathe. High block, punch. Step. Low block, punch.”

She led them through the basic sequence to refresh the students’ memories and then focused on ensuring each performed the moves correctly, gently adjusting incorrect hand or foot positions. Even grandmasters started somewhere.

Near the end of their hour, she called, “Everyone back together for our final exercise.”

“Are we going to break boards?” Wally asked in excited animation. “You said we could try to break boards, and I really want to. Look!” he pointed. “My mama’s here and everything.”

“I want to too,” agreed Chelsea, her green eyes lit like Christmas lights. “I’ve been watching the higher belts, and I want to try. Wouldn’t it be the best?” she asked, turning to Anna and grabbing her hand. Anna merely lowered her chin and blushed.

Randi adopted a serious countenance. “Who wants to break a board?” At least half of the hands shot up. “I don’t want anyone to hurt themselves. The first time students try to break a board, they often end up with bruised or scraped knuckles, and I don’t want that for any of you. There’s no shame in waiting until you’ve practiced with bags and targets longer.”

“Mama?” Wally called, whipping his head over his shoulder. “Can I try, please?”

“Not today, dear,” his mother replied, shaking her head. “We have to leave now to pick up dinner for your dad. Maybe after you get your orange belt, and Dad will want to be here to see you. Let’s wait, OK?”

A deep glower fell over his fair face, and he swayed from side to side, gripping his small hands together. “OK,” he muttered, then glanced up with renewed energy. “Dad wants to see me do it?”

“Of course he does,” his mother called back. “I’m sorry, Dr. McLeod, but I need to take Wally now. I don’t mean to disturb your class.”

“No problem. We’ll let Wally break a board when his father can be here to watch.” As mother and son hurried out, an angry-looking man Randi recognized as their house nemesis, Bruce Griffin—the owner and head honcho of Strike Zone, the cross-town karate school—stormed in past them, unapologetically bumping little Wally in his haste.

Randi frowned but refused to let his irritating presence interfere with the conclusion of her class. “Chelsea, are you sure you want to try?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she affirmed. “Absolutely.” Her look of unyielding determination could rival that of a warlord bent on world domination. Randi stepped away to open a storage bin and returned with three twelve-by-eight-inch soft, white pine breaking boards. She set two on the nearest bench.

Standing before Chelsea, Randi gripped the board horizontally in front of her by the sides, not its end grain. It was a smooth, sanded board sold specifically for this purpose. Bracing herself with her legs—and the board extended as far as her long arms could reach—Randi said, “To do this correctly, do not think about hitting the wood. Envision a point four to six inches beyond the board. Now, aim for that spot—through the board. Let’s take a few practice punches at the air first.”

In full concentration mode, Chelsea rehearsed her strike, swinging her hip into the motion the way Randi had taught her.

“Gather your energy from your foot, up your leg, through your knee, your thigh, good hip thrust, and all the way up your torso, shoulder, arm, wrist, and fist. You don’t punch with your arm, but your whole body.”

Chelsea practiced again, drawing her left fist back as her right one thrust out in a straight line.

“And that’s all there is to it,” Randi stated. “Do it just like that, forgetting the board is even here, and hit the invisible spot beyond it.”

Chelsea nodded. “I’m ready.” The skinny girl with grit and gumption executed her strike with textbook perfection, snapping the board in two along its grain. The other kids cheered.

“Did it hurt?” Randi asked, taking Chelsea’s hand to check her knuckles.

“Didn’t feel a thing,” she answered in wonder, her pride and enthusiasm beaming from her smiling face.

Anna rushed over to look at her unmarked knuckles and regarded her with awe. “That was fabulous!”

Randi was about to ask who wanted to go next when loud shouts from across the room distracted her and the students, filling their little hearts with worry tangible enough for Randi to sense it.

“You’re going down, Moro,” Griffin roared. The bigger man jabbed a finger at Randi’s sensei, arousing her protective instincts. The intruder stood six feet tall, bulged with muscles, and was around Randi’s age, while Yoshito was in his fifties, maybe five-foot-six, and considerably lighter. She realized none of that mattered. Moro, a fourth-degree black belt, looked completely unconcerned. Randi knew he could flip a blustery show-off such as Griffin like a quarter and land him on his tail; she also understood he had too much grace to do so.

“The competition will be fair, and we’ll see who wins,” Master Moro answered calmly.

“Fair? Like it’s fair for your kid Kenji to compete in the Special Olympics?” he sneered. “He may technically only have one arm, but, with his prosthetic, he has two, and he was already a black belt before he lost the damn thing. I say your son is a fraud and a cheat. He doesn’t deserve that medal. And that’s not all, Moro—I have grievances with you! You hear me, old man?”

Unfortunately, Randi suspected the whole neighborhood could hear him. The students had ceased practicing, changing clothes, or whatever they had been doing to stare dumbfounded at this ridiculous malcontent’s rant.

“I have done nothing to you, Mr. Griffin,” Yoshito answered politely.

“August King,” Griffin growled. A trickle of sweat carved a path down his temple from fade-cut brown hair that gathered on top of his crown, and his cheeks reddened like embers.

“What about him?”

Randi lifted her chin, proud of the cool way her sensei dealt with this moron. Yoshito Moro is a great man, while that arrogant Bruce Griffin is nothing more than a glory-seeking buffoon.

“It figures he’d come crawling to you after I kicked him out of my superior school,” Griffin mocked. “He’s stuck at brown belt, and I swear he’s going downhill. He’ll never advance, and his lack of drive will reflect on you. I wouldn’t let him make me look like a failure.”

“I find young August to possess many fine qualities,” Moro countered pleasantly. “Perhaps you did not offer him the appropriate motivation to excel. Is there anything else you wanted, other than to complain and make veiled accusations that I am somehow responsible for your students’ shortcomings?”

“How dare you!”

In a rage, Griffin shifted his body into an attack stance and thrust out a foot in a sidekick aimed at Yoshito’s chest. Randi’s fury burst to the surface, but she needn’t do a thing. Sensei Moro pivoted to the side, allowing Griffin’s foot—still wearing the shoe tradition dictated he should have removed at the door—to sail safely past him and clomp ineffectively to the floor. When Griffin let loose a flurry of punches, Yoshito deflected them all with the slightest effort.

“Perhaps you would like to draw me as your sparring opponent at the next tournament?” Yoshito suggested.

Curling his upper lip, Griffin turned his back as if to slink away. Then, catching everyone by surprise, he spun into a lightning-fast flying leap, landed beside Yoshito, squatted, and struck out a leg, sweeping him off his feet before he could react. Randi had to quell a powerful impulse to rush to her master’s rescue. That would have been too humiliating for him, even if it would have filled her with immense satisfaction.

“Sensei!” exclaimed a youthful, red belt student, who took two steps in his direction.

“You should leave now,” demanded a stern, teenage black belt who tensed and stepped toward the intruder.

“Yeah, I’m going.” The derisive look on Griffin’s face and his belittling tone made Randi want to pummel him. “I don’t want to spend another minute in this sappy place that stinks of weakness.”

Maybe I’ll draw his name for sparring in the next tournament, she hoped.

Randi’s students huddled near her, some overtaken with fright. Chelsea and Anna glared at Griffin as he obliviously stomped past them.

“He’s mean,” commented one of Randi’s younger charges.

“Why does he act like that?” Chelsea asked.

“Because he has no understanding,” Randi answered. She glanced at the clock. “Don’t worry about the likes of Bruce Griffin,” she told her students. “We’re out of time today. Thursday afternoon is grappling, and Friday is sparring. We’ll do boards again another day.”

“But, Randi, I’m scared.” The youngest girl in the group peered up at her with sad eyes. “That mean man knocked Sensei Moro down. Think what he could do to me!”

Crouching to eye level with the child, Randi laid a hand on her shoulder and met her gaze. “Don’t be afraid, Whitney. He’s just a silly blowhard who’s acting like a baby because he didn’t get his way. If that mean man tries to knock you down, I’ll kick him into next week, and that’s a promise. OK?”

Whitney wrapped her arms around Randi’s neck in a hug. “Thanks. You’re the best.”

Once she had her white and yellow belts out the door, Randi jogged to the other end of the gym. “Master Moro, are you all right? What did that joker want, anyway?”

“I’m fine, Randi,” he answered. “Only my pride was hurt. And you shouldn’t use belittling terms to describe Mr. Griffin; he’s a master too.”

Master, my ass, she thought, but answered, “Yes, sir. I will learn to control my tongue. But he shouldn’t have attacked Kenji like that. He had no right or reason.”

“Men like Griffin believe they have every right. It saddens me, but each person must choose their own path,” Yoshito explained. “I noticed your students,” he added with a smile. “You are teaching them very well, but don’t let on so plainly that you favor Chelsea.”

Randi’s mouth dropped. “I, what? I don’t favor any student over the others. I care equally for them all.”

“True,” Yoshito said with a knowing grin. “But she reminds you of you at her age, and you give her that extra something because of it. Oh, it’s all right. Go home and cook a wonderful meal for your detective. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

Randi left, pondering his words. Do I think Chelsea reminds me of myself? Maybe, but I do love all my students and try to treat them equally. Sometimes I wonder, though; will I ever have a child of my own?

2

Randi sprinkled fresh, chopped parsley on top of the dish of potato stroganoff she had just taken out of the oven and placed it beside the bowl of tossed salad. With Jenna complaining about her five extra pounds and Randi determined to avoid the mid-thirties spread that assailed so many women in the faculty, she opted for potatoes instead of pasta—more vitamins, fewer carbs. In the fridge chilled a low-calorie Jell-O mold infused with fruit canned in water, not syrup, for dessert.

“Honey, I’m home!” chimed Jenna. Byron ran to greet her while Bandit lounged atop the back of the recliner chair, languidly curling his tail in a hypnotic pattern, waiting for her to come to him.

“Perfect timing,” Randi replied as her lips bent upward in a smile of greeting. Slinking toward her was the sexiest woman alive—a perfect blend of curves and muscle in a compact, Italian sports car package, with short black hair and brilliant blue eyes. And she was all Randi’s. “Dinner is ready. Shall I serve the plates now?”

“I can do that,” Jenna offered. She looped her arms around Randi’s waist and met her mouth with a kiss. “You can feed the animals if you haven’t already.”

“Don’t let them fool you,” Randi advised with a smirk. “They’ve been fed; only Bandit’s been turning his nose up at regular kibble ever since you treated him with that fancy, flavorful stuff in the can. Now I’m going to have to buy more of it to keep his highness placated.”

Jenna rolled her eyes and glared at the cat. “Spoiled brat,” she quipped. “That’s what I get for doing something nice for you.” Returning her attention to Randi, she brushed a contrite kiss to her lips. “Sorry. Now, you go sit down and tell me about your day.”

For an instant, Randi wondered what else Jenna was about to apologize for. “Me? Tell you about my day? What about yours? You weren’t shot at again, were you?” Suspicion squirmed in her gut, and she gave Jenna a side-eyed look.

“No, no,” Jenna laughed and shooed Randi toward the dinette set. “It was rather dull and uneventful, if you can believe it.”

Randi wasn’t sure she did but sat at the table anyway. “School was normal,” she began. “I’m still trying to learn everyone’s names, and the eight o’clock is going to be a challenge, but something disturbing happened at karate this afternoon.”

“Oh?” Jenna’s face filled with curiosity and concern as she brought the plates to the table and slid in across from Randi. “Did someone get hurt?”

“Not exactly.” Randi filled her in on every detail about the bully, Bruce Griffin, the confrontation, Yoshito’s exemplary composure, and her students being frightened.

“What a jerk!” Jenna exclaimed after swallowing a bite. “By the way, this is delicious.” She pointed her fork at the main course. “It would be good paired with a nice, dry white.”

“It would,” Randi agreed, “but, since we’re watching calories, you only get one drink, and I figured you’d want it closer to bedtime.”

Jenna frowned. “Doesn’t dry mean less sugar? And when did we decide on just one drink? I mean, doesn’t it matter how big it is, what’s in it? Two light beers are the same as one regular, aren’t they? And wine really doesn’t count. I remember your speech on the healthy, antioxidant content in wine, especially certain reds. So, to be fair, wine counts as health food.”

With an amused laugh spilling from Randi’s lips, she jerked a napkin to her mouth to catch any morsel that might be expelled. “You are so precious! But it still has calories. Baby, you can eat and drink whatever you want—just don’t complain to me when your pants get too tight.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” Jenna sighed in resignation. “You’re so good to me. I don’t like this getting older stuff where you have to watch every bite or blow up like a balloon. I get plenty of exercise. Why isn’t it enough?”

“Changes in hormones, metabolism, stress—”

“Hey, I’m a lot less stressed with you around,” Jenna interjected. “I think worrying about everything must have burned off calories and, now that I’m more content, those calories are just sticking around. It isn’t fair.”

“I agree,” Randi announced, tapping the heel of her fork on the table for emphasis. “I used to be so skinny, if I turned sideways people couldn’t see me. Now I’m—”

“Perfectly muscled and proportioned,” Jenna concluded. “So, a jealous jerk tried to bully your sensei in his own dojo in front of his students and nobody jumped his ass?”

Randi giggled. “No. Our school is too classy for that. I’m just glad Kenji wasn’t there.”

“What’s his story?”

“Master Moro and his wife have one child. The tradition isn’t as strict in Japanese families as in Chinese families, but, for whatever reason, Kenji is their only child. He’s twenty-five now, helps run House of Kime, and is engaged to be married. About four years ago, he was in a terrible motorcycle accident—one reason I worry about you, and, yes, I know, I bought you the infernal thing—and he lost his right arm. He wears a top-of-the-line robotic prosthetic that doesn’t look real but functions perfectly well. When he was in physical therapy, he met Bret Carroll, a disabled veteran who lost her leg to an IED in Afghanistan. She has a prosthetic too and plays soccer and volleyball. They are such an amazing couple, and Griffin has no reason to berate Kenji and accuse him of cheating.”

Inside, Randi itched to bring up the subject of children with Jenna. Her heart was still tied in knots over comforting her students, tender mush from watching little Wally’s expressions shift from pouty disappointment to keen hopefulness … distressed Whitney, hugging her, and Chelsea, who reminded Randi of herself, all awkward determination. The events of the afternoon had reawakened motherly instincts that Randi tried so hard to keep locked away. She had to wait for Jenna and not push this matter.

“I’m just glad it resolved peacefully, and Murphy didn’t have to drive over there and break up a fight. This dinner was delicious, sweetie. What’s on tap for the rest of the evening?”

Randi smiled. Jenna was enough. Even without a child in their lives, Randi was inexplicably happy. “Byron needs his ball time, but then does snuggling and TV sound good?”

“It sounds wonderful. I’m in a great mood, seeing nobody got killed on my watch today,” Jenna replied. “I’ll shower while you play with Byron, and we can meet on the couch with that drink you promised me. Popcorn?”

“Popcorn?” Randi scoffed. “You just stuffed yourself with a big dinner.”

Jenna’s face morphed into disappointment. “Half of it was salad and—besides—the fiber in popcorn offsets the carbs so it’s practically carb-free.”

“If I air pop it and you don’t go overboard on the butter.” When hot-tempered, tough-as-steel Jenna looked so adorably soft and vulnerable, Randi couldn’t say no.

***

Wednesday, September 4

Jenna, still floating on her blissful newlywed cloud, was driving into work that morning when a call came in from dispatch. “Lieutenant Ferrari, please report to Strike Zone in Arrington Court, Belle Avenue Northeast. A body has been discovered, possible homicide victim. M.E. is on the way.”

“I’ll head over right now.” Jenna hung up and called Detective Trisha Jamison. “Hey, meet me at this address,” Jenna informed her partner, “and call in the rest of the team. If this is a homicide, we’ve got to get it right.”

Jenna recalled the name “Strike Zone” as the dojo from Randi’s story last night about the bully Bruce Griffin and his run-in with her sensei. A wad of dread knotted in Jenna’s gut as she had a bad feeling about this.

Sargeant Detective Ron Owens had arrived first and was talking to the officer on the door when Jenna pulled up. Two police cruisers and the coroner’s van lined the street parking in front of the building. It boasted a black, red, and white sign out front with the logo of a martial artist performing a high kick and the name Strike Zone in dynamic block print. If the construction wasn’t new, it had been recently renovated, displaying a sharp, modern design and fresh paint. One officer directed traffic past the scene while another filled Owens in. Jenna joined them.

“What have we got?”

“Dead guy’s the owner,” Owens replied. The linebacker-sized detective wore his dull, light gray suit coat over a white shirt as usual, but had left off the tie, anticipating the afternoon heat, no doubt. It appeared to Jenna he’d gotten a haircut since she saw him yesterday.

“A Mr. Bruce Griffin,” he added, glancing at his notes. “Dr. Valentine is in with him now. I sent Bauman to see if he could find any security cam footage or anything. An employee called 911 when he arrived this morning and found the body. I’ve taken his statement.”

“Good. How’d everybody beat me here?” Jenna questioned.

Owens shrugged his broad shoulders. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“I’m here, boss,” called the impeccably gorgeous, model-worthy Trisha Jamison. The sun warmed her strawberry-blonde ponytail as she trotted up the sidewalk in a short-sleeved summer blouse and cool slacks. Taking inventory, Jenna glanced down at her typical blue cotton button-up shirt and black pants with boots. OK, so even out of uniform, she looked like a cop. So be it.

“You’re with me,” Jenna instructed. “Get pictures of everything.”

Entering through the front with a bouncing Jamison on her heels, Jenna examined the look and feel of the dojo. Bold reds and serious blacks decked an entry void of plants or cushioned chairs, bearing a military vibe. Inspirational posters proclaimed mottos such as, “Unleash your power,” and “Failure is not an option.” The wall separating the office from the lobby bore shelves displaying dozens of trophies with Griffin’s name, along with certificates, diplomas, and other memorabilia geared toward informing the public that the owner excelled at winning. It all fit with what Randi had said about the man and his ego.

Passing through the lobby, Jenna joined Dr. Valentine beside the body of a White male in his mid-thirties with medium brown hair in a stylish cut, bulging muscles anyone with sense wouldn’t wish to challenge, wearing a black gi tied with a black belt, lying face down on the floor. The position of the body, accompanied by no large blood pools or overt injuries, revealed nothing pointing to a cause or manner of death.

“Good morning, Dr. Valentine,” Jenna acknowledged in a grim tone to match the circumstances. “Can you tell me anything about what happened here? Could he have had a heart attack?”

“Mr. Griffin indeed expired of cardiac arrest, as we all do,” the M.E. answered in a tutorial tone. “It’s what caused the heart to stop beating that’s up to us to determine. So far, I can tell you that his time of death was around nine p.m. last evening. I’ll need to perform a full autopsy to determine the cause and manner of his death, but, for now, I’ll state for the record, suspicious. One doesn’t expect a young man in his excellent physical condition to simply drop dead of heart failure.”

Dr. Valentine stretched to his full height, towering above Jenna’s more diminutive stature, and pushed his black glasses up on his nose. He was older and more experienced than Jenna, and, after working with him for years, she trusted his instincts and expertise without question.

“My information says he’s married,” Jenna noted, her brow furrowing. “I wonder why his wife didn’t report him missing.”

The coroner lifted an empty palm. “That’s for you to discover, Lieutenant. I’ll get right on this autopsy as soon as I have him back in the morgue. I have a sneaking suspicion the media will take an interest in this one,” he added with a perturbed grimace.

“Thank you. I’ll be by in a few hours to see what you’ve uncovered.” Two attendants wheeled in a gurney and Jenna left them to their job. “Did you get a picture of him lying there?” she asked Jamison.

“First thing. Hey, this isn’t Randi’s dojo, is it?” Her voice brimmed with the same concern that manifested in her expression.

“No,” Jenna answered while harboring unspoken worry. The argument Randi told her about didn’t bode well if this was a murder. “Their cross-town rival. I hope this guy turns out to have had an undiagnosed heart defect, but, for now, we have to treat it like a homicide. I want the CSIs in here to comb this gym for every hair, fiber, and fingerprint, so we can see what doesn’t belong. Dr. Valentine,” she called out, catching his attention as two guys in scrubs lifted a heavy body bag onto the gurney. He turned a curious expression to her.

“Make sure his clothes are bagged and sent to Dr. Gupta for analysis,” she instructed. “If he was involved in a confrontation, foreign DNA or other evidence could be present.”

“I’ll make sure there’s no cross-contamination on our end,” he assured her.

“So, I called the department,” Jamison supplied, “and they’re sending Wilcox and Davenport over for evidence collection. If there’s anything probative, they’ll find it.” Jenna recalled Wilcox’s consistent record of excellence and Davenport had also been helpful in the psychic’s attempted murder case.

She nodded. “Good. Let’s go talk to Mrs. Griffin. Death notifications are always hard, but I have questions for her. Owens?” Jenna prompted as she and Jamison exited the dojo. “We’ll coordinate with you back at the office. Make sure to ask that employee if anything is missing—cash, equipment, whatever. I’ve no idea what someone would steal in a place like this, but we must consider all angles.”

“Sure, Ferrari,” he complied. “I’ll go ask him now.”

Jenna followed Owen’s gaze to a pale-looking fellow sitting on a hard plastic lobby chair with his head hanging, leaning his elbows on his knees. She turned the sign on the door from “open” to “closed” and headed for her car.

3

Jenna accessed information on Griffin’s wife from her car and called her place of employment. Teresa Griffin, age twenty-eight, worked as a waitress at a local diner from noon until eight p.m. on weekdays. Assuming she’d likely be home at nine-thirty, she sent Jamison the address. Jenna hated using two vehicles and found on the drive over that she missed conversing with Trisha. Usually, they’d discuss their current case, but personal stuff had crept into their dialog as well. It just seemed wrong, but going all the way into the station for the sole purpose of riding in the same car was ridiculous.

They both parked in front of a small house on Archbold Avenue, only a five-minute drive from Strike Zone. Rows of small, wood-frame houses stood arm’s length from each other and backed onto a wooded area. An old, gray sedan sat parked in the short driveway beside a well-maintained, green, postage stamp-sized yard. Jenna thought they must have watered their grass, comparing it to the blanched, dried-up neighboring lawns. An American flag hung from a pole affixed to the front eave of the residence. In a community where house prices could range from a hundred thousand dollars to nearly three million, this predominantly White neighborhood of older houses landed on the low side. After seeing Griffin’s martial arts school, Jenna understood where he spent his money.

“Looks like she’s home,” Jamison said as she joined Jenna in front of the house. “No kids, so I guess that’s something.”

“Yeah.”

People often presumed it was an easier notification if there were no children in the home to be left fatherless or motherless, but that wasn’t necessarily so. A spouse left alone with nobody to share their grief, no child’s welfare to focus their attention on, could feel far more desolation and loneliness. Hoping Teresa would have family or friends nearby to lean on, she pushed the doorbell.

The front door opened a crack and an eye, partially draped by a sweep of long, straight brunette hair, peeked out. “May I help you?” asked a timid voice. The brown eye darted anxiously between Jenna and Jamison and the woman bit her bottom lip.

Jenna held up her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Detective Ferrari and this is Detective Jamison of the Roanoke Police Department. Are you Teresa Griffin?” She nodded. “Ms. Griffin, may we come in?”

“I suppose so,” the woman answered hesitantly and opened the door.

When she simply stood to one side as if awaiting instructions, Jamison pleasantly suggested, “Why don’t we sit in the living room here so we can talk?”

“OK.” Teresa, dressed in cotton Capri pants and a pink flared top, moved into the front room and sat demurely on the edge of a wingback armchair, allowing Jenna and Jamison to sit where they wished. She didn’t ask questions or display any emotion other than nerves, which set Jenna’s wheels spinning.

“Ms. Griffin, do you know where your husband is?” Jenna began, keenly studying her reaction.

She shook her head. “He might be at his karate studio. Bruce is a third-degree black belt, and he runs the Strike Zone Martial Arts Academy.”

“Weren’t you concerned when he didn’t come home last night?” Jamison asked, exhibiting enough concern for them both.

“Sometimes he doesn’t come home,” Teresa answered, squeezing her fingers together in her lap. “Bruce might go out to a bar with his friends after classes at night. He doesn’t always tell me what he’s doing. He says it is none of my business, that I should just be ready when he does come home. It’s a wife’s duty to serve her husband,” she commented, as no doubt she had been trained, “and not to question his affairs or authority.”

“Do you suspect your husband of having an affair?” Jenna asked, baffled by the century-old values Teresa appeared to be espousing. “Could he have been with another woman on occasions when he didn’t come home?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Her demeanor became more agitated. “Bruce is the head of the house, and he knows best. I don’t believe he would break his vows because it might reflect badly on him if people found out.”

“So, the opinions of others are important to Mr. Griffin,” Jamison surmised. “He likes to be respected and looked up to.”

“Yes.” Teresa’s face brightened. “We must keep up appearances in the community, so his reputation suffers no blemishes. We keep a neat house, a neat yard, and don’t rock the boat. I don’t know why you would ask questions about my husband, detectives. Bruce would never break the law. Why don’t you call him? I can give you his cell number and he can answer your questions. I shouldn’t speak for him. He’s the head of the house.”

Jenna exchanged a glance with Jamison and gave her a nod.

“Ms. Griffin,” Jamison addressed in her naturally empathetic tone, “we are so sorry to inform you that your husband was found dead this morning in his studio. We are so sorry for your loss.”

Teresa gasped, and her hand flew to her chest. For an instant, she looked stunned, not daring to breathe. Jenna watched shock, fear, and bewilderment pass over her face before something akin to relief took their place.

“Bruce is dead?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jenna confirmed. “The medical examiner is with him right now trying to determine what killed him, and, because it was an unattended death, the police department is required to conduct a preliminary investigation to rule out the possibility a crime was committed. Did your husband suffer from any medical conditions?”

With her mouth hanging agape, Teresa shook her head. “No. He was as healthy as a horse. He had a cold maybe a year ago, but nothing serious. His body was his temple, you know?”

“And you’ve been married how long?” Jenna followed up.

“Eight years.”

“No children?” Jamison inquired.

The woman blinked and shook her head. “I had a couple of miscarriages. Bruce wanted a son, but there’s clearly something wrong with me. I must have a weak womb or something.”

“Was Mr. Griffin angry with you over the miscarriages?” Jenna asked sympathetically. Her opinion of her victim—if he was one—sank lower by the minute.

“It was my fault,” she repeated. “I don’t know what I did wrong, but I must have messed up somehow.”

“That’s not true,” Jenna declared with no small measure of bite in her tone. Taking a breath to grab hold of her emotions, she continued, “Women can do everything right and still have a miscarriage. You cannot blame yourself, Ms. Griffin, and neither should anyone else.”

Teresa reverted to the topic of the notification. “Is Bruce really dead? Are you sure? He’s not coming home?”

“No, ma’am,” Jamison consoled. “He won’t be coming home. But after a while, you can come to the morgue and see him if you like. Is there someone we can call for you? Do you have a friend or relative nearby?”

The widow sat mute for a minute, her eyes fixed on an empty spot. “I haven’t talked to my sister in years, but she’s just over in Glenvar. We lost touch—her busy with her kids and all. Sometimes I talk to Sharon, Bruce’s friend Gunner’s wife. She might help me. I have lots of arrangements to make.” Raising lost eyes to Jenna, she admitted, “I don’t know what to do. Bruce always handled everything.”

“Did he have a life insurance policy?” Jenna asked. “That would be a good place to start—get it rolling so you can pay for his funeral.”

She cocked her head at Jenna as her gaze wandered the room. “I don’t know.”

Jenna felt all kinds of sorry for this woman. It was obvious Bruce bullied and controlled her, manipulated her with guilt and blame to keep her in line while he did as he pleased. But his treatment of her also gave her a motive to strike back. Maybe she’d finally had enough of being his Stepford wife and wanted a life of her own.

“Ms. Griffin, I have to ask,” she prefaced. “Where were you last night between eight and ten o’clock?”

“I got off work at the diner at eight and had to be home with supper ready by nine-fifteen,” she explained. “Bruce’s last adult class ends at nine and then he changes clothes, locks up, and is home by nine-fifteen. Dinner must be on the table hot, ready to eat at nine-fifteen.”

“So, you were here alone from the time you returned home from work?” Jenna rephrased.

Teresa lifted a haunted look to her and blinked. “I was home from eight-twenty until you arrived, and I’m still home. Detectives, what do I do now? I don’t know what to do.”

“Call your sister and your friend, Sharon,” Jamison directed, instinctively knowing the woman was accustomed to being told what to do. “They will come and help you figure it all out.” She placed a card on the wooden coffee table next to a miniature bonsai tree growing from a ceramic pot. “This is my number. Call me if you need anything.”

“That was the oddest interview I’ve ever been privy to,” Jamison admitted to Jenna once they were outside, standing between their cars. By then, the sun was beating down from a cloudless sky and reflecting off the glass and metal surfaces. Jenna wished she had her sunglasses on.

“Odd doesn’t begin to describe it,” Jenna confirmed. “Do you think she’s just very simple-minded or that he twisted her into some sort of automaton to do his bidding without question?”

“I can look into her background back at the office to find out if she was in special ed or something, but I’d bet he convinced her she’s so worthless that nobody but him would have her, and she’d be lost without him. That way, he has a dependable wife afraid to think for herself to do his laundry, cook his meals, and keep his house while he runs around at night with whomever he pleases. If that’s the case, I can’t say I’m sorry he keeled over.”

“OK, you get on that while I go see Dr. Valentine. If he died of natural causes, I’ll chalk it up to karma. But if he was murdered, I’m afraid we’re going to have a long list of suspects.”

4

Jenna entered the criminal investigations office with Jamison upon returning from the notification. “Bauman, what’d you get?” she began without salutation. It never even occurred to her she should start with “Good morning” or any such non-work-related greeting. The lieutenant was intent on seeing this investigation come to a quick and satisfactory conclusion that would not involve Randi in any way, shape, or form.

“Strike Zone had no cameras or security system whatsoever,” he replied, spinning his desk chair around to face her.

Jenna stared at him, trying to decide what was different. “Your hair,” she guessed. It was as black as hers, only curly and much more unruly. No, that wasn’t it.

“What about it?” Ethan Bauman, technical specialist and genuine computer geek, reached a frantic hand to fluff his mane and brush a curl from his forehead.

“Something looks different about you,” she commented with a frown. Then her eyes rounded in recognition. “Where are your glasses?”

Bauman grinned and announced, “I got contact lenses. Mario says, while my glasses are cute, I have a whole new debonair ambiance without them. I’m nearsighted, but I didn’t think contacts would be as much help for my astigmatism as glasses. My optometrist said the new ones work on a whole host of issues, and I didn’t expect them to be so comfortable. I can’t even feel them, but I can still see. It’s pretty amazing. Why didn’t I do this before?”

“People get used to one thing and don’t want to change,” Owens said.

“Yeah, like you and your gray suits,” Jamison observed with a teasing grin.

“There’s nothing wrong with gray,” Owens countered defensively. “It’s a neutral color that hides dirt and doesn’t stand out.”

“Enough fashion talk,” Jenna ordered, putting an end to the distraction. “Bauman, you mean there wasn’t a camera anywhere?”

“Not inside, not on any of the doors, no security at all,” he confirmed, to Jenna’s dismay.

“Macho martial arts champion like him doesn’t think he needs a security system,” Owens offered with a casual shrug. “Besides, he may not want a video record of what goes on inside. ‘No, Mrs. Smith, Johnny didn’t hit your kid too hard. He’s just clumsy and fell and made that up.’”

“Hopefully, that’s it,” Jamison voiced with dread, “and not because he was bullying the kids.”

“But what about traffic cameras?” Jenna suggested. “Pull everything in the area. I want to see if anyone came or went around Griffin’s time of death. Probably nobody giving out parking tickets that late, but keep digging for something. Owens, what else did the employee who found the body have to say?”

“Donnie Fletcher is the only paid employee of the karate school.” Owens leaned back in his chair and referred to his notes. “The first classes don’t start until three in the afternoon—school, work, you know—but he comes in early to clean and do administrative stuff. Fletcher claims the front door was open, when usually it’s locked, but he wasn’t alarmed since sometimes Griffin drops by in the mornings. Then he saw him lying stretched out on the floor still in his practice uniform and ran to check on him. Finding the body cold, he called 911, returned to the front lobby, and fell to pieces. He spent most of our interview muttering, ‘What am I going to do?’ Then I had him go around the whole place with me, checking on what might be missing, and bingo! He said they don’t keep a lot of cash on hand, but the box was cleared out. An authentic samurai sword and a set of antique ivory nunchucks that had been on display in the lobby were gone. Mostly, all there is in there are Strike Zone T-shirts, uniforms, and sparring gear—not something a thief could sell. Fletcher gave me a picture of the sword and nunchucks that were taken, so, if someone tries to sell them at a pawnshop, they’ll be easily recognized.”

“Excellent!” Jenna praised. “Although it’s possible—if someone killed him—they kept the weapons as a collector or for sentimental reasons. Also, a thief might have wandered in through the unlocked door after he died, or he could have even given them to someone. Jamison, get onto Teresa Griffin’s background while Bauman finds me some video and Owens checks with pawn shops for someone trying to sell Japanese weapons. I’m off to the morgue.”

“We’re on it, boss!” Jamison sang out.

Since Jenna had to pass by Dr. Gupta’s lab on the way, she stopped in to speak. “Good morning, Dr. Gupta.” She remembered pleasantries this time.

The shorter, older woman in a white lab coat turned around, presenting Jenna with a pleasant expression on her tan, round face. “And good morning to you, Lieutenant Ferrari. I’ve already started running the sample taken from your victim’s clothing but, as you know, I won’t have results until tomorrow morning.”

“On top of things, as always, I see,” Jenna complimented with a grateful smile. “What was the sample?”

“Blood. I typed it first and, when it wasn’t a match for Mr. Griffin, I put it right in,” she explained. “I expect CSI Wilcox will bring me more samples to check shortly, but it would seem someone bled on your victim. Now, this may not be indicative of an altercation, as anyone engaged in martial arts could accidentally be splattered with someone else’s blood while sparring, but we can put the results together with other information to determine if it’s relevant to his death.”

“Thanks, Dr. Gupta. I appreciate your haste on this one so we can determine if a crime has been committed.”

“Of course.” Looking past Jenna, Dr. Gupta said, “Oh, good, there you are, Destiny.”

“Good morning, Asita, Lieutenant Ferrari,” the experienced CSI greeted as she slid in beside Jenna on the opposite side of the counter from Dr. Gupta and her equipment. Wilcox placed a pile of sealed evidence bags on a silver tray. “I feel like Santa Claus today—gifts for you, gifts for me, and more for José in fingerprints,” she quipped.

“How thoughtful,” Dr. Gupta joked. “Just what I needed! But I don’t have any presents for you.”

Destiny Wilcox waved a rich brown hand at her. “No worries. Ferrari, you’ll want to know that, in addition to multitudes of hair and fibers, which could have come from any student or parent, I found a few drops of blood under where the body lay—around the head, I think, based on Jamison’s photos. It’s in one of those labeled bags, but it looks like your victim may have fallen to the floor and hit his head on the hardwood. You’ll have to check with Dr. Valentine for any signs of injury.”

“Thanks, Wilcox. Let me know how those hair and fibers turn out. Well, it’s down the elevator I go.”

“Lucky you!” Wilcox exclaimed. “Coolest room in the building. They say it’s going to be a hot one today.”

“Oh, are y’all keeping up with the latest tropical storm?” Dr. Gupta asked as she leaned over her counter closer to them. “Tropical Storm Mikah is in the Atlantic, expected to make cat one anytime.”

“Don’t they always hit Florida?” Jenna asked, unconcerned about hurricanes at the moment.

“No, don’t you remember that big one that landed in North Carolina a few years ago?” Wilcox answered.

“Virginia rarely gets one, but it happens,” Dr. Gupta declared.

“I’ll keep an umbrella handy,” Jenna promised. “We could use some rain anyway.”

Dr. Valentine’s autopsy was in progress when Jenna quietly entered his domain of gleaming stainless steel and soft jazz music. “Do we have a cause of death?”

The tall, New England transplant lifted his gaze from above a surgical mask, hands protected by clear latex gloves. “I’m not finished yet, but there is something to show you.”

Jenna advanced across the room to stand opposite the medical examiner at Bruce Griffin’s other side. A bright spotlight shone on his body, bare from the waist up. Valentine hadn’t yet made a Y incision and the man’s impressive chest and arm muscles lay on display.

“The bruising tells the story,” Dr. Valentine began. He pointed to the victim’s neck. “See that mark?” Jenna noticed a linear red line maybe two inches wide swiped across it. “His hyoid bone isn’t broken, but his trachea has been partially collapsed. This alone isn’t fatal, but a strike here could incapacitate or disorient him. There would be pain but most acutely a restriction to the airway, limiting his ability to breathe.”

“What could have caused that?” she asked.

“Any number of things, I suppose,” the coroner answered. “A cylindrical, wooden object like a rod or rolling pin, or, since we’re talking karate here, a person’s hand or forearm. Whatever was used was smooth, leaving no abrasions, scrapes, splinters, nicks to the skin, or the like. But that was only round one. The more vital injury came here.”

Dr. Valentine pointed to a roundish red mark in the center of the victim’s sternum. “This blow, directly over his heart, likely came from a bare foot or a fist. The lack of definitive markings indicates no rings or brass knuckles—just the bare heel or fist. Then there’s the final injury.”

Jenna’s brain spun as possibilities rained into it in torrents.

Lifting the sheet, Dr. Valentine motioned toward an insult to the groin. “This could have been the first, middle, or last hit, but, due to the lack of depth to the bruising, all three attacks occurred within minutes of death. Like the throat strike, it wasn’t fatal but could stun or incapacitate. I won’t know—until I cut in and examine the condition of the heart—if that chest punch killed him or not, but Mr. Griffin suffered several debilitating hits within minutes of his heart stopping.”

“I thought the touch of death was a myth,” Jenna voiced. “Could a blow to a muscular chest like that have actually stopped his heart from beating?”

Dr. Valentine pulled down his mask to talk more plainly. “I’ve seen a lot of crazy things on this job—including deaths for which I could never discover a cause at all. It’s my professional opinion that nothing is impossible. Unlikely, sure—which is why I will continue my investigation until I can say for certain what caused his death. If this was a murder by karate, I’d wager only a full-fledged master could pull it off.”

“Couldn’t the injuries have occurred during the normal course of karate practice?” Jenna asked hopefully. “I mean, it is a contact sport.”

Frowning, Dr. Valentine answered, “Don’t they wear pads to prevent injuries? This looks more like a real fight to me.”

“Yeah,” Jenna admitted with a sigh. “And Dr. Gupta found blood—not Griffin’s—on his gi. Hey, CSI Wilcox said she retrieved some blood from the floor under Griffin’s head.”

“Yes. I found a minor fracture to the base of the victim’s skull—just a crack.” Dr. Valentine turned Griffin’s head to the side and Jenna bent down to observe the small spot. “The lack of blood flow suggests it occurred at the same time or after his heart stopped pumping. My best guess is that he hit his head on the floor when he fell.”

“But the body was found lying face down,” Jenna pointed out.

“Maybe he rolled over, trying to get up, before collapsing,” he supposed. “Let me examine the heart, and I can tell you more.”

“Run a tox screen too,” Jenna directed, “in case he was on steroids or any drugs that could have made him vulnerable to cardiac arrest.”

“It’s already running.”

Once out of the basement, Jenna checked the time. Randi will be in class now, she considered. I need to ask her about this karate stuff and how many enemies Griffin had. At least she’s in the clear, as we were cuddled on the couch munching popcorn at his time of death. Still, this situation makes me uneasy.

5

Jenna returned to her office and shared what she had learned thus far with her team. “What about Ms. Griffin?” she asked Jamison.

“Not even a parking ticket,” Jamison replied. “Teresa White attended Patrick Henry High School after her family of four moved here from Williamsburg. Her father is a plumber, and her mother was a homemaker until her death from cancer two years ago. Mary, her sister, works as a practical nurse at Lewis Gale Medical Center. Teresa’s school records show she was an average student, graduated ten years ago, and never so much as served detention. No special classes. Her only activity seemed to be choir. She got a job as a waitress at the diner she’s at now and lived at home for two years until she married Bruce. She doesn’t have much on social media, but, from what I’ve gathered, her family attended the same conservative church as Griffin’s.”

“Who works at the same diner for ten years?” Owens scoffed. “They get the worst tips. You start there and work your way up to fancy restaurants where you can make some money. Does this woman have no ambition?”

“She didn’t seem to when we talked to her,” Jenna said with regret. “I’m surprised her husband let her have a job at all. They probably needed the extra money for groceries.”

“I think she’s been brainwashed,” Jamison added. “It’s like she thought it was her place to be Griffin’s slave or something. Anyway, none of my business. That’s all I have on her.”

“Low self-esteem,” Jenna said. “Probably stemmed from her formative years. I couldn’t blame her if she’d had enough of being dominated, except, unless she’s one terrific actress, she’s too beaten down to have even considered striking back. If she did, I’d see it happening at home, on her turf—not his. Besides, if a blow to the center of his chest stopped his heart?” Jenna shook her head. “I don’t see her having that kind of skills or strength.”

“She wasn’t a student at his dojo,” Jamison supplied. “And there’s no record of her taking martial arts in the past.”

“Bauman, what about cameras?” Jenna turned her attention to her tech guy.

“I found a security cam from a drugstore on the corner,” he reported. “The manager was happy to help. It doesn’t point at the door, so we can’t see who goes in or out, but it has a nice angle of parking in front of Strike Zone.”

Bauman transferred his monitor image to the new, big, wall screen so everyone could see clearly. “I’ll start it at eight-forty-five.” For a few minutes, nothing but the occasional car passed on the street. Then a half-dozen men and a couple of women in karate uniforms or gym clothes carrying small bags got into parked cars and drove away. At eight-fifty-seven, an old model blue sedan eased into one of the vacated parking spaces and a man got out, heading down the sidewalk toward Strike Zone. At nine-o-five, he returned to the car and drove away.

“OK, now we’re getting somewhere,” Jenna said. “Back that up. I want a close-up on the license plate and a good view of the driver.”

“What kind of car is that?” Owens asked. “It looks in awfully good shape to be so old.”

Bauman answered while he backed up the film and paused on the tag. “It’s a 1992 Nissan Cima classic with new chrome rims and—get this—that model was never sold in the U.S., so someone had it imported from Japan.”

“Thirty-two years old,” Jamison mused. “It must have sentimental value, like a gift from someone special, or the car he was driving when he proposed to his wife.”

“The license tag number comes back to a Yoshito Moro and, yeah,” Owens read from his screen, “he’s been renewing it in Roanoke County for twenty-five years.”

“Pulling him up now,” Jenna said as her fingers flew over her keyboard. She knew that name, and hearing it pierced her with dread. “Yoshito Moro, naturalized U.S. citizen, moved to the Washington D.C. area thirty years ago as a world-class martial artist. From there he briefly lived in Richmond before moving here, where he opened House of Kime Karate School. Let’s see if the image of the driver matches. He has an adult son who might have borrowed the car.”

Bauman zoomed in on a still shot, then clicked some keys to clean up the pixels. Jenna’s heart sank further when it matched Moro’s driver’s license photo. “We’re going to have to talk to him,” she groaned through gritted teeth.

“What’s wrong, Lieutenant?” Bauman asked.

“That’s Randi’s sensei. It’s still before noon,” she noted, “and his classes won’t have started. Maybe it would be better to ask him to come here than to have a bunch of police hanging around when the after-school kiddies arrive.” And Randi. Jenna couldn’t recall if she taught a class on Wednesday afternoons or not. I’ve got to talk to her. She’ll be on her lunch soon, and I’ll call.

As she tried to put her plan together, the office phone rang. “Criminal investigations, Ferrari speaking.”

“Lieutenant, we got a bulletin that you’re looking for stolen Japanese weapons.” The voice of Officer Matt Murphy, the astute Boy Scout who continued to impress Jenna with his tendency to notice all things important when on a call, filled Jenna with hope.

“Yeah, what’ve you got?”

“Officer Stone and I followed up on a tip regarding a string of robberies in Arrington Court. When the suspect ran, we chased him down and arrested him, initially for resisting, but, when our search warrant came through, we found tons of loot at his place. Among the goodies are a fancy-looking katana and some ornamental nunchucks that look and feel like real ivory. Officer Stone said I should let you know ASAP.”

“Great work, Murphy, and tell Stone I said good job. Are you bringing your suspect in now?”

“Yes. The crime scene guys just got here to package up all the stolen goods,” he reported.

“This is y’all’s arrest for the robberies, but I need to question your suspect about a probable murder,” Jenna informed him. “Put Officer Stone on.”

“Good news?” Jamison asked, optimism gleaming on her anxious face.

“I hope so.”

“Lieutenant Ferrari, the kid and I caught someone who’ll interest you,” stated Senior Patrol Officer Vicki Stone.

“That’s what he said,” Jenna affirmed. “Listen, don’t mention the murder. I want to see how many lies he spins first. Give me his name and I’ll have his life story by the time you arrive.”

***

Jenna sat across the table from Scott “Scooter” Jones, a mixed-race man, younger than he looked, with dark, shaggy hair, and who couldn’t stop biting his nails. As a professional courtesy, she invited Officer Stone to join her. Stone was much more physically intimidating than Jenna—bigger, older, with sharper features and her blonde hair up in a severe ponytail—however, there was no question about who was in charge.

“Now, Scooter, I want you to tell Lieutenant Detective Ferrari about all the stolen goods we found in your house,” Stone demanded sharply.

“Well, see, I was keepin’ ‘em for a friend of mine,” he said as his knee bounced faster than a piston in a race car engine. “I didn’t know they were stolen.” Between the dark rings under his eyes and the quiver in his hands, Jenna suspected he was an addict in need of his next fix.

“Cut the crap, Mr. Jones,” Jenna ordered. “Your colorful rap sheet tells me otherwise.” She flipped open a folder and read, “Breaking and entering, possession of illegal substances, petty theft, loitering, vandalism, and my favorite from 2016—impersonating a circus performer. Twelve years of revolving in and out of jail and that’s before touching your juvie record. Let’s try again.”

“No, really,” he pled hopefully through unfocused, bloodshot eyes. “Bennie Bennerson brought them over last week. He said he was cleanin’ out his garage and needed a place to keep ‘em. I didn’t know they was stolen.”

“Bennie Bennerson?” Jenna rolled her eyes and then looked the name up on her phone.

“What kind of stupid name is that?” Stone countered. “Scooter, if you don’t come clean with us, you’re looking at some hard time. We recovered at least five thousand dollars’ worth of loot, making this grand larceny—a felony.”

“Let’s just lock him up and let the district attorney handle it,” Jenna said to Stone. Turning to Scooter, she added flatly, “Your old high school pal, Robert Bennerson, moved to Texas last year, and guess what? He’s currently serving a three-month sentence for shoplifting. Stone, let’s charge him with murder while we’re at it and get it over with.”

“Murder?” Panic radiated off the skinny, scruffy man as his eyes popped. “Who am I supposed to have killed? None of those people were even home when—” He stopped himself before confessing to multiple counts of theft.

“Last night, Mr. Jones,” Jenna stated in a frosty tone. “Where were you?”

“Uh …” He wiped a shaky hand down his haggard face while scanning the ceiling for clues. “I think I was—yeah, that’s right—I was home because it was Tuesday.”

Jenna stared at him with a flat look and Stone bellowed, “You were home because it was Tuesday? I suppose you were alone.”

“My lady and I don’t see each other anymore,” he answered in a dismal tone.

“Are you even employed?” Stone blasted in accusation.

Scooter straightened and sniffed, trying to look more presentable. “Sometimes.”

“Mr. Jones, I honestly don’t care about the other stolen items,” Jenna admitted. “Officer Stone does, and she’s already arrested you for larceny, but two of the valuables—an authentic Japanese samurai sword and a pair of antique nunchucks—were stolen from Strike Zone Martial Arts Academy last night around the same time the owner was killed.” Although she couldn’t be certain the timing of the robbery coincided with her victim’s TOD, Scooter didn’t know that. “Since you were found in possession of those rare and distinctive items, that makes you my prime suspect in Mr. Griffin’s murder. If you’re just going to sit there and lie to me—”

“No, no, wait!” Scooter’s open palms shot up, rattling his cuffs, and he tried to swallow the terror that clung to him. “I can’t help it. Keepin’ a job is hard, and I have an addiction. If Grandma hadn’t left me her house, I’d be on the street for sure. It’s not like I want to be a criminal—it’s just that other people have so much more than me, and they aren’t gonna miss a watch here and a TV set there. Look, officers, I’ve been to rehab and tried to hold down jobs. I want to be a good citizen—I really do. But the only folks who’ll even pretend to be my friends are the ones I get high with. And Felicia dumped me when she got clean—called me weak and said she couldn’t let me drag her back into the lifestyle. So, sometimes, when I’m trippin’, I go places I shouldn’t be or accidentally break things that don’t belong to me. Occasionally—only when I’m desperate—I steal stuff I think I can sell. But I’m not a violent person. Didn’t you just read my arrest record? I never hurt no one. The guy was already lyin’ there on the floor.”

Jenna leaned forward with an intense look in her eyes. “Tell me exactly, step by step, minute by minute, what happened last night.”

Scooter settled himself, stilled his bouncing knee, and folded his hands. Staring at a spot on the table he recounted, “I was walkin’ down Belle Avenue around nine o’clock, maybe a little after, and was feelin’ the edge, you know? I only had a few twenties left, enough for one score, and then I was out, and there was still food and the electric bill. My dealer’s a decent guy and might give me some credit, but I can’t get in too deep. His boss isn’t so nice, and I don’t need broken kneecaps. So, I thought I’d check for unlocked doors. You’d be surprised how often people—even some businesses—leave their places unlocked. I figure that isn’t so bad—dude doesn’t lock his door; he must not care if anything gets lifted.”

“Uh-huh,” Jenna vocalized, disgruntled.

“The karate building’s door wasn’t locked, so I peered through the glass,” he continued. “Only one light on and it looked empty, so I slipped inside. That’s when I saw him.”

“Mr. Griffin?”

“I dunno, the big guy in the karate suit. He was just lyin’ on the floor, not movin’.”

“Did you check on him?” Stone asked. “See if he was all right? Call 911 for an ambulance?”

“No,” he answered in a disbelieving tone as he tilted his head toward her. “They would want to know what I was doin’ there, and, besides, it was none of my business. No law says you have to call for help when you see someone lyin’ on the floor. I didn’t know he was dead—maybe just passed out or somethin’. Just the same, it was scary, and I didn’t want to stick around. I just grabbed the cash and a couple of things that looked valuable and hightailed it.”

Turning a beseeching manner to Jenna, he raised his hands from the table, palms up. “You gotta believe me—he was already lyin’ there. Do I look like the kind of guy who could take on a muscled-up black belt? Really? And live?” His voice jumped an octave.

“You mean I should believe you after all the lies you opened with?” Jenna retorted. But he made an excellent point. She’d bet everything she owned that strung-out Scooter wouldn’t have lasted two seconds in a fight with Bruce Griffin, and he sure as hell wouldn’t know how to stop a man’s heart with a perfect punch to the chest … which left her with a troubling next step.

6

“Hey, sweetie!” Randi chirped when she heard Jenna’s voice on the phone. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” She set down her half-eaten sandwich and leaned back in her office chair to gaze out on a beautiful, sunny day. Students filed down sidewalks and wandered over lawns like so many ants at a picnic.

“I’ve caught a new case and wanted to give you a heads-up,” she said in a serious tone. “I also have a few professional questions.”

A prick of dread materialized in Randi’s chest as the fear someone close to her might have died shot into her mind. “Who, what?” Her breath came quick as a numbness worked its way up from her toes.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Jenna instructed. “That cross-town sensei nobody liked—Bruce Griffin—was found dead in his studio this morning. Dr. Valentine hasn’t concluded it was a homicide yet, but it’s possible. Just after talking to you and his wife, I can tell plenty of people would be happy to see him go, but the manner of death has us stumped at the moment.”

“OK,” Randi sighed, somewhat relieved. Still, bully or not, hearing of Griffin’s death was sad news—especially if he had been murdered. “You’re right. He wasn’t without enemies, but people in the martial arts community aren’t in the habit of killing each other. We like to settle our differences in other ways, like humiliating a rival in a tournament in front of everybody. How can I help?” Her brain instantly shifted to thoughts of what House of Kime might do for Griffin’s widow.

“Is there some special move in karate that can stop an opponent’s heart? I seem to recall seeing it in a movie or something.”

“You’re talking about dim mak, the fabled Touch of Death, originating in China, I believe,” Randi said, trying to wrangle her scattered thoughts. “There are books and videos that include techniques for striking certain pressure points on the body that might temporarily paralyze a limb and disable one’s opponent. Some stories are told about how death could occur, including a five-point technique and the quivering palm strike that might result in a delayed action death. Plenty of books, movies, and TV series include plotlines with this, but, in real life, there are very few documented cases. The only heart-stopping strikes I’m familiar with are from commotio cordis.”

“What’s that?” Jenna asked.

“Commotio cordis occurs when a person receives a powerful blow to their chest directly over their heart when the heart is in a certain phase of its rhythm. The sudden intracavitary pressure disrupts the heart’s normal electrical activity, followed instantly by ventricular fibrillation, complete disorganization of the heart’s pumping function, and cardiac arrest. Instances are very rare and mostly sports-related, such as a baseball player being hit over the heart with a line drive. I’ve heard of a few cases that occurred on construction jobs. Could he have been hit with something hard in the chest?”

“Dr. Valentine said the mark is consistent with a fist or heel of a bare foot, although he has to complete the autopsy to determine if Griffin had a heart defect or if drugs were involved. But is it possible a technique practiced by master martial artists could have stopped his heart?”

“Well, yeah, it’s possible,” Randi answered, bewildered. “I know a couple of black belt defense sequences that include a hit to the chest, but their intent is to incapacitate an attacker, not to kill them.”

“A sequence?” Jenna inquired. Her inflection told Randi she had mentioned something relevant. “What sequence?”

“Strike to the throat under the Adam’s apple with the forearm, followed with a punch to the sternum, then a kick in the groin,” Randi answered. “It will debilitate the enemy and remove the threat. He’d be laid on the floor for a good long time, but, unless something went terribly wrong, it shouldn’t kill him.”

“And who would know how to perform such a sequence?”

“An upper-level black belt,” she answered. “I know it, but don’t ever use it. I suppose I could if I had to, and, of course, I practice it on a dummy target. But if you’re asking if a run-of-the-mill guy who had a beef with Griffin could perform this move, the answer’s no. Jenna, is that what was used on him?”

“He has a particular bruise pattern, but, like I said,” Jenna emphasized, “we only know he got hit, not that it’s what killed him. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

“I know, I know,” she answered in frustration. “Maybe one of his advanced students got too rough with him, and, after getting hit, he suffered a heart attack.”

“That’s most likely what happened,” Jenna agreed, but her tone wasn’t convincing. “I’ve got more folks to interview this afternoon. I’ll try not to be too late getting home.”

“Jenna, you know I want to help any way I can,” Randi said earnestly. “It’s just highly unlikely a martial arts master executed dim mak on him.”

“I hear you. Love you, sweetie. Have a good rest of your day.”

Randi stared at the remainder of her sandwich in dissatisfaction. Jenna sounded far too tense during their exchange. She wasn’t telling her everything. How to wrangle out the rest?

***

An hour later, Jenna and Jamison sat with Sensei Yoshito Moro in Interview Room A while Bauman ran the recording booth and Owens waited to speak with Scooter Jones’ public defender. After processing Jones and getting him settled in his cell, Officers Stone and Murphy headed back out on patrol.

Jenna had seen Moro before, but not through cop’s eyes. He was Scooter’s polar opposite—mature and dignified, with a calm, relaxed manner and intelligent eyes. He stood about Jamison’s height, sporting a lean, fit body, a light frosting brushed into his dark walnut hair, and bore the lines in his square face expected of a man in his mid-fifties. With a meticulous manicure and a neat, fresh haircut, he appeared to have just visited a salon, not murdered an enemy.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Moro,” Jenna began. “Since this is a formal interview, you are allowed to have an attorney present if you desire and don’t have to answer any questions you are uncomfortable with.”

“Am I being charged with a crime?” he asked in a voice that had all but lost its foreign accent.

“No, sir,” Jamison assured him. “We just want to make sure you’re aware of your rights.”

He nodded. “Very well. What do you wish to know?”

“You and Mr. Bruce Griffin engaged in a confrontation yesterday, if I have this right,” Jenna said, glancing at a notebook containing no pertinent information. “Witnesses say he burst into your school and harsh words were exchanged.”

Moro narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in an aggravated frown. “Did Mr. Griffin file a complaint against me? I was content to let the matter go.”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Jenna replied. “Could you share with us what the argument was about?”

“It takes two to hold an argument, Lieutenant, and all the hostilities came from Bruce. I can call a dozen witnesses to bear out the fact I did not threaten, insult, or so much as touch the brute.”

“Brute, you say?” Jamison asked. “What exactly did Mr. Griffin say and do?”

Moro recounted the exchange calmly, as though it was nothing. “Bruce and I disagree on many subjects, including our philosophies of karate. He likes to make himself seem superior by showing off and putting down others. Yesterday, he invaded my studio uninvited because he was angry that I took on a student he had thrown away.”

“Who was that?” Jenna asked and readied her pencil to jot down the name.

“August King,” he stated. “The young man has potential but struggled under Griffin’s training style. He had plateaued at brown belt and, because he didn’t meet Griffin’s timetable for progress, he expelled him from Strike Zone. I was familiar with August from tournaments and found him to be a pleasant fellow, so, when he asked if he could study with me, I said yes.”

“And this angered Mr. Griffin?” Jamison asked. “Why would he care?”

Moro gave her an agitated look. “Why, indeed? But there we were. He also has a problem with my son, Kenji, and thought he’d hit two birds with one stone. Bruce threatened to ‘crash the little runt’s wedding’ if I didn’t ban August from House of Kime. He has been bitter toward Kenji for years now and never misses a chance to take a jab at him.”

“Why was that?” Jenna questioned.

“You see, Kenji lost his arm in a motorcycle accident four years ago, but, before that, my son was awarded his black belt. The same year—before his accident—he competed against Bruce in a tournament and beat him in every category. Now that Kenji isn’t allowed to spar in regular tournament bouts because of his metal prosthetic arm, he only competes in special games for handicapped athletes. Bruce keeps accusing Kenji of cheating, mostly just to hurt him and try to sully his excellent reputation.”

“Doesn’t that make you angry?” Jamison’s tone and expression were completely empathetic.

Moro sighed and shook his head. “It is Bruce I feel sorry for. He is like a truck overfilled with garbage, and, every time he takes a turn, some spills out. He cannot see the flowers for the dung that helps them grow. His poor attitude reflects on him, not on me or my son.”

“Mr. Moro, if Mr. Griffin was so hostile toward you, he must have acquired other enemies as well,” Jenna said. “Could you name a few other folks he’s bullied that you’re aware of?”

“Well, I’m sure Denzel Blackburn, the sensei of Zen Martial Arts in Salem, would testify to Bruce’s inappropriate behavior. He never passed up a chance to ridicule Denzel or his students. If Griffin is trying to accuse me of harassing him, it simply isn’t true, detectives. My witnesses will attest to what happened.”

“Will they also testify that Mr. Griffin assaulted you, knocked you down, and humiliated you in front of your students?” Jenna observed the slightest flicker of anger flash across his eyes and disappear like mist.

“It was nothing. He only humiliated himself.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. Moro,” Jamison challenged, “about the incident or anything that happened afterward, perhaps later in the evening?”

Moro lowered his gaze, folded his hands on the table, and shook his head. “There’s nothing else to tell.”

Jenna exchanged a glance with Jamison, silently urging her to wait before pursuing the topic. “Mr. Moro, I must inform you that your rival, Bruce Griffin, died yesterday evening in his studio under suspicious circumstances.”

Moro’s chin jerked up, and Jenna could swear he wore an honestly surprised expression. His lips parted in silence, and he blinked before saying, “That’s distressing news. Both the rabbit and the fox play their own roles in nature, and one is not more important than the other. We disagreed, but I didn’t wish him ill will. What will happen to his school, to his students? His assistant is in no position to teach.”

More students for your school, I suppose, Jenna thought to herself. “And you know nothing about his death?”

“No,” Moro said in a puzzled manner. “The last time I saw Bruce, he was alive and well.”

Jenna hoped he would mention going to Strike Zone last night but wasn’t ready to tip her hand with the video footage. She also didn’t want to push him into a lie if it turned out to have been death by natural causes. Randi thinks the odds of a chest strike stopping a human heart are extremely slim. I can’t go accusing a respected man she admires so much of murder without ironclad proof.

“Thank you, Mr. Moro,” Jenna said as she rose. “We appreciate you coming in and going over the incident with us. If you can think of anyone else who might have wished to hurt Mr. Griffin, or you hear any chatter in the martial arts community, please share it. I know you want to protect the reputation of your sport.”

“Certainly,” he answered respectfully. “I am sorry to hear about Bruce. I had hoped he would grow in understanding with age. Now he’ll not get that chance. Perhaps he’ll do better in his next life.”

After Sensei Moro had left, Jamison caught Jenna’s arm. “Why didn’t you press him about being at Strike Zone?”

“If he’s completely innocent, there’s no need,” Jenna said. “If he did have a later altercation at Griffin’s place that left him dead, I don’t want to spook him. Let’s see what other evidence comes in. We’ll need something damning to arrest him, and Trish?” Jenna allowed a moment of vulnerability with only her friend in earshot. “I really don’t want it to be him.”

7

Randi itched with nerves when she rang the doorbell at the Griffin’s house. She’d never met Teresa Griffin and felt a little awkward. But every good Southerner knows you must bring a casserole when somebody you know dies. So, here she was, in her nice clothes from school with a dish from the best deli in town, waiting to give condolences to a perfect stranger. Randi realized she should have baked it herself; there just wasn’t time.

The door opened a crack, and a young woman’s unadorned face peeked out. “May I help you?” came a timid voice.

“Actually, I was hoping to be the one to help you. Ms. Griffin?” The woman’s dark brown hair spilled across half her face when she nodded, and she pushed it behind her ear, out of the way.

“I’m Miranda McLeod, from House of Kime dojo, and we all were just devastated to hear about the loss of your husband,” she said with heartfelt emotion. “I know it isn’t much, but I brought this casserole.” She lifted the dish, showing it to her.

“Won’t you come in?” Teresa invited and stepped aside.

“Who’s there?” sounded a more robust female voice.

As Randi entered, she spied a woman with honey hair, closer to her age, rising from the sofa to stare at her with hard features and suspicion in her gaze.

Teresa took the deep, aluminum foil deli dish from Randi and answered, “Someone from the karate community.”

“I’m Mary, Teresa’s big sister,” she replied, with less hostility.

“We were all just stunned,” Randi admitted. “Bruce was in such excellent condition; no one expected anything like this to happen to him.”

“You must not have known him very well,” Mary retorted impatiently. “Teresa, go put that in the fridge and come back here. Well, come on in,” she aimed at Randi. “What’s your name again?”

“Randi,” she answered and joined Mary in the living room.

“Have a seat,” the disgruntled sister instructed. “You weren’t one of Bruce’s students, were you?”

“No. I’m with House of Kime across town, but I had interacted with Mr. Griffin somewhat frequently.”

“If you’ll promise not to pretend you liked him, I’ll do the same,” Mary proposed. “He was a manipulating bully who cut Teresa off from our family so she wouldn’t be under anyone’s influence but his. I’m sorry she has to deal with all this trauma and be such a young widow, but I can’t say I’m sorry to see him go. Bruce had us all fooled at first, acting like such a pious, family-oriented Christian. His true colors didn’t come out until after my sister married him.”

Teresa returned, resting heavily in the wingback chair, a desolate shroud hanging about her as she stared at the coffee table. Randi followed her gaze to Trisha’s information card that lay there.

“But, Mary, what will I do without him? Bruce handled everything. I did the grocery shopping and the dry cleaning, but he paid all the bills. I looked through the box of important papers like you said to, but I haven’t found a life insurance policy yet.”

“Surely he had one,” Mary issued in a scolding tone. “Then again, it would be like him to have taken one out on you and not himself. Why would he care if you were taken care of or not?”

“Don’t say that,” Teresa muttered sorrowfully. “I guess we have to pick a funeral home. Do you have a suggestion?” She glanced at Randi, who was completely clueless. Since her parents lived in Wytheville, that’s where all their arrangements had been made.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have personal experience with any funeral homes in Roanoke. Mary, it’s good you’re here to help Teresa through this difficult time.”

“Yes, it’s sad and difficult,” she admitted, her tone softening. She turned a pitying look to Teresa. “I’m sorry you have to go through all this, sis, but I consider it a blessing in disguise. You know we don’t believe in divorce, and I’d hate to have watched from afar while you suffered through an unhappy marriage for decades. And don’t you believe a word about those miscarriages being your fault.” Her tone sharpened, and her eyes flashed. “If they were anyone’s fault, I’ll bet it was his. But how would I know? You won’t talk about it, and he wouldn’t let me come around. I should have been there for you then.”

“You were busy with your kids,” Teresa responded softly. She wound her fingers together in her lap. With a glance at Randi, she asked, “Who will give me the death certificate? The bank says they need a death certificate, or I can’t access any of the money.”

“Dr. Valentine, the county coroner and RPD medical examiner, will issue a death certificate as soon as he’s determined your husband’s cause of death,” Randi informed her.

“I can tell you what killed him,” Mary scoffed sarcastically. “Meanness. I’m sorry, Randi. I realize you came by to drop off a casserole, and we appreciate it. You didn’t come to hear me complain about the deceased’s shortcomings, but that man—” She balled her hands into fists and then shook her head. “Thank you for stopping by. Tell the good folks at House of Kime we are grateful. Now, Teresa and I have a lot of unpleasant business to attend to.”

Teresa automatically rose from her chair to act as a proper hostess, but Randi hopped up and waved her down. “I can see myself out, Teresa. You get reconnected with your sister. Again, I’m terribly sorry for your situation, and please reach out if there’s anything you need. It’s Randi McLeod at House of Kime, or you can find me at Roanoke Community College where I teach literature. I’ll be keeping you in my prayers.”

“Thanks, Randi,” Mary extended. “And I do apologize for my poor attitude.”

“No need to apologize.” Randi presented a pleasant smile, opened the door, and made a smooth exit. Well, she thought. It seems I’m not the only one who thought he was a jerk.

***

Jenna’s frustration built as she sat at her desk rewatching the security footage of Moro getting out of and back into his car in front of Strike Zone. Sure, there was no visual of him entering or exiting Griffin’s dojo, but what else was over there? Maybe he just strolled out of view of the camera to key the guy’s car or something. She watched the video play after Moro left, trying to spot Jones coming or going, but he had been on foot—not in a vehicle. Most of the sidewalk was out of range of the camera. After all, this security system was for the drugstore on the corner, not the karate studio. They were lucky to have anything useful at all.

“Teresa Griffin mentioned some friends,” Jenna commented to the room and flipped through her notepad. “Gunner and Sharon Johnson. Maybe they would know something.” She felt like they were spinning their wheels while waiting for Dr. Valentine’s conclusion. It seemed to be taking forever.

“Hey, I’ve got something over here,” Owens announced. All eyes turned to him in curiosity. “It seems Moro’s karate school was vandalized a few weeks back. Another division handled it, and I just came across the report. Says someone spray painted the exterior walls and windows with derogatory comments and anti-Japanese slogans left over from World War II or something. Moro filed a report, and property crimes has been looking into it. They list our victim, Bruce Griffin, as their primary suspect based on interviews and Griffin having no alibi, but no substantial proof or witnesses. Another reason Moro might have been fed up with him.”

Jenna glanced at the clock. After four. They had spent all day investigating a death without even knowing for sure it was a homicide. She sprung out of her chair. “I’m going to see Dr. Valentine. He’s got to have more by now. At least we accomplished getting Scooter Jones booked for grand larceny, so the day wasn’t a total waste.”

“No day is a total waste, boss,” Jamison interjected cheerily. “I consider us lucky to have no murder, rape, or kidnapping to deal with for a few days.”

“You’re right,” Jenna admitted. “Still, I want to know now.”

For the second time that day, she stopped by Dr. Gupta’s on the way to the morgue. “The DNA is still running, Lieutenant, but we have some info on the hairs lifted from the victim’s gi. He sure came into close contact with a lot of folks—either that, or he didn’t wash his outfit often.”

Recalling her encounter with Teresa, Jenna proposed, “I’d bet he left home with a clean suit in his bag every day. Tell me about the hairs.”

“No root follicles, and about half are consistent with his hair,” she reported. “I’ve identified fourteen separate donors’ hairs from his shirt, in various lengths and textures, and have separated them into labeled bags. Several are quite long, so probably female. Two have African American texture, and another two are most likely Asian, leaving the balance Caucasian. Without roots, I can’t run DNA tests, but, if you bring me sample hairs from suspects, I can examine them under a comparison microscope and give you a ninety-nine percent accurate match.”

“That’s good,” Jenna said. “Depending on Dr. Valentine’s conclusion, I’ll start collecting hair samples from persons of interest. Thanks. You and the other Dr. Gupta stay cool and enjoy your evening.”

“You and Dr. McLeod do the same.”

Jenna’s next stop was by fingerprints to check with Specialist José Martin. “Lieutenant Ferrari, do you think you’re the only person I work for?” he teased when she asked about his progress. “And do you have any idea how much stuff Wilcox and Davenport hauled in here for Stone’s thief?”

“Stone’s thief is also a person of interest in my case,” Jenna supplied, “so, you’re getting off with an easy two-for-one. Now, the sets from Strike Zone?”

“Scott Jones’ prints have been in the system for years, so they were an easy match,” he reported. “They were also all over the sword and head crackers.”

“Nunchucks,” Jenna corrected, with a look of impatience. “Should that be my new nickname for you?”

She leaned her elbows on the counter across from him and raised a brow.

José grinned with a playful sparkle. “Nothing nun about my chucks.”

Jenna groaned and rolled her eyes. “Do you have anything useful to say?”

“Many of the prints in the karate studio came back to the victim and his employee, but I don’t have matches in the system for a boatload of them.”

Jenna lowered her voice—as if it mattered—and took on a serious countenance. “What about Yoshito Moro? He’s a naturalized citizen, and his prints should be in the FBI database.”

José twisted his mouth and flipped through files on his computer. “There were a lot of indistinguishable smudges on the door—inside and out—but … no match to Moro so far.”

“Is there any chance of lifting prints off the clothes Griffin was wearing when he died?” Jenna experienced some relief over the apparent absence of Moro’s prints, but placing someone else’s on the victim’s shirt would be great.

“I’ve got it hanging in the fumigation box now.” José glanced over his shoulder at a large, plexiglass container, where superglue would have been used to adhere to fingerprints. The method didn’t always work, depending on the fabric and how long ago the prints had been placed there, but the process was constantly being improved upon.

“It’s been in long enough that I could put it under the infrared now if you want.”

“I want,” Jenna stated. She rounded the counter to stand to the side behind José, who, though not tall, was taller than her.

After applying latex gloves, José removed the black gi shirt from the box, releasing fumes that made Jenna fan her nose and blink watery eyes. He placed it under a special viewing microscope, flicked on the infrared light, and eased the garment around. Like all science, Jenna thought it would take forever. She glanced at the time: four-thirty. It required all her restraint to resist tapping her foot.

José turned to face her with a sigh. “It’s hard to get good prints on cotton fabric. If this was silk or nylon, maybe—or,” he brightened, “if we had a vacuum metal deposition chamber! Those are the best; unfortunately, our budget isn’t.”

“I want a fast-acting DNA machine like the Lexington, Kentucky lab has,” Jenna added. “Maybe we can add them to our Christmas lists to Santa. So, nothing?”

“Not nothing—just not usable fingerprints. I can make out a clear impact mark in the middle of the chest area.”

“Skin cells!” The thought popped into Jenna’s head. “Can you detect any epithelials?”

José returned his eyes to the oculars of his specialized microscope. “Maybe. This is the wrong instrument, but I’ll ask Wilcox to come up here and give it a good going over. She found the blood already.”

“Yeah, but maybe more than one person got in a fight with our victim. Thanks, José. I’m off to the underworld.”

“Lucky you!” he laughed. “It’s the coolest room in the building.”

The refreshing blast hit Jenna when she pushed through into the medical examiner’s domain, where Dr. Valentine sat at his computer.

“Ah,” he greeted. “I’m typing up my findings now.”

“Tell me.” Jenna leaned her bum on the edge of his desk.

“After examining the entire body, I found minor abrasions on the knuckles of his right hand—incidental. The toxicology screen was negative for steroids, standard drugs, and poisons. Lieutenant Ferrari, I must say, I’ve seldom had a healthier specimen occupy my table. Which brings us to his heart.”

Jenna’s senses sprung to alert as she awaited his verdict.

“There was no hole, no defect, no disease whatsoever,” Dr. Valentine acknowledged. “What I did find was evidence of ventricular fibrillation caused by a sudden, powerful impact that interrupted the heart’s normal sinus rhythm.”

“Commotio cordis,” Jenna uttered solemnly.

“Have you been doing your homework?”

“Randi told me about it when I asked her if there was a karate death blow,” Jenna answered without emotion. “Could this have happened accidentally?”

“I’ve heard of it happening on a construction site once, and of course in sports,” Dr. Valentine said, “but I don’t recall a victim as old as Griffin. And his chest is so well developed a logical mind would assume the muscle tissue would have absorbed enough impact.” He shook his head. “Unless the blow was self-inflicted, if it had been an accident, someone would have called 911. I’m afraid we’re looking at a homicide.”

“Yeah,” Jenna sighed. “Me too.”

8

Thursday, September 5

Jenna’s nerves prickled when she dragged herself into the criminal investigations office that morning. Guilt played a game of darts in her chest as last night she had intentionally avoided any mention of her interview with Moro or that he might be a suspect in Griffin’s murder. She dreaded having such a conversation with Randi, who would, no doubt, charge to his defense with a myriad of reasons why he was innocent. No. Better to wait and see. The DNA evidence could point in a completely different direction.

“Hey, Lieutenant,” Bauman called as he entered while Jenna poured her coffee. “Did you hear about Mikah? There’s a forty-two percent chance it’ll make landfall around Virginia Beach on Saturday, but we’ll catch more bad weather if it lands farther south along the Outer Banks because of the westerly trajectory.”

“I heard we have zero percent chance of rain today with a high of ninety-five, so rain would be welcome,” Jenna answered. “It’s not expected to be some monster category five, is it?”

“Not right now,” Bauman answered. “Only if it slows down and takes more time to build intensity.”

“And,” quipped Jamison as she floated in on a cloud of rainbows, “there’s a fifteen percent chance it will miss us altogether and continue up the East Coast.”

Jenna gave her an assessing glance. “You’re in a good mood today,” she observed, “even by your cheery standards.” The woman practically glowed. She hopped, bounced, and wiggled over to Jenna at the coffee station beneath the mural Mario had painted of the four of them looking like superheroes and thrust out her left hand. Even a blind person couldn’t have missed the humongous diamond sparkling from a gold band on her finger.

“Well, it’s about time!” Jenna’s apprehension about the case whisked off to some alternate reality, replaced by sheer joy for her partner. “I was beginning to think ADA Altman wasn’t as smart as everyone says.”

“He said he was planning this whole big thing, with a plane ride and skydiving, but he just couldn’t wait.” The lovely green-eyed, strawberry blonde with the face of an angel and the body of a seductress glowed brighter than Jenna could ever recall. “He said the ring was burning a hole in his pocket. We’ll still do the skydiving later, but he had to give me this last night. Isn’t it grand?”

“Grand is an understatement.” Jenna estimated the ring cost more than she earned in a year.

Bauman rushed over to see as well. “Wow, Trisha, that’s fabulous! Congratulations.” He grabbed her up in a hug that would have been awkward for Ethan a year ago. He had become much more self-assured since the eccentric artist and sometimes drag queen, Mario, had entered his life. First, there was the addition of paintings around his spartan workstation, followed by numerous trips to Asheville, North Carolina. Now contact lenses and hugs. Was he going to waltz in with a ring next?

“Look what you started.” Jamison batted long lashes at Jenna with a crimson blush consuming her naturally rosy cheeks.

“Congratulations, Trish,” Jenna extended as her heart swelled with delight. She and Jamison fell into the embrace at the same time.

“Hey, if there’s going to be a group hug, I want in,” called Owens as he waddled his way toward them. “What’s the occasion—decent coffee for once?” He set the box of pastries on the table and Jamison wrapped her arms around his thick neck, pressing herself against him. Jenna noted it would take two of Jamison to make one of Owens.

“Bennet proposed. I’m going to get married!” she exclaimed.

“That’s wonderful!” Owens squeezed her, causing Jenna to wince. Luckily, she didn’t hear any ribs crack. “When?”

“Oh, we haven’t talked about dates yet,” Trisha said as she stepped back to flash the ring at him. “At least a year or more. Our parents will have to fight over plans.”

Jenna rested a firm hand on her shoulder. “You and Bennet should do what you want to,” she directed. “It’s your wedding—not theirs.”

“Well,” Jamison fudged. “With all the hurdles we have to overcome, we’re willing to let them be as involved as they wish—as long as they don’t come to blows over whether we have a chuppah or take communion.”

“Randi would say there’s only one God, and it doesn’t matter how you worship him as long as love is the centerpiece. It will be lovely, whatever you decide.”

“And you’ll have to be in the wedding party,” Jamison said, beaming at Jenna.

“Good morning.”

Jenna spun around at the sound of Dr. Gupta’s voice. It wasn’t often she ventured into their office.

“What’s the occasion?” the DNA scientist asked.

“I’m engaged!” Jamison held up her ringed hand with a glow to rival the sun.

“Congratulations. Lieutenant, I knew you’d want these results at once, so …”

“Yes.” Setting her coffee cup on her desk, Jenna excused herself and followed Dr. Gupta out.

“Did it come back to our suspect, Scott Jones?” Jenna asked hopefully.

“No.” Dr. Gupta stepped around her counter and laid a folder on its shiny surface facing Jenna. “It doesn’t match any DNA in the national database, so the blood belongs to someone who’s never been charged with a felony. From the markers in the profile, as you can see here,” she said, pointing to a chart on the page, “the donor is male with a predominately Asian ethnic background—nine percent Korean, thirteen percent Jōmon, sixteen percent Yayoi, and the majority of the remainder is Han.”

“Which means?” Jenna inquired as her nerves grappled with her will.

“The blood on the victim’s clothing came from someone of Japanese origin,” she pronounced. “I can’t tell you who until I have a suspect’s sample for comparison.”

“OK,” she stated with resignation. “Did you start a run on the epithelial tissue sample José had Wilcox collect for you?”

“I have, but it won’t be finished until the end of today. Did Dr. Valentine determine this was a homicide?”

“It wasn’t natural causes,” Jenna relayed. “A violent blow to his chest triggered his heart to stop, not disease, toxins, or a genetic flaw. Thanks, Dr. Gupta. I’ll get you some suspect samples.”

Jenna walked back to her office as if passing through a long, echoing tunnel of doom. While Kenji was also Japanese and a skilled martial artist, his father was on the security cam footage; his father was the one who had been insulted and ridiculed in front of his students. Jenna would talk to Kenji, take a DNA and hair sample if he volunteered it, and see if he had an alibi, but she had a sinking feeling Yoshito—the one who failed to mention going to Strike Zone later that night—would be the suspect she arrested. Randi would be livid if it was either man.

“What’d Dr. Gupta say?” asked Sergeant Detective Owens when Jenna trudged back into her office. He sat at his desk with a half-eaten éclair in his hand.

“The DNA from the blood on Griffin’s shirt is from an ethnically Japanese male. Only two people we’re currently aware of fit that description.”

Jenna glanced down at the cute coffee mug on her desk, the first present Randi ever gave her, and her heart sank like a lead balloon. “Jamison, will you come with me to the Moro residence?”

“Sure thing, boss.” Jamison hid most of her boisterous chirp behind a layer of professionalism.

“Owens, Bauman, keep searching the players’ histories and backgrounds and look for other people Griffin ticked off. I suspect there’ll be plenty,” Jenna instructed. Her gaze drifted to the pastry box and the tempting cherry and cream cheese strudel. Fearing her stomach couldn’t handle it, she quickly waved to Jamison and marched out.

***

When Jenna and Jamison arrived at a charming house in a middle-class neighborhood south of Norwich Park, the glossy blue Nissan Cima sat in the driveway. A slender woman, Jenna’s height, with lustrous black hair, opened the door. “Hello.” She peered at them in polite curiosity, without fear or irritation. Jenna sensed a tranquil presence about the woman and the house that confounded her purpose in being here. She held up her badge.

“I’m Lieutenant Detective Ferrari and this is Detective Jamison. We spoke with Mr. Moro yesterday about Bruce Griffin’s death. Are you Mrs. Moro?” Though her skin bore an ageless quality, Jenna presumed she could be in her fifties.

“Yes, I’m Mei. Please, detectives, come on in. I’ll call Yoshito down.”

As she ushered them in, Jenna asked, “Is your son at home? We need to ask him a couple of questions as well.”

“Certainly.” The polite woman showed them to a cozy, formal sitting room that was often featured in homes built during this one’s era. Immaculate and adorned with traditional artwork and figurines, Jenna felt like she had stepped into a museum’s showroom. “Please make yourselves comfortable and they’ll be right in.”

“Wow, how beautiful,” Jamison cooed. “And this furniture—I’m afraid to sit on anything.”

“Don’t be,” said a robust, amiable voice from behind them. Jenna twisted over her shoulder to spot a smiling young man, bearing many of Yoshito’s characteristics, strolling into the living room barefoot. His Drive-By Truckers T-shirt left an unobstructed view of his state-of-the-art, black metal prosthetic arm with articulated elbow and fingers. It hung at his side naturally until he lifted it, propping the hand on his hip in a casual manner. Jenna had never seen such a sophisticated replacement limb and was amazed.

Deliberately fixating on the friendly fellow’s keen eyes, she introduced herself and Jamison again. “Kenji, Randi McLeod and your father have both told me so much about you. I’m pleased to meet you in person.”

“Dad’s just getting out of the shower,” he said and motioned toward an ornate sofa. “You two have the kamiza, the seat of honor.”

“Thank you,” Jamison replied.

“I hear you are engaged to be married,” Jenna commented. “So is Detective Jamison. Congratulations to you.”

“Thank you, and blessings on your nuptial, Detective Jamison.” He took the wooden, carved dragon armchair arranged to one side of the white cushioned sofa. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit today?”

“I presume you heard about Bruce Griffin’s death,” Jenna stated.

“Yes, terrible thing. I must say I’m surprised one as young and fit as he would suffer heart failure,” Kenji responded.

“His heart didn’t fail on its own, Kenji,” Jenna said grimly. “A powerful blow to the chest helped it.”

Kenji sat forward as a troubled expression covered his face. “You think a practitioner of the martial arts killed him?”

“Possibly accidentally,” Jenna emphasized, wanting to keep Kenji’s trust, “while sparring. Or they were engaged in a dispute that came to blows.” She had to wonder how much power the man’s robotic arm could produce.

“Karate is a philosophy of peace, not violence,” Kenji assured her. “A person must be able to defend him or herself, but we do not believe in using our skills for attack.”

Jamison said, “From what we’ve learned thus far, Mr. Griffin didn’t agree with your philosophy. Maybe he was the attacker in the incident. It’s possible the person he fought with didn’t even know Griffin was dead when he or she fled Strike Zone.”

“The fabled Touch of Death is exactly that, detectives—a fable,” Kenji explained.

“Randi has told me as much,” Jenna agreed, “but anything is possible. We’re asking everyone in the karate community to volunteer hair and DNA samples to compare with evidence collected at the crime scene. Would you be willing to contribute yours?”

“Certainly,” Kenji agreed at once. “Anything to help, but it wasn’t me. Sure, I’d had some run-ins with Bruce, and he had it out for me, but I couldn’t be bothered with such an insignificant person—not when I have a wedding to plan. I was out with my fiancée, Bret Carroll, on Tuesday night. We were checking out reception halls and then went to a late dinner at Wok N Roll, one of our affordable favorites. Then we took a walk around Elmwood Park to discuss the venues we looked at before I took her home. Bret had an early shift at the hospital Wednesday morning, so I left her place around ten so she could get to sleep. Fifteen minutes later, I was here, telling Mom and Dad all about it.”

“Thank you, Kenji, that’s helpful,” Jenna said.

Jamison took out a swab and vial and approached him. “May I swab your cheek?” Kenji opened his mouth wide, and Jamison collected the sample into its labeled bio-container. “Thank you. Do you have a comb or brush handy—one that only you use?”

“I doubt you’d find a lot of difference in our hair except Mom’s is longer, but sure.” Kenji used his flesh hand to dig a small comb out of his back jeans pocket. He ran it through his stylish black hair a few times and handed it to Jamison. “There you are. How else can I help?”

“Tell us more about Griffin’s less-than-honorable dealings and other people he might pick a fight with,” Jenna requested. “If he started an altercation with someone, who might it be?”

“Well,” he mused. “Griffin was about to be in big trouble with the Virginia Department of Professional and Occupational Regulation. Word was he was going to be sanctioned for pressuring students to bend the rules at the last tournament he took them to.”

“And who suffered the most because of his unethical tactics?” Jamison asked.

“Several of Denzel Blackburn’s students ended up with second or third places when they were favored to win and, well, Randi was clearly cheated out of a trophy by Griffin’s top black belt student.”

Jenna jerked her head up at that, her brows furrowing. She didn’t tell me.

“There’s also the parents of his students,” Kenji continued. “Many of them are just like him—hence why they send their kids there—but several were appalled when they learned he instructed them to skirt the rules to up their odds of winning sparring or grappling matches and pulled their children from his program. I don’t like to repeat rumors, but, since you asked, the word going around was he was having an affair. I don’t know any specifics, but I do know two years ago he settled out of court on a sexual harassment charge brought by one of his teenaged female students.”

Something to check out. Jenna jotted it on her notepad.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Ferrari.” She glanced up as Yoshito Moro walked in wearing loose, casual gray slacks and a solid black T-shirt. “I see you have met Kenji.”

“Yes.” She stood out of respect and Jamison followed her lead. “He is a remarkable young man and has been helping us list persons of interest in Griffin’s murder.”

“Murder?” His face darkened with concern, lines drawn together, and his lips curled down.

“Yes, Mr. Moro, murder. We’re collecting DNA and hair samples to rule out individuals who came into casual contact with Mr. Griffin shortly before his death. That would include you since he invaded your dojo and quarreled with you on Tuesday afternoon.”

“Dad?” Kenji stood and turned a questioning gaze on his father. “You didn’t tell me he showed up at our place to cause trouble.”

“There was no trouble,” Moro declared. “Do you have a warrant?”

“No,” Jenna answered amiably, “but we can get one if necessary.”

“For that, you would need a credible cause.” Moro crossed his arms over his chest.

“We have probable cause, Mr. Moro—security camera video of you parking in front of Strike Zone Tuesday night around Griffin’s time of death, of you getting out of your car and walking into Griffin’s studio, and of you returning to drive away approximately eight minutes later. What happened during those eight minutes?” Jenna demanded. “Did Mr. Griffin attack you? Did you find it necessary to defend yourself?”

“These questions are absurd.” His tone wasn’t sharp or angry, merely incensed.

“Then why won’t you surrender your DNA if nothing happened?” Jamison reasoned.

“Because,” he stated resolutely, “some matters are private.”

“Dad, just give them what they want. Bruce was a tyrant and an idiot, but I know you didn’t kill him.”

“I have nothing more to say on the matter.”

Moro’s obstinance pierced her heart. “Mr. Moro, do you understand that your unwillingness to cooperate makes you appear guilty? We have you on camera at the scene of the murder at the victim’s time of death, a DNA blood sample that comes back to a Japanese male, and you possess the skill required to stop his heart with a precise blow to the chest. You have motive, means, and opportunity—the trifecta needed for me to arrest you.”

“Do what you must,” he replied.

“Dad, why are you being so obstinate?” Kenji’s voice rose in irritated apprehension. “Just let Detective Jamison swab your cheek. It’s not like it’s going to hurt. Detectives, Dad can be very stubborn sometimes.”

“I have spoken.” Moro relaxed his posture and held his hands out in front of him. “Go ahead. Arrest me.”

“Did you kill Bruce Griffin?” Jenna asked in disbelief.

“I did not,” Moro answered. “I do not know who did, but we all must do what we must do.”

“Just come down to the station with us,” Jenna grumbled, taking his arm. “No need for handcuffs.”

“Yoshito, what’s going on?” Mei asked. She shuffled into the room in haste, probably hearing Kenji’s pleas.

“I am off to jail. I’ve never been to jail; perhaps I’ll learn something new.”

“This isn’t a game, Mr. Moro,” Jenna warned him.

“Dear, sweet Ferrari,” he replied like she was his best friend, “all of life is a game. Mei, dear, I don’t think I’ll be home for dinner tonight.”

“Dad, we’re getting you a lawyer right now,” Kenji announced. “And you will tell him what’s going on, or, so help me, you won’t be my best man, and I’ll ban you from my wedding; do you hear?”

“We all must do what we must do, Kenji.” With a tsunami brewing in her gut, Jenna led Mr. Moro out.

9

Randi paced around the empty house, slamming pots and pans in the kitchen, muttering to herself as her gut roiled with unfamiliar ire. The more she replayed the afternoon events, the deeper she sank into anger. It got to where her negative energy sent Byron and Bandit fleeing to the bedroom to hide. She couldn’t recall being so mad since the time in junior high school when her supposed best friend stole her science project and turned it in with her name on it—won first place, too, and told everyone it was her original work.

This was intolerable. “How could she?” Randi screamed at the air. “No dinner tonight,” she decided. Stomping to the workout room, she thrashed the dummy target until it toppled onto the floor, hoping to settle her frustration. Even the calming bamboo plant and tranquil poster art couldn’t relieve her sense of betrayal.

The hour grew later and later, to the point Randi wondered if Jenna would have the nerve to face her at all. It was almost eight o’clock when Byron alerted her to the Honda driving into the garage. She glowered at him when he rushed to the door to greet her. Probably hopes he’ll ease the tension, she thought. Little does he realize …

The moment Jenna’s contrite face peeked around the corner, Randi let loose. “What do you mean arresting Master Yoshito Moro? He didn’t murder that horrible man, and you know it.”

“Now, Randi,” she tried to placate in a reasonable tone.

“Don’t ‘Now, Randi’ me, Jenna,” she snarled in response, heat radiating from her body as if it were a furnace. “You didn’t have to spend all afternoon with the crying children, trying to console them and convince them everything would be alright. Kenji had to leave to go consult with their lawyer and I was left with everyone. Naturally, no classes were held. I just had to keep repeating that I didn’t know why Sensei Moro was arrested or when he’d be back, lying by saying everything would turn out fine and the whole situation would be resolved in a few days. How could you let me be blindsided like that? You didn’t even give me a heads-up!”

“I know, Randi, and I’m sorry,” Jenna apologized as she inched her way into the great room. Byron had retreated out of view, and Randi imagined Bandit cowered under the bed in confusion.

“Sorry? You’re sorry?” Randi threw her hands in the air, as she didn’t know what else to do with them. “You were afraid to tell me,” she bitterly accused. “Just try to deny it.”

Jenna released a deflated sigh. “Yeah, of course, I didn’t want to tell you. I was afraid you’d respond like this,” she admitted, waving a hand at Randi.

“Well, what do you expect? Sure, I’m livid that you did such a ridiculous thing as arrest my sensei for a murder he most assuredly didn’t commit,” she raged, “but the absolute worst part was not telling me. I had to find out from the teenage students at the dojo. Kenji’s worried sick and the children were scared out of their wits. I had to walk into all that unprepared when you arrested him before lunch.”

Randi stomped around, unable to stand still, as she spewed all the things that had churned around in her gut while waiting for her beloved wife to get home. Her whole body shook from the inside out as she recognized how powerfully her emotions had consumed her. Still, she was unable to soothe herself into a state of neutrality; maybe she didn’t want to.

“If you had at least had the guts and the decency to send me a note, I could have prepared myself to deal with it!”

“It’s not like we stormed the dojo and dragged him out in cuffs in front of all the students,” Jenna stipulated. “We treated him with the utmost respect.”

“Oh, so now wrongly accusing someone of murder is respectful,” Randi replied with biting sarcasm. “But you could have told me.”

“If I had texted that we brought Mr. Moro in on suspicion of murder, you’d have been just as mad and wanted to have this argument then,” Jenna explained. “I couldn’t do it then because I was busy with the case.”

“What case?” Randi planted her feet in front of Jenna, slapped her hands on her hips, and stared at her in disbelief.

“Look.” Jenna took a step closer, anger and irritation building in her jaw, her eyes, and the tenseness of her muscles. “All the evidence points to Moro, and he refused to cooperate.”

“Refused how?” That didn’t sound right to Randi.

“We have security cam video footage of him going into Strike Zone and coming back out around Griffin’s TOD, yet he at first denied going and then refused to explain what he was doing there or what transpired. We have his blood on Griffin’s shirt. Griffin was a sleazebag—that’s been established—but a lot of his insults were directed at Moro and his son. He threatened to ruin Kenji’s wedding, humiliated Moro in his own dojo in front of his students, and property crimes believes Griffin was the guy who vandalized House of Kime with the derogatory graffiti a few weeks ago—they just didn’t have the evidence.”

“There were plenty of people Griffin screwed over or bullied,” Randi shot back. “He was always after Denzel Blackburn and lately he targeted a transfer student, August King. Gossip said he was having an affair—doesn’t that present a motive? He could have messed with the wrong guy’s wife or daughter, someone who is capable of committing murder. Yoshito isn’t,” she pleaded.

“Sweetie, I know you believe that, but any human being is capable of it under the right circumstances,” Jenna countered. “And none of those other people were on the security camera entering or exiting—”

“The front door, maybe,” Randi interjected, “but Strike Zone has a back entrance. And, if the dim mak is real, someone could have hit all the precise pressure points on his body days ago and produced a delayed reaction.”

Jenna stared at her and blinked as if she hadn’t considered that.

“I thought you were a better investigator than this,” Randi exhaled in disappointment. “I’m exhausted and emotionally drained and am off to take a shower.”

“Randi, I tried to get him to speak up for himself and he wouldn’t.” Jenna reached a hand toward her, which Randi sidestepped. “He has motive, means, opportunity, and a pile of evidence against him.”

“Then you need better evidence,” Randi retorted, “because what you’ve got is wrong. Yoshito didn’t kill that sorry cur and, if you stick with your one-track approach, you’ll miss arresting the guilty perpetrator—or is just making a quick arrest all that matters to you now?” Not waiting for a response, Randi stormed down the hall to the master bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She didn’t lock it; this was Jenna’s room too. In the hot jets of the shower, Randi realized she felt even worse after her tirade.

Getting mad doesn’t help anything, she sullenly admitted to herself. I just need time to cool down so we can have a reasonable discussion. If she had only told me this was going to happen … yeah, I’d still have been angry and defensive. But … why wouldn’t he tell Jenna why he was at Strike Zone? Yeah, he has the skills—if anyone does—to perform the fabled dim mak, but Yoshito is a peaceful, loving man. He simply wouldn’t kill anyone—unless it was an accident or in self-defense. Then why not just say so?

The mournful eyes of children dripping tears pushed into her mind as she recalled the afternoon. Although she hadn’t cried, Chelsea had seemed especially disturbed—both by learning of Griffin’s death and of Yoshito’s arrest. “You mean Mr. Griffin is dead?” she had asked with wide eyes and a face consumed by fear. “Nobody liked him, but I didn’t want him to die. And the police arrested Master Moro?” Chelsea had trembled as much as Randi had out in the living room, only not from rage.

“It’ll be alright, Chelsea,” Randi had consoled. “Lieutenant Ferrari had a reason for arresting him, but the truth will come out. There must have been a misunderstanding. She’ll find Griffin’s true killer and Master Moro will be back before you know it.”

At that, the girl had gone ghost white. “Master Moro is innocent!”

“Yes, he is, so you have nothing to worry about.” Randi had wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled Chelsea into a side hug before moving on to the next student who needed consoling.

When Randi finally emerged from the shower, all she could do was stagger to the bed and fall onto it.

***

Things had gone as poorly as Jenna imagined—worse, even. She felt miserable, but what choice did she have? There was concrete evidence against Moro, and he had acted guilty. Although he didn’t confess, he was hiding something. Did he know who the actual killer was and was trying to protect them? It didn’t make sense. Kenji had a solid alibi. He paid with a credit card at the restaurant and their waitress remembered them. Traffic cameras near the park showed his car coming and going at the times he said and, when Jamison called Bret Carroll, she confirmed Kenji’s entire story.

She’ll get over it, she figured and heated leftovers to eat. It wasn’t the same. Jenna felt as blue as Elvis’s Christmas song—or his suede shoes nobody was supposed to step on. Bandit ventured out and tentatively sprang onto the couch, slinking his way toward her. Ten o’clock and Randi hadn’t emerged.

“What do you think, Bandit? Should I go in there and apologize some more or spend the night on the couch?” He wandered toward her as if he had no opinion on the matter, crawled into her lap, and curled into a comfortable ball to purr and, presumably, be petted. Jenna stroked him, which probably comforted her more than the cat. “And where’d she get off implying I’m a poor detective? I followed the evidence where it led. Can I help it if it led to her friend?”

Unable to settle the sea of depression with its swells of defensive anger and troughs of guilt, Jenna reverted to an old habit and poured herself a whiskey. Her brain reminded her that she should drink when she’s in a good mood, not when she’s sad; alcohol, being a depressant, would only make her feel worse. However, it might also help her get to sleep. Surely things would be better in the morning.

“Look, Bandit,” she explained as she fluffed a pillow and laid a blanket out on the sectional to make herself comfortable for the night. “It’s not like I was out to betray Randi or persecute her sensei. I wanted to clear him, but the stubborn man wouldn’t be honest with me. Maybe a night or two in jail and consulting with his attorney will knock some sense into him. Do I believe he’s guilty of premeditated murder? No, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t kill Griffin while engaged in a fight with him. Boxers kill other boxers in the ring, and it isn’t considered murder.”

Jenna nestled her head on the pillow and pulled up the blanket while Bandit spread out near her feet. She left the small light over the stove on as a nightlight in case she needed to go to the hall bathroom or—hopefully—for when Randi came back out. This is what she would do for me—give me space and wait for me to cool off. Maybe I should go check on her. Should I go check on her? Worn out, body tingling like she’d been driving in a car for twelve hours, Jenna’s eyelids fluttered closed.

Easing back toward consciousness, Jenna sensed a presence in the room and opened her eyes. The clock showed midnight and Randi stood leaning in the hall entryway, watching her sleep. Jenna stirred enough for Randi to know she was awake.

“Did we just have our first fight?” Randi’s eyes were red, damp, and puffy—a sight that threatened to break Jenna’s heart.

“I think so,” she answered and sat up. The hardwood floor felt cool under her bare feet, and she wiggled her toes to help drive the fogginess of slumber away.

“I didn’t like it,” Randi stated with a frown.

“Neither did I.” Jenna slowly stood and said, “I’m sorry for not telling you before you got to the dojo. Honestly, I didn’t think all the students would know or how they would react, or that you’d be stuck trying to handle it all without information. I only thought about how upset you would be and that I didn’t want to hurt you. I procrastinated when I shouldn’t have, and I apologize.”

Randi ventured a couple of steps, stopping halfway to the couch, and hugged herself. “I said some stupid things in anger,” she confessed. “I never meant to imply you aren’t good at your job or that you don’t care about uncovering the truth.”

“Imply?” Jenna smirked and raised a brow. A portion of the cumbersome weight that had been pressing against her shoulders and chest eased. This felt better. She crossed to meet Randi and enfolded her in her arms, lying her head against her neck. Randi hugged her back, pressing her cheek to Jenna’s.

For a long moment, the two held each other in silence. Jenna’s awareness captured Randi’s steady breath, the beating of her heart, and the distress that still flowed through her.

“But you aren’t sorry for arresting the wrong man,” Randi voiced, breaking the calm.

Jenna lifted her head, keeping her arms firm around her wife, and met her gaze. “I can’t be sorry for doing my job, Randi. I don’t know; maybe I acted too quickly without pursuing other suspects first. But I swear to you, all the evidence pointed to Moro, and, when he refused to surrender a DNA or hair sample or to give me his side of the story, to tell what happened at Strike Zone that night …”

“I’ve been wondering about that too,” Randi said. “Jenna, I couldn’t sleep without you. I couldn’t rest until we’d made up. I love you more than anything, but could you please keep looking for who really killed Griffin? There must be other suspects.”

“Plenty of them,” Jenna replied, “just no other evidence.”

“Then find it,” Randi charged and kissed her. That kiss, the forgiving warmth in it, the sensation of a desperate plea for hope, the entreating of an enduring faith in Jenna, struck her to the core, making her weak in the knees. She had to hold on tighter around Randi’s neck to keep from crumpling into a heap on the floor.

Once her mouth was free of its tortuous exchange, Jenna said, “I love you more than anything, even facts. I’ll keep looking for more evidence, and maybe you can visit your stubborn mentor and get a straight story out of him. He could be trying to protect someone else.”

“Either that, or he’s embarrassed because he behaved in a manner he would consider shameful.”

“More shameful than whacking a guy in the chest and stopping his heart?” Jenna’s eyes widened in astonishment.

The first hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Randi’s mouth. “Yes, sweetie, more shameful than that. Come to bed. I’m still peeved at you—just a little—but I need you beside me. Please?”

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be.” Jenna pressed her lips to Randi’s again, indulging herself in a kiss of reassurance that their love could overcome any obstacle. Clinging to each other, they sauntered down the hall. The ever-observant Bandit raced ahead, joining Byron in the bedroom to ensure he wouldn’t be left out of whatever happened next.

10

Friday, September 6

“How did things go at home last night?” Jamison asked when Jenna walked into the office five minutes late. A blend of concern and hope played across her face.

Jenna quirked her mouth and arched a brow. “We aren’t done with this investigation. It’s back to square one. I want us to dig into everyone with a motive to kill Griffin—karate skills or not. If he was having an affair, who was it with? What about the sexual harassment suits? Bauman, Strike Zone has a back door. Can you find me any cameras that point in its direction? We need to interview the discarded student, August King,” she instructed. “Maybe he lacked the skills to defeat his old teacher, but he could have a friend who didn’t. And the fellow with the school in Salem—Denzel Blackburn. Randi told me how critical Teresa Griffin’s sister was of Bruce and how she was glad he was out of her life. Maybe her husband or Teresa’s father are big and strong enough to take down a black belt. I’m going to the lab and the morgue and asking everyone to keep looking for additional evidence.”

“I thought we had the guy already,” Owens grumbled.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Jenna replied. “I don’t want to rush to judgment on this one. Do we have any other cases today that I’m unaware of?”

“Naw,” the big detective answered. “Besides, digging up dirt on sleazebags is fun—uh, I mean, the mental stimulation of investigation is rewarding.”

“I was just asked to help drugs and gangs go through security videos and traffic cams hunting a suspect,” Bauman replied, “but I’ll be doing it from my station here, so I can still be on call if you need me.”

“I’ll get patrol cars to bring in King and Blackburn, so we don’t waste time driving all over the county,” Jamison volunteered.

“Thanks, everyone. Something tells me this one’s more complicated than it appears.”

Dr. Gupta was bent over a microscope in deep concentration when Jenna slipped in unnoticed. She waited, watching the woman work and listening to the machines hum until Dr. Gupta glanced over at her. “Oh, Lieutenant Ferrari, you snuck up on me.” She straightened and smiled. “Your suspect DNA is running for comparison, but it’ll be later this afternoon before it’s ready.”

Jenna knew that. It had taken several hours to acquire the warrant to compel Mr. Moro’s DNA sample yesterday. His lawyer showed up, and they had about a forty-five-minute consult. Mr. Tristen Brock, a dignified man with ash-brown hair in an expensive suit and a forty-year-old’s pudge around his middle, had then engaged in respectful intercourse with Jenna in which he swore by his client’s innocence. The hearing with the judge had been set for Monday. That gave Jenna all weekend to drum up fresh evidence and drop the charges before the case went any further.

“However,” Dr. Gupta added, “Mr. Moro’s hair sample is a match to several of the hairs recovered from Griffin’s clothing.”

Jenna nodded. “We know he was involved in an altercation with Griffin earlier in the day, so that isn’t as substantive as the DNA from the blood will be. I have a question,” she announced and leaned her elbows on the counter. Dr. Gupta approached with a curious tilt of her head.

“When the items from the robbery case came in—including the sword and nunchucks—were they ever tested for DNA?”

“At the time, the lab only had an order put in for fingerprints, which were a match to the suspect—Jones, if I recall. I was under the impression the assignment was to establish he had handled all the stolen items and to discover if anyone other than the thief and rightful owners’ fingerprints were present.”

“True, but I want to take it further,” Jenna stated. “It’s still possible these cases are related. I’ll talk to Wilcox and ask her to send you some samples to test. Thanks. Any plans for the weekend?”

“Tonight is the first football game of the season and Kari, our daughter, will be performing her first half-time show with the band,” Dr. Gupta answered with pride. “We can’t miss it.”

“Indeed, no,” Jenna agreed, stretching back up and sliding her arms off the counter. “Have fun, and my best to Kari.”

Down the hall, Jenna turned into the multi-purpose, cluttered lab that served as the domain for Wilcox, Davenport, Deng, and Sherman. They were all thorough, professional CSIs whose work the department depended upon. It struck Jenna that she didn’t come in here very often, and she glanced around at stuffed bookshelves, stainless steel counters, and tabletops with chemistry set paraphernalia on display. Boxes and beakers, cabinets and tanks, computer stations, and backlit wall displays of dozens of evidence photographs filled the room. In the back, a large roll-up door led to the “garage,” a big, often empty room where vehicles were processed. The bejeweled katana and antique nunchucks lay on a wheeled table along with laptops, TVs, and boxes of smaller valuables recovered from Jones’ place.

“Lieutenant Ferrari!” exclaimed CSI Wilcox. “What a pleasant surprise.” She left a small table under a huge, ring-lighted magnifier to meet Jenna in the middle of the lab.

“You always do excellent work,” Jenna began, and she meant it. She had a great deal of respect for Destiny and the team.

“But?” A questioning doubt crept across Wilcox’s earthy face. Her fragrance smelled a little like jasmine.

“When you were examining the sword and nunchucks, you were doing so as if they were merely recovered stolen items,” Jenna said. “At the time, that’s all we thought they were. Now I want you to go back over each piece with a fine-toothed comb. Swab for DNA; look for any new nicks or scrapes, the pummel and ends, every micrometer of surface. Check for anything that shouldn’t be there. These artifacts were hanging on the wall in Bruce Griffin’s dojo before his murder and in Scooter Jones’ possession afterward. Jones doesn’t look like our killer, but it’s possible someone else at the crime scene handled one or both items. If so, I need to know who.”

“Will do,” Wilcox replied, “but I thought you already made an arrest.”

“Just double-checking all the boxes,” Jenna said.

“It never hurts to double-check,” Wilcox agreed with a friendly expression. “I can’t tell you how many times I saw something new when reexamining a piece of evidence after a few days of my initial pass. If there’s anything else, we’ll find it.”

Just then, skinny, barely out of diapers Brian Davenport entered through the back. “There’s more holes in that piece of junk than a sieve! Oh, hi, Lieutenant Ferrari. Drugs and gangs brought in this car all shot to pieces. I’m supposed to document every hole and determine which gun made it.”

“And fun is had by all,” Jenna quipped. “Thank you, Destiny.”

Knowing fingerprints couldn’t do any more without suspects’ samples to compare to, Jenna bypassed José Martin’s lab and took the elevator to the basement. Upon entering, she observed Dr. Valentine hovering over a new patient—a physically fit, young Black male. He glanced up at her and dimmed his headlamp when she raised a hand and squinted.

“Lieutenant Ferrari,” he greeted. “I didn’t know drugs and gangs handed this one over to you.”

“They didn’t,” she answered and strode to meet him.

Dr. Valentine returned sad eyes to the body on his table and shook his head. “Thirteen bullet holes,” he lamented. “He could have been the next Vince Wilfork, Arthur Baldwin, or James Fischer; instead, he’s just dead. What can I help you with today?”

Jenna spared a moment for the young man occupying the medical examiner’s table. Why do they join gangs? she wondered. Why do they sell drugs or take drugs or kill other kids over drugs? Her thoughts shifted to her little sister, Angie, who had stayed clean and excelled in her new job driving an ambulance all summer. If Randi and I hadn’t intervened and provided positive support for her, would she have ended up on a slab? More likely from an overdose than a bullet, but still … Jenna shook off the heavy sentiment. She realized many people, young and old, even those with the loving sustenance of a good family, fell victim to addiction. And the fellow on the examining table had somehow been involved in supporting the vicious cycle.

“Do you still have Bruce Griffin?”

“Yes. His wife’s sister called and requested some copies of the death certificate, but nobody has come to claim, or even view, his body yet. It’s only been a couple of days,” he admitted. “I’m sure the poor widow is overwhelmed.”

“Yeah.” Jenna had to wonder. Teresa or a relative had every reason to want to kill Griffin; she just couldn’t see twiggy, timid Teresa stopping his heart with a blow to the chest.

“Hey, I’m going to ask a favor,” Jenna said, “and this is no reflection on the superb job you always do. Would you please go over his body again? I’m looking for anything we might have missed, anything new. Check for details that aren’t obvious. Run tests for chemicals that weren’t included in the initial tox screen. I don’t know—anything that suggests maybe it wasn’t a hit to his chest that arrested his heart.”

“I can certainly do that,” Dr. Valentine answered, “as soon as I finish with Cook here. His cause of death is quite evident, but I still must do him justice with my attention.” He cast a pitying gaze at the cadaver.

“Of course,” Jenna acknowledged with respect. “Please let me know if you find anything new.” She let herself out.

Jenna returned to her office determined to rummage under every rock until she found other evidence to consider. Since she hadn’t had her coffee yet, she headed there first.

The coffee station sat nearest Jamison’s desk, and the younger detective spun her chair toward Jenna as she stopped to pour a cup. “Denzel Blackburn will be here shortly,” she reported, “and August King said he could come in around lunchtime when he has a break between classes. He’s a community college student and doesn’t want to miss a class this early in the term. I didn’t think there was a rush, so I told him noon would be fine.”

“That’ll work,” Jenna replied and added her creamer. “We’ll want to request fingerprints, a hair sample, and DNA from both of them.”

“I’ve got the names of the students who filed the harassment charges,” Owens announced, “along with a list of their male relatives. They were orange and green belts—not beginners, but a long way from mastering sensei-killing moves. Still, you might want to talk to them.”

“I do,” Jenna said, accepting the folder Owens extended in her direction. “Their testimonies could help establish a pattern of misconduct. Perhaps his most recent harassee didn’t file a complaint with the police department—rather with someone she thought could put Griffin in his place.”

Jenna eased into her office chair to avoid spilling her coffee on the folder and thumbed through it. Orange belt Emily Davis, fifteen, African American, had been a ninth-grade student in her second year at Strike Zone when her complaint was filed. She had a stepdad, a younger brother, an older male cousin, and an uncle who worked in construction. Maybe the blow to Griffin’s chest came from a sledgehammer, she considered. The end would be around the same size as a man’s fist.

Green belt Amy Perez, sixteen, White, attended a private, church-based school where she was in grade ten at the time. That would put her over eighteen now. Her father served as the sponsoring church’s youth minister and her older brother attended college at Liberty University in Lynchburg. No other male relatives in Virginia, though Jenna couldn’t be sure of the boyfriend angle. Both complaints were from three years ago and had been settled out of court; none had been filed since.

His tastes run young, she thought, wondering if “affair” was the correct word to attach to the stories about him seeing another “woman.” Then again, he might not be a pedophile. There were no accusations of molestation or sexual assault listed against Griffin—just inappropriate creepiness and verbal suggestions and innuendoes. He obviously learned to tone down his tactics after having to fork out money. I’ll bet he lost other students when this report leaked.

The photos Owens had pulled of the girls from the internet presented differing looks; however, both teenagers were described as excellent students and physically fit. Smart, athletic girls, his students, looked up to him. He got to mold them, train them … groom them? Maybe he was laying the groundwork for when they turned eighteen and he wouldn’t put himself in legal trouble by making advances.

“We should be looking for a young woman, barely legal,” Jenna said to the room. “She might be a community college student and probably be, or have been in the past, enrolled at Strike Zone. Jamison, find out where Amy Perez and Emily Davis are now. I want to talk to them too.”

“You got it, boss.”

Officer Stewart, who often manned the front desk, stuck his fuzzy head in the door. “Lieutenant, you’ve got company, and, I must say, Denzel Blackburn is one delicious specimen of manhood.”

Jenna and Jamison laughed, Owens rolled his eyes, and Bauman abandoned his work on the video footage as fast as if someone had called out, “Free pecan pies!”

11

“Good morning, Mr. Blackburn,” Jenna greeted as she entered the interview room alone. He rose, offering Jenna a respectful bow. The man wore a casual short-sleeved shirt and creamy-tan slacks.

Bauman ran the booth while Jamison and Owens continued to search for suspects, motives, and clues. Jenna noted Officer Stewart had been correct in his assessment of Denzel’s appearance. His bald head and muscular build, along with the rich umber of his skin tone, immediately reminded her of her esteemed boss, Captain Myers—even if he wasn’t as old or tall as her boss. Rather than Myers’ commanding aura, Blackburn’s presence bore the soothing, relaxed quality most often observed in elder sages or holy men.

“Good morning,” Blackburn repeated in a deep baritone, taking his seat when Jenna did. “I’m Sensei Denzel Blackburn of Zen Martial Arts in Salem.”

“Lieutenant Detective Ferrari of the criminal investigations department. We’re looking into Bruce Griffin’s death. I appreciate you coming in to answer questions. The information I have indicates you were acquainted with the deceased. What can you tell me about Mr. Griffin?”

Denzel folded his hands on the table and cocked his head, making a considering expression before answering. “He ran a successful business.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Jenna specified. “Others have said he didn’t always treat you with the proper respect, which seems to be a pattern in Griffin’s dealings with others.”

Opening his palms, her witness said, “I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead.”

“I only need you to tell me the truth, Mr. Blackburn. Did he criticize, demean, and threaten you? Did he take offense at your students outperforming his? Did he engage in unscrupulous tactics that cost your students trophies?”

“I teach my pupils that trophies, awards, and accolades are illusions,” Denzel answered calmly. “It’s what’s in here that counts.” He pointed toward his heart. “However, I understand what you are asking, and, yes, he didn’t treat any human being with the proper respect. My students and I were no different.”

“What specifically did he ridicule about you?”

“I grew up in a bad neighborhood, Lieutenant Ferrari,” Denzel began, “and I was a skinny kid who wasn’t bright enough to make A’s in school, not athletic enough to excel at sports, and not charismatic enough to charm my way out of trouble. I was a perfect mark for bullies and gang members. My mother prayed for me, but it didn’t stop me from being beaten up. I was in grade nine when I witnessed a Korean boy at my school defend himself from three larger attackers and send them running away. I asked how he learned to do that, and he brought me to my first karate class. Not only did I learn to defend myself, but my confidence surged. I gained wisdom about the universe and how life works and embraced the peaceful religion of Buddhism. It isn’t what most Americans think—praying to a statue and other such nonsense. Anyway, Griffin enjoyed ridiculing my religion most, I think, and my humble beginnings second. I wouldn’t call him a raving racist, but he wore white privilege around like a windbreaker.”

“Wouldn’t you have wanted to teach him a lesson,” Jenna suggested, “to stand up to him for your students’ sake?”

“I cannot teach men like Griffin anything,” Denzel admitted with a half laugh. “One must empty their cup for it to be filled, and his was already full of so much ignorance nobody could express a truth he would hear. The only person I can change is myself. The best I can do is to leave people like Griffin to their own devices. I am only sad he did not learn.”

“Are you familiar with dim mak, the touch of death?”

Denzel inclined his head. “I do not believe it’s practiced outside of the Far East. And many consider it a myth, so, while I’m familiar with the concept, I could not, nor would not, be able to demonstrate it for you. Why do you ask?”

“Because Bruce Griffin didn’t just die of a heart attack,” Jenna explained. “He was murdered—struck in the chest with a precise and powerful enough blow to stop his heart.”

Concern crossed the man’s pleasant face for the first time. “A Buddhist could not have done this. We do not believe in killing even the smallest creatures, much less a human being. And anyone who takes the philosophy of karate seriously wouldn’t use its tenets for anything other than self-defense.”

“Mr. Blackburn, Christians don’t believe in murdering people either, but it doesn’t stop them from doing it on a regular basis,” Jenna expounded. “And he could have threatened or attacked the person in question, making the self-defense rule viable—in which case, no murder was committed. It’s imperative I uncover what happened Tuesday night so that the wrong person doesn’t pay the price. Where were you around nine o’clock that evening?”

“My advanced class, brown belts and up, runs from eight to nine on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he answered in a relaxed tone, bearing no hint of defensiveness, guilt, or anger at it being asked. “One of my brown belt students is too young to drive, and I waited with him for his mother to pick him up, which was about ten after. Mother and student will attest to my whereabouts, as well as the six others present for the class. It would take me a minimum of twenty minutes to drive to Strike Zone, even after rush hour traffic was over.”

Nothing about this fellow struck Jenna with the slightest hint he might have killed Griffin, even though logic dictated he had a viable reason. Now, if his story held, the timing and distance made it impossible.

“Do you recall Mr. Griffin ever behaving inappropriately with any of your female students?”

“If you mean groping them, no,” he answered. “I would have instantly put a stop to that. But, Lieutenant Ferrari, almost every word that came out of his mouth was inappropriate. I’m sorry that I can’t provide you with a name.”

“What about Yoshito Moro, the owner of House of Kime?”

“Now he’s a class act, the real deal,” Denzel declared with an admiring glow on his face. “He would never stoop so low as to react to the likes of Griffin. Are you certain he didn’t just drop dead from a rotten heart? It happens, you know.”

“Believe me, Mr. Blackburn,” Jenna confessed, “my job would be much easier if that were the case. Thank you for coming in,” she said, pushing to her feet. “It’s been a real pleasure meeting you. Would you mind going down the hall with Officer Stewart to volunteer a hair and DNA sample so we can exclude you from the evidence collected?”

“That’s not a problem, since I’ve never been to Strike Zone and have had no interactions with Griffin in over two weeks. I wish you good luck with your investigation.”

Officer Stewart happily showed Blackburn to the lab, and Bauman commented, “Isn’t that the most perfect body you’ve ever seen? Oh, and I don’t think he did it.”

Jenna smirked at him. “I’m telling Mario you said that.”

“They’d agree with me. Honestly, Lieutenant—isn’t he just the pinnacle?”

Jenna shrugged. “Sure. I mean, I can appreciate a perfectly sculpted male physique even if I’m not inclined to fondle it. I wish I had his butt.”

Back in the office, Jamison delivered news. “Emily Davis’s family has moved to Georgia, but I talked to Amy Perez’s father. She’s a freshman at Liberty, where her brother is enrolled, and the dad, David Perez, volunteered to come in and talk to us. He should be here any minute.”

“Good,” Jenna responded. “Denzel Blackburn is off the list. I need to check his alibi, but it’s going to hold. Owens?”

“The Perezes are conservative, and he might respond better to a male authority figure,” Owens suggested. “Plus, he’s around my age.”

“Then come on into the interview and play my token, middle-aged White male,” Jenna said tongue-in-cheek.

“Hey! Who’re you calling middle-aged?” Owens retorted with a cartoonish expression. Jenna just laughed.

“Jamison, come practice using the equipment again. Bauman, I need you to break into Griffin’s finances. That’s an angle we haven’t explored yet. Maybe he owed someone money. And check his credit card statements for things like hotels that might speak to his supposed affair.”

“Oh, goodie!” he beamed diabolically. “I’ll get right on it.”

A few minutes later, Jenna and Detective Owens sat across from an average-sized man with trim, frosted-brown hair, wearing a sports coat and tie despite the heat outside. Jenna let Owens take the lead as he made their introductions.

“Thank you for coming in to talk with us today, Mr. Perez,” Owens said, with an aspect of brotherhood ringing in his voice.

“It’s been three years since the incident,” Perez responded. “I can’t imagine what you’d want to ask about now.” As if a light bulb exploded, his demeanor shifted to one of protective distress. “He hasn’t actually assaulted anyone, has he?”

“Not that we’re aware of,” Owens assured him. “But he is dead.”

A barrage of emotions played over Perez’s face, causing Jenna to suspect he hadn’t heard about it yet. “That’s … unfortunate,” he settled on.

“Murdered,” Jenna added, with a glance to Owens as if seeking his approval. He nodded to her and returned his attention to Perez.

“Murdered? How awful.”

“Yes, but it might have been self-defense or justifiable if Griffin had attacked someone who fought back,” Owens supplied. “We’re looking through his past offenses to establish a pattern of behavior to find a person he might have threatened or hurt who would need to fight back. You filed a complaint against him three years ago and were going to sue but then settled out of court. I know it’s unpleasant business, but could you please recount the entire story of what occurred between Mr. Griffin and your daughter?”

Jenna observed, weighing Perez’s words, inflections, and body language. “Well, I suppose, if it will help. Where should I start?”

“What made you decide to send your daughter to Strike Zone?” Jenna asked.

“Oh, well.” Perez settled back into his chair and crossed a foot over his knee. “These days a young lady needs to be able to protect herself, especially with her brother leaving for college. I can’t watch over her twenty-four-seven. Amy expressed an interest in martial arts and liked watching those old Karate Kid movies and all. Besides, we knew Bruce. He used to be a member of our church—was married there and everything.”

“Really?” Owens displayed interest and leaned forward. “Why ‘used to?’”

“I don’t rightly know,” Perez answered in bewilderment. “His attendance just dropped off until he didn’t come anymore. When I asked, he said he moved to a church closer to his house. Anyway, his school focused on the punches and kicks without all the Oriental religious nonsense. The other karate school had good reviews, but I didn’t want Amy immersed in Japanese cultural teachings, so we went with Strike Zone. I had no idea Bruce had lost his way so badly until …”

“What happened?” Despite wanting to roll her eyes and groan, Jenna maintained her professionalism, presenting Perez with a compassionate expression.

“Everything was fine for the first year and a half but, by the time Amy turned sixteen, she had gone from gangly to gorgeous. She could easily pass for older, and that’s when her mother and I became nervous and worried for her. We thought being proficient in karate would protect her from unwanted attention—not plunge her into the middle of it.”

Perez sat forward, leaned his elbows on the table, and clasped his hands together in front of his chin. “At first, she wouldn’t say what was going on at the studio. She just stopped wanting to go. When Debbie and I pressed her about it, Amy admitted that Bruce made her feel uncomfortable. Should that have been a sign?” he asked, his bottom lip trembling enough to be noticeable. “He insisted the students all call him Bruce, not Mr. Griffin.”

Owens shook his head. “Not necessarily. My son’s little league coach used to want them all to call him Tony. It made him feel younger.”

“I suppose, but Bruce was already young—a lot younger than I am, anyway.” Perez let his fists fall to the tabletop. “Amy said he was acting too familiar, liked to get into the girls’ personal space, and she said the way he looked at her creeped her out. One day after practice, he tried to convince her to let him drive her home. Amy knew she wasn’t allowed to ride in a man’s or boy’s car alone—no exception. She told him that, and he argued with her, not wanting to take no for an answer, going on about how they weren’t strangers, and he was her teacher, so she should trust him. I know my daughter, detectives, and she’s a very trusting person. But she said everything about the way he acted sent up red flags. Thank the lord, Debbie showed up about that time to get her, or who knows what would have happened?”

“So, you filed a complaint against him?” Owens asked. He shook his head with a humorless grin. “If it had been my daughter, I think I’d have punched the jerk in the nose.”

Perez gave him a flat look. “He’s a martial arts master, and I’m a youth pastor. Besides, I don’t condone violence unless it’s absolutely necessary. He didn’t do anything—even if he might have. Taking the legal route was the best option.”

“But you dropped your lawsuit,” Jenna noted.

Nodding, Perez turned a palm up on the table. “We all sat down and had a good conversation. Bruce apologized and said it was all a misunderstanding. He explained that, where he came from in Indiana, nothing he said or did would be considered inappropriate. He didn’t mean to make Amy feel uncomfortable and would never make unwanted advances to a minor. Then he brought up how he and his wife were having trouble, that she was so demanding of him, and he always noticed how Amy behaved like the good Christian woman he thought he’d married. He begged our forgiveness and promised to be more careful in how he interacted with the girls.”

Jenna jumped in with a robust voice. “He told you his wife was demanding?” Incredulity made her mouth drop.

“You just never know about people,” Perez said. “Anyway, we took Amy out of karate. She said she’d learned to defend herself pretty well and didn’t want the drama of having to deal with Bruce anymore. She hasn’t suffered ill effects from the experience, but, since you’re talking to me, I fear he didn’t follow through with changing his ways.”

“No, Mr. Perez,” Owens stated, “he didn’t change at all. Can you recall any other teenage female students he made feel uncomfortable?”

“I couldn’t say. I try to mind my own business, take care of my family, and be a positive influence on the youth at my church. I’m sorry Bruce strayed from the fold and went down that road, and I’m sorry someone killed him.”

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Yoshito Moro?” Owens asked.

“Who?” Perez’s brows quirked. “You mean the guy who runs the other karate studio?” He shook his head. “I never met him. Did he kill Bruce?”

“This is an ongoing inquiry and we’re still investigating who might have killed Mr. Griffin,” Jenna replied with the standard line. “Would you be willing to contribute a hair sample and DNA to exclude you as a suspect?”

Perez pursed his lips, then shook his head. “I know my rights, detectives, and I don’t want the government to put my DNA on file somewhere. Who knows what it could be used for? When was this supposed to have happened?”

“Tuesday night around nine,” Owens replied.

“I was home with my wife watching all three FBI shows back-to-back.” David Perez stood up. “If that will be all, I have to get ready for an after-game fellowship for the youth at church tonight.”

Jenna and Owens rose with him. Ron extended a friendly hand. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Perez. We appreciate you speaking with us.”

Once he left, Jenna said, “Guy watches all the FBI series and still thinks the government is out to get him? Anyway, I believe him about Griffin’s bold-faced lying when he blamed his wife for his poor behavior. Plus, Indiana? Nothing in Griffin’s background check said he ever lived in Indiana, and I’m pretty sure trying to lure a teenage girl into his car would be just as disapproved of in the Hoosier State as here.” She sighed and raked her fingers through her hair, puffing out an irritated breath.

Jamison joined them in the hallway. “I don’t think Mr. Perez settled with Griffin and then waited three years to whack him. That interview just gave me more reasons to dislike our victim.”

“Sleazebag or not, it’s our duty to discover the truth of what happened. Come on, y’all.” Jenna started down the hall and waved a hand forward. “Let’s get some lunch.”

12

“So, that was your first fight?” asked Jo Rodriguez as she munched on her salad at a little deli across from Roanoke Community College, where Randi had invited her to meet for lunch. “I still can’t imagine you ranting and raving like a normal person. You’re always so”—Jo waved her fork at Randi—“Randi.”

“Yeah,” Randi bemoaned. “I let myself get worked up, but I had a good reason. My sensei didn’t kill anyone—at least he didn’t murder anyone; I’m positive.” Her fresh panini lay half-eaten on her plate.

“Have you talked to him yet?” Jo’s fade-swept hair was back to blue after going through a stint of purple, its longer strands billowing like a wave over her crown. The clipped side over one ear showcased an array of hoops and studs while a trio of butterflies winged their way up the side of her neck as if they intended to flutter through the largest ring.

“Not yet, but I’m going to see him when my afternoon classes are done before heading over to help Kenji at the dojo. It almost seems like a bad dream,” Randi said. “This is the kind of thing that happens to strangers, not your close friends.”

“It always seems that way until it happens to you,” Jo answered with compassionate, sage words. “I’m sure God will forgive you for getting mad just this once.” She added a playful smirk and a wink.

“I know; I’m only human, but I know better. Amid a crisis is when I should be at my most serene, focusing my attention on positive feelings of peace, love, and healing,” she realized. “And when faced with a trial, did I practice what I preach? No. I gave into worry, fear, and fury.”

“I’m sure all the crying children helped with that,” Jo quipped. “If I’d been surrounded by such a horrifying nightmare, they’d be hauling me off to prison for murder! Cut yourself some slack. All that matters is that you and Jenna are OK because, if you two break up after that big wedding, I want my gift back.” She stuffed another forkful of salad into her mouth so comically it got a giggle out of Randi.

“We’re OK. Now, enough about me and my vibrational failures,” Randi said, changing the subject. She had to tell Jo about Yoshito being arrested and her fight with Jenna or she’d have burst, but it was time to focus her emotions elsewhere. “What have you been up to?”

“As you know, I’ve been taking sessions with Rhiannon twice a month and she’s helped me understand myself, why I do what I do, and how to change the parts I want to. I feel ten years older and ten years younger at the same time, you know? The wisdom of a forty-year-old and the energy of a twenty-year-old. I think I’m ready for a real relationship now. Those string of one-night stands are behind me. Madison was my first girlfriend who lasted more than a few weeks, but I wasn’t ready with her. Then I learned so much from my relationship with Tosh, only the long-distance thing was too much and, while we enjoyed our differences, it turned out we were just too different. Now I’m ready to meet Ms. Right.”

“Good for you,” Randi cheered with a genuine smile. “You are such a catch.”

“Well, we’ll see if anyone else thinks so,” Jo replied modestly, “and if there are any sapphically-inclined women in Roanoke I haven’t slept with and run out on. You wouldn’t believe the bridges my insecure, immature self burned along the way.”

“If you’re like me, you’ll meet her when you least expect it,” Randi supplied and plucked the other half of her sandwich from its plate. “Do you still go to The Park Dance Club on weekends?”

“Sometimes, but that was my old hangout. I’m not looking to just hook up anymore. I mean, I still love the atmosphere and would so go on a date there if she was into dance clubs. Where should I look?”

Randi swallowed a bite. “Have you tried the public library?”

“The what?” Jo’s eyes rounded and her jaw dropped. Randi giggled.

“Don’t look,” she recommended. “Just be. You’ll attract the right one like I did without even trying.”

“I hope so. Anyway, I started a totally crazy new activity to get algorithms and computer code out of my head for a few hours a week. I’m taking a ceramics class. Isn’t that nuts?”

“I think it’s brilliant.” Randi exuded joy for her friend’s stretching of her horizons. “Everyone needs a creative outlet—not that writing computer programs doesn’t count as creative. Ceramics is nice and just think of the money you’ll save on Christmas gifts by making everyone a figurine or decorative bowl this year.”

Jo laughed and shook her head. “I love you, Randi. Everything will be all right. Jenna will find who really killed that guy and your sensei will go home. But if you need to talk or blow off steam or a shoulder to cry on, just call me.”

The comfort of having a faithful friend filled Randi with peace, at least for the moment. “Thanks, hon, and the same goes for you.”

***

Jenna, Owens, and Jamison were laughing about some wisecrack Owens had made when they entered the precinct, bringing Bauman his takeout since he had to run Griffin’s finances, when Captain Myers stepped out of his office. His imposing presence filled the hallway, even more so when he rested his thumbs in his belt loops.

“Detectives, I need one or more of you over to Gainsboro to assess the situation there,” he stated. “Gerard and Campbell responded to a 911 call along with an ambulance, where they discovered the body of a woman who appears to have died of an overdose. Since the scene is fresh and they haven’t removed the body—and you have nothing better to do—I need sharp eyes on this one to make sure foul play wasn’t involved. Dr. Valentine’s heading over too. A serious response will show the poorer neighborhoods that they aren’t being neglected.”

“Yes, sir,” Jenna answered, “but we’re still working the Griffin homicide.”

His face retracted in puzzled concern and one hand dropped from his belt. “I thought you already made an arrest, and the case was closed.”

“No, sir. I mean, an arrest was made,” Jenna confessed, “but I’m not certain he’s the guy.”

“But the DNA, the video footage, the motive and cause of death,” Myers expounded.

“I know, Captain, but he didn’t confess.” Jenna stood her ground, staring him straight in his piercing brown eyes. “We’re interviewing more suspects and going back through evidence. Some of the hair samples found on the victim haven’t been matched yet and there was a back entrance to Strike Zone that wasn’t caught on any cameras. My integrity demands I consider every angle before Mr. Moro is formally indicted.”

Captain Myers rubbed the back of his neck and granted Jenna a nod. “We don’t want to go to trial with the wrong guy, however—”

“Sir, we have a person of interest coming in this afternoon who Detective Jamison already spoke with over the phone. Owens and I can run over to Gainsboro and take charge of the scene there while she and Bauman stay here and work the Griffin case. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes, that would be fine,” he answered with confidence. “It’s probably just an overdose, but we’ve had some trouble in that neighborhood recently and drugs and gangs is overwhelmed with their manhunt. I appreciate you taking care of this.”

“Certainly.” Jenna turned to Jamison and opened her mouth.

“I’ve got this, boss,” Jamison affirmed and plucked Bauman’s lunch bag from her hand. “Bauman will record the whole interview so you can watch it later.” Jenna nodded, and she and Owens headed back out.

“I call driver’s seat,” quipped Ron as his longer stride moved ahead of her out the back door toward the employees’ parking.

Jenna rolled her eyes. “Whatever makes you happy.”

The tense argument with Randi last night had burdened her all day. At least they had sort of made up. Jenna had become used to Randi’s rule about never going to bed angry, even though, until now, it had always been her who was angry about something. It made sense, though.

In the passenger’s seat, Jenna brought up the address from the notice dispatch had sent out. They wouldn’t be far behind Girard and Campbell and might beat the coroner to the scene. Jenna hated overdoses—such a stupid way to die. She recalled Angie telling her about the time she almost died from mixing too many different drugs, and it chilled her to the bone.

She vaguely heard Owens talking about the football game tonight and how one of his boys was playing in it. Jenna remembered that his oldest son had left for college just a week ago, and she tried to remember the last time she’d watched a football game from the stands.

“It’s too hot for football,” she heard herself comment. “You’re supposed to be bundled up in blankets with steam puffing out of your mouth, not sweating like a pig after a brief walk from the parking lot.”

Owens laughed. “It’ll be cold soon enough. Try playing with snow on the ground—now that’s something!” Being a former college ball player himself, Ron would know.

By the time they arrived, the ambulance had gone, leaving the one patrol car, its lights still whirring, parked in front of a dilapidated house with weeds and dirt for a front yard. Several of the surrounding homes appeared in the same state of disrepair. Jenna had a sinking feeling from the instant she slid out of the car.

Officer Campbell stepped out to meet them. “Afternoon,” he greeted. The officer removed his hat and rifled his fingers through sweaty hair before pulling it back on. The air was as still as a hunter in his blind, watching a deer, and readying for his shot, while the sun baked down as if it was stuck in July.

Assessing his response to the weather, Jenna mentioned, “I hear rain from the hurricane is coming. Maybe it’ll cool things off tomorrow.”

“I hope so, ‘cause it’s dang hot in that house. There’s a window air conditioner but it wasn’t turned on,” Campbell explained as they eased toward the open front door. “Maybe broken or she couldn’t afford the electric bill. Either way, just be prepared.”

A wall of oppressive heat struck Jenna as soon as she crossed the threshold.

“Man alive!” Owens exclaimed. “Are you sure she didn’t die from heat exhaustion?”

“Hey, Ron,” called Girard. The officer rivaling Owen’s build dripped with sweat and his uniform shirt sported two large, oval-shaped wet spots under his armpits. “Over here.”

Jenna and Owens followed his directions to find a woman somewhere between twenty-five and forty half lying on her couch, half slumping toward a nasty shag carpet that looked as if it was original with the 1960s home construction. The track marks on her pasty, bare arm appeared fresh, and drug paraphernalia lay in an ashtray along with the ashes on a chipped and battered coffee table. Her stringy, dirty blonde hair, matted with oil and smelling faintly of cigarette smoke, hadn’t been washed in so long it had lost all its luster.

The room assailed Jenna’s senses, with its dank odors and prevailing filth. More than untidy, it seemed a layer of grime coated every surface, including walls, ceiling, and light fixtures. Trash had been kicked into corners or haphazardly strewn about and the floorboards creaked when anyone moved. Jenna was half afraid the floor would give way at the slightest provocation.

Glancing around, she asked, “Who called it in?”

“I don’t know,” Girard answered with a shrug. “We were the closest unit when dispatch relayed the call, but the ambulance arrived first. They said she’d been dead long enough to have grown cold and, since there was nothing they could do, they left.”

“How did they get in?” Jenna followed up. “Did someone let them in, or was the door unlocked?” She leaned over, inspecting the body for signs of trauma.

Campbell answered, “They didn’t mention anyone else being here, so I guess it was unlocked.”

“My God!” Dr. Valentine exclaimed as he entered. “It’s like an oven in here. No wonder the poor woman is dead.”

“Good, you’re here,” Jenna responded and moved back to give him space. “Have you had a chance to reexamine Griffin yet?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. I just finished with Cook and grabbed lunch when I was called here. I’ll get to him—don’t worry,” Valentine replied. “Let me see here.” He leaned over the body and pulled back her eyelids. “Do we have an ID on the victim?”

“The house is rented by a Samantha Gibson,” replied Owens as he studied his phone. “Twenty-five, has several misdemeanor arrests, including possession and disturbing the peace, no spouse, but, Ferrari?”

The tone in his voice prompted Jenna to turn from Valentine and the woman to meet his gaze with apprehension.

“It says here she’s got a kid—a five-year-old little girl named Aurora,” he said.

Jenna’s heart lurched into her throat. “Then where is she? At school maybe? Don’t five-year-olds go to kindergarten or something?”

“If so, she went by herself,” Dr. Valentine confirmed. “Our victim died before midnight. I need to get her back to the morgue and run an autopsy to be sure, but she’s showing the classic signs of an overdose. I’m sure the stagnate heat in this place didn’t help. There’s not even a window open.”

Jenna glanced around at the closed windows and felt a trickle of perspiration run down her back. “Girard, Campbell, did y’all clear the house?”

“I called out and did a walk-through,” Campbell said, “and didn’t see anyone else present.”

“We’ve got to find that little girl,” Jenna ordered as fear and determination raced through her veins.

13

Girard left to check the backyard and Campbell made another pass around the house while Owens questioned the neighbors. Jenna tapped her toe, impatiently on hold with Bauman while she had him look up what school Aurora should be attending. Dr. Valentine’s aides loaded the woman, whose face vaguely resembled Samantha Gibson’s mugshot, onto a gurney.

“Yeah, OK,” Jenna replied as she scratched a phone number onto her notepad. “No thanks, I’ve got it, but I might call again. We’ve got to find—”

Sensing a new presence in the room, Jenna stopped mid-sentence and twisted her head toward one entrance to the living room. A diminutive figure stood there, wearing outgrown pajamas with pant legs halfway to her knees. Ribbons of peachy pink below uncertain eyes highlighted how long it must have been since her face had been washed. Jenna swallowed. “I’ll call you back,” she said and slid the phone into her pocket.

The little girl raced across the floor, dodging obstacles, pizza boxes, and old, empty milk cartons, and latched her arms around Jenna’s leg. She was so skinny and frail that Jenna was afraid to touch her lest she break something. “Campbell,” she called. He appeared from the kitchen.

“There she is,” he announced the obvious. At the sound of the officer’s voice, Aurora’s grip tightened around Jenna’s thigh, and she pressed her cheek to it.

Entering the back door, Girard called, “I didn’t see any—oh, there she is. I think she likes you, Lieutenant.”

“I don’t know why,” she answered in a bewildered tone. Tentatively, Jenna stroked the little girl’s tangled, light oak hair. “There now, you’re safe. Are you Aurora?” The child nodded. “Did you call 911?” She nodded again and stretched her chin upward to peer at Jenna.

“Did the man take Mama away?”

“Yes, sweetie. He took your mama away.”

“She wouldn’t wake up,” Aurora said and lowered her face into Jenna’s pant leg.

Glancing around, Jenna didn’t observe a single surface she wished to sit on, so she just crouched beside the frightened child. “Why didn’t you come out when the policemen and ambulance people got here?”

She shuddered. Although the girl had shifted her position to accommodate Jenna’s, she hadn’t let go. “They could’ve been the hurting men. I hid in my closet under the basket so they wouldn’t find me.”

A numbness crept over Jenna as a sick feeling oozed through her insides. She didn’t want to know what Aurora meant by “the hurting men.” Did they hurt her mother or her or both? And in what ways? She felt like she was falling into a well as flashbacks from nearly two years ago flooded her mind unbidden. Kiley had been eight and was bigger, healthier, and better cared for than this little waif. Jenna couldn’t save her and had watched helplessly at a distance while trying to talk her captor down when he’d dragged the blade of his hunting knife across her throat. Jenna had screamed out in horror and Owens had charged forward like a raging bull, but the girl’s child-molesting and murdering coach had blown his own brains out before they could reach him.

Part of Jenna was aware she still stood in this house instead of a cow pasture and that the little girl who clung to her was safe; part of her was back there, rushing to clamp her hand over the tear in Kiley’s throat, the coating of warm, sticky blood that poured over it as she tried to stop the flow, drowning in a sea of desperation. She looked at Aurora, took a deep breath, and willed herself back into the present.

“It’s OK,” Jenna said as she gave and received a tiny hug. “These are the good men, not the hurting kind. And I’m the boss of them, so you don’t have anything to be afraid of.”

Then a small, sad voice touched her ears and pierced her heart. “Mama’s not gonna wake up, is she?”

Jenna heard Owens say from somewhere, “I’ll call Child Services. Why don’t we take her outside and find a spot in the shade?”

“There’s an unopened bottle of water in the kitchen,” Campbell reported. “I’ll bring it for her to drink.”

Jenna gingerly lifted the child in her arms and settled her on her hip. “No, sweetie, she’s not waking up this time. Let’s go out and get a drink of water. Do you have a grandmother or auntie who lives nearby?”

Aurora fixed her sorrowful gaze on Jenna’s face and reached up to touch it. “You have blue eyes,” she observed, “and smell good. Gramma doesn’t live here. She came a few times. She smelled good and has blue eyes like you.”

“We’ll try to find her,” Jenna promised and carried her out into the air, which, while still hot, was much fresher.

She sat on the concrete stoop with Aurora on her lap, drinking water from the bottle. “Child Services is sending a nurse over,” Owens said. “I told them she needs a health assessment.”

“Thanks,” Jenna replied. “Try to find her grandmother. We’ll have to notify her. Also, check on the father of record.”

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I can see you’ve got your hands full.”

The coroner’s van pulled away and Owens made more phone calls. Girard and Campbell took pictures and collected bags of evidence from inside while Jenna held the fragile child, doing her best to soothe her.

“What’s your name?” Aurora asked.

“I’m Jenna.”

“Are you the police too?” Earnest brown eyes peered up at her while Aurora rubbed the fabric of Jenna’s shirt between her fingers.

“Yep.” Jenna forced a smile.

“Where’s your uniform?”

“I’m a detective, so I don’t have to wear a uniform,” Jenna explained.

“You’re a good guy.” It was a statement, not a question, bringing a genuine smile to Jenna’s face.

“Yeah, we’re the good guys. I’m so sorry about your mama, Aurora. Do you know what happened?”

Her fingers stopped exploring Jenna’s wardrobe and busied themselves screwing the cap back on the water bottle. Then she laid her head on Jenna’s shoulder as if she snuggled up in her lap every night before bed. “I’m sorry too. Mama took her shot like always, and she falls asleep, but this time she didn’t wake up. I tried to wake her up; then I went and got some Cheerios and watched cartoons. She still didn’t get up. On TV, people call 911 when something’s wrong. I know my numbers and ABCs, so I called. But the strange men showed up with loud noises, so I hid in the closet so they wouldn’t find me.”

“You did good, Aurora,” Jenna praised. “Your mother would be so proud of you.”

In a sad, matter-of-fact voice, Aurora said, “Mama wasn’t proud of me. She always said I was a burden. Jenna, what’s a burden?”

Jenna couldn’t bear to look at the child when Aurora raised her face. She knuckled away the tear she could no longer hold back as her heart broke for someone so innocent. How could life be so cruel and unfair to some children while others knew nothing but love? See, God, this is what I mean when I question your existence.

“Lieutenant Ferrari?” Jenna opened her eyes to a buxom Black woman in a bright sundress and a slender tan woman standing beside her in a nurse’s uniform. “I’m Cynthia Brown from Child Services and this is Leah Bashar. Aurora?” She smiled at the girl on Jenna’s knee and extended a manicured hand, complete with pretty, painted nails and a treat.

Aurora looked up at Jenna as if asking for her permission. Jenna smiled and patted her arm. “It’s all right. These are good guys too.”

With Jenna’s blessing, her dirty little hand retrieved the package of gummies. “Thanks,” responded her small voice. When she struggled with the package, Jenna opened it for her.

“We’re going to find your grandmother,” Jenna promised, “so we can let her know what happened, but, if she lives far away, you’ll have to stay somewhere else tonight. This nice nurse is going to check you out first.” Jenna helped Aurora out of her lap and onto the ground beside the two women.

The nurse knelt and pulled out a wet wipe. “Hey there, Aurora. I’m Leah. Can I wipe some of the dirt off your hands before you eat your candy? I’ll let you see my stethoscope.” She lifted the instrument that hung around her neck.

Aurora extended her hands and allowed Leah to wipe them. The nurse showed her how to put the ends in her ears and hold the chest piece over her heart while Ms. Brown pulled Jenna aside. “We’ve been monitoring her situation for a few years now,” she said in a hush, “ever since the last time Samantha Gibson was arrested. Aurora stayed in our facility for a few days. I’m so sorry Ms. Gibson wasn’t able to manage her dependency better, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“You’d think if she loved her daughter, she’d make the effort to get clean so she could take care of her,” Jenna said with a bitter bite in her hushed tone. She didn’t want to upset Aurora, but her sorrow was rapidly morphing into anger. “That house is worse than a pigsty,” she whispered between gritted teeth. “And has she even been feeding that kid?”

Ms. Brown laid a hand on Jenna’s arm and looked at her through compassionate eyes. “Unfortunately, approximately one in eight children live with a parent or caregiver suffering from an alcohol or substance use disorder. But to be honest, we’re so overwhelmed at Child Services that some folks fall through the cracks. We didn’t know her situation was so bad. When Sergeant Detective Owens called, he said the mom OD’d on heroin. The truth is, it doesn’t matter how much an addict loves their children; when that powerful, driving demand for another fix kicks into high gear, they’d cut off their own leg to score.”

“She mentioned ‘hurting men’ who came to the house,” Jenna whispered. “You don’t think …” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

“We’ll get a child psychiatrist appointment lined up for Monday,” Ms. Brown promised. “At least we’re getting her young. There’s a chance she won’t even remember any of this ten years from now. I hear she has a grandmother?”

“Detective Owens is working on contacting her,” Jenna said, “but I want you personally to check her out before handing Aurora over. She’s been through enough and needs to be with decent folks.”

“I will, and, at some point, before the heroin took over, I’m sure Samantha Gibson was a decent person.” Returning her attention to Aurora and the nurse, she asked, “Are y’all ready to go now? Aurora, do you have a doll or toy or blanket you want to bring to come spend the night with us? We’re going to have spaghetti and meatballs and watch Moana 2.”

Hesitating, Aurora bit her bottom lip, shook her head, and then threw herself at Jenna again. “Are you coming?” Her hold squeezed Jenna’s legs as tightly as an octopus.

“No, sweetie.” Jenna stroked her now clean cheek. “I have to find your grandmother and then go home to my house tonight.”

“Do you have a little girl you have to take care of at home?”

Jenna could feel the tears press against the inside of her eyeballs and refused to let them fall. “No, Aurora, not yet.”

“But you’re old,” she observed.

“That’s an astute observation, kid,” Owens proclaimed as he strolled over, checking out the scene with a humorous expression. “Pretty soon Ferrari’ll be too old to have a baby. Then what?”

Jenna shot him an irritated glare and started to say, “Not all women become mothers,” because it was true. Jenna had been afraid of becoming a mother, and the situation had never presented itself. Now, she was married to a loving woman who she knew wanted kids, only, understanding Jenna’s family history, wouldn’t press the issue. She recalled her experience with an alcoholic father, and, while it hadn’t been ideal, he remained functional. He always kept a job, and the only time Jenna or her siblings went hungry was when they were being punished for something. And, man, her father demanded the house stay so spotless they could have eaten off the floor! Hers hadn’t been a “normal” home, but it had been far better than this.

“What then, indeed?” she replied in as humorous a tone as she could muster. Returning her attention to Aurora, she promised, “Ms. Brown will take good care of you, and I’ll come see you as soon as I can.”

“OK.” The girl’s tone dropped in disappointment, but Aurora allowed herself to be led away without making a fuss. Jenna supposed the kid had never been allowed to say “no,” or, if she had, it hadn’t made a difference.

“Grandmother sounds very concerned and remorseful, but not surprised,” Owens reported. “She’s going to drive down from Ohio tomorrow to handle everything. I suppose you’re going to want to meet her.”

“Yeah,” Jenna responded. “Let’s go see what Jamison and Bauman have been up to. Can’t do any more here until Dr. Valentine confirms COD.” She couldn’t get away from the house of horrors soon enough.

14

It was the first time Randi had ever been to the Roanoke City Detention Center or any jail—to visit someone or otherwise. She felt extremely strange, as if someone had dipped her in Jell-O, put her on a spaceship, and flown her to an unfamiliar planet brimming with dangers. She’d been through metal detectors at the airport before, except everything about this imposing structure appeared and operated differently. The professor was completely out of her element and summoned her acting ability to pretend all was well. While the building was modern and immaculately kept, the oppressive atmosphere of the institution permeated Randi’s senses. Everywhere she looked, stern-faced figures in uniforms stood rigidly at attention, while the spying eyes of cameras recorded everything.

Unsure which officer or window to approach, Randi picked one who wasn’t occupied in conversation with anyone else. “Hello,” she greeted a stout woman, wearing the same crisp brown attire as the others, whose hair was pulled back in a bun. “I’m here to visit Mr. Yoshito Moro. He’s in temporary holding awaiting his arraignment on Monday.” She smiled at the woman, attempting to maintain a positive attitude.

Without even a glance at Randi, she replied, “Next window over,” and continued organizing papers in a stack.

Randi moved to the next window where she waited behind an older Hispanic woman who seemed more at ease in her surroundings.

“Here to see Raoul again?” asked a senior with a white mustache and a pleasant smile.

“Yes,” she answered. “How have you been, Mr. Hollinger?”

“Oh, can’t complain. Better button down the hatches tonight, Elena,” he warned. “I hear a deluge is on its way. Anything else I can do for you?” He handed the woman a visitor’s pass.

“I want to deposit some money into Raoul’s account.”

“The kiosk is right over there across the lobby.” Mr. Hollinger motioned toward something resembling an ATM. “Do you remember how to use it?”

“Yes, sir, and I remember where to go.”

“Excellent!” he praised with a winning smile. “After you’ve deposited the money, just head on back, and someone will direct you to your visitation room. Only twenty-one more days, right?”

The woman beamed at the officer. “I can’t believe you remember! Thank you so much, Mr. Hollinger, and my best to your wife.”

The woman bustled over to the machine and Randi stepped up, relieved to have a friendly fellow to guide her through the process. “Hi,” she began. “This is my first time here, so I don’t know anything.” Randi had tried to research the procedure, what to do, and who to talk to, but the information online had been so general, and much of it didn’t apply to what she was here for. She let out a nervous laugh.

The kindly older man replied, “What is it you need?”

“I’m here to visit Mr. Yoshito Moro. What should I do?”

“Well, first, I look him up in the system to make sure he’s here and his status.” Turning his attention to a monitor, he plonked a few keys, clicked his mouse, and said, “Here we go. Yoshito Moro, in temporary holding, awaiting a 10:00 a.m. arraignment hearing. Yes, he is allowed visitors. Let me contact his section foreman to bring him to meet you.”

Randi glanced around at the sounds of footsteps while Mr. Hollinger made a phone call. Someone laughed loudly, its ring echoing around the lobby. “OK, sign in here.” He handed her a clipboard with a visitor’s log and Randi filled in the information. “And here’s your visitor’s badge. You can turn it in to me when you’re ready to leave.”

Randi hung the lanyard around her neck. “Thank you. Where do I go?”

Hollinger leaned through the window and pointed at a door. “You go right through there, take the first hallway on the right, and someone will escort you to the visitation room. You’ll be monitored, of course, so no trying to pass saws or weapons to your friend.” He grinned and winked.

With Mr. Hollinger’s amiable nature setting her somewhat at ease, Randi snapped her fingers and tilted her head. “Aw, shucks! You’ve blown my plan.”

He laughed. “Go on now, honey; I’ll see you on your way out.”

Randi followed directions and soon found herself sitting in a well-lit room with small groups of tables and chairs and a guard standing watch inside the door. Windows lined one wall and another displayed education opportunities, contacts for rehab facilities, and assorted colorful self-help posters. She took a seat at an empty table moments before a guard led her sensei in. It pricked her heart to see him in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. A wave of relief washed over Randi when the guard unlocked his restraints upon reaching her table. He took a few steps back, remaining posted against the wall to monitor his prisoner. While Randi knew as surely as the sun rose in the east that Yoshito posed no threat, she understood the guard’s responsibility to remain vigilant.

When Master Moro lowered himself into the seat across from her, Randi wasn’t prepared for the surge of emotions that assailed her. She steeled herself and fought back the tears that battered her eyes. The last thing he needed was for her to fall apart.

“Good afternoon, senpai,” he said, using her title as his assistant at the dojo. “I hope you have not been overly troubled by the latest developments.”

“Overly troubled?” Randi’s mouth dropped. She closed it and took a breath before something stupid fell out. “We are all concerned about you and, of course, we’re troubled by you being falsely accused of a crime, but Kenji and I are covering your classes and keeping everything running as smoothly as possible.”

He smiled. “Convinced of my innocence, are you?”

“You know we are,” Randi swore. “But why didn’t you cooperate with the police? They said there’s a security video showing you getting out of your car in front of Strike Zone Tuesday night and that your blood was recovered from Griffin’s shirt. I know there’s a reasonable explanation. If you’d only give it to them, you could be out of here in time for dinner.”

“Randi, some things are private.” His expression darkened. “Did you come to lecture me?”

“No, sensei. I came to see you because you’re in prison and you shouldn’t be. You mean the world to me.” Randi wanted to understand this stubborn streak of his; she just didn’t.

His smile returned, and he patted her hand on the table.

“No physical contact,” barked a gruff voice. His warm fingers slid away.

“You are kind, and I am grateful. This isn’t such a bad place.” Yoshito glanced around the room where several other residents visited with loved ones and the sun shone through the windows. Outside, the grounds were green and inviting.

“The facility is better than I expected to find, but a nice cage is still a cage, and you deserve to be free,” she argued.

“My child, I am always free,” Yoshito answered with calm assurance. “Freedom is an unconditional state of being. Many are those imprisoned by fear, hatred, lack, suspicion, guilt, ignorance, and other bindings locked around their hearts and minds. One who is free is free wherever he or she happens to be. A locked door cannot steal my freedom; you should know this. You’re letting worry cloud your vision.”

“I know, but you know what I mean,” Randi responded. “We need you out there in the world. You don’t want to miss Kenji’s wedding, do you?”

“My spirit will be present even if my body is not.” The man exuded such serenity that it made Randi feel ashamed of her angry tirade and hours of anxiety. “I never thought I’d have to say this, Randi McLeod, but you must have faith.” He pointed at her with a squint and half grin.

“Ha!” Randi let out a short laugh and shook her head. “I do, don’t I? It’s just that this is so bizarre. I was caught off guard and dealt with it all poorly. Maybe my faith isn’t as strong as yours.”

“You have mountains of faith in some matters and pebbles in others,” Yoshito said. “But you are young and must have somewhere to grow. Have faith in your detective Jenna; she’ll uncover the truth. Everything is going to plan and will work out exactly as it was meant to.”

“I know, sensei, but why won’t you tell her what happened between you and Griffin? It would be so much faster and easier,” Randi pleaded.

“Faster and easier for whom?” Yoshito’s cheerful demeanor withdrew, replaced by a pensive expression that made him look years older. “Even I can fall prey to the lure of negative emotions and debase myself with behavior unbecoming. As a master and father, it’s imperative I always set a good example. To do any less would bring me shame and diminish me in the eyes of those I hold most dear.”

“You mean you’d rather go to prison for something you didn’t do than admit that for one moment you lost your temper? Yoshito, Bruce Griffin was the disgrace—not you. It’s a perfectly normal human response to finally have enough of it. And the way he went after you and Kenji and August, nobody would blame you.”

“We shall not speak of it,” he swore, pinning Randi with a piercing gaze. “Especially not with Kenji. If you hold any loyalty toward me, obey my wishes in this matter.”

“I am loyal to you,” Randi affirmed, “and, since I don’t even know what happened, I certainly can’t say anything about it. You say forgiveness is paramount, but we must also forgive ourselves. None is perfect, not even an enlightened one.”

“You, too, speak wisdom,” Yoshito acknowledged. “I will dedicate myself to prayer and meditation until I can forgive myself for my weakness. But don’t worry about me, please? You have enough to take care of.”

“Tell me about it,” Randi groaned and rolled her eyes. “The children are beside themselves and the adult students are ready to perform a jailbreak to get you out. Did you at least talk to your lawyer?”

He nodded. “I told him what he needed to know. He’ll be with me in court and I’m sure the judge will assign a reasonable bail.”

“I’m hoping Jenna can find the right suspect to charge and get you out of here before Monday,” Randi declared. “Is there anything you need? I saw someone putting money on her inmate’s account.”

“No, I’m fine. Mei and Kenji have been to see me. The food is good, and nobody has treated me poorly. We must all learn to be content with where we are, Randi.”

“I’m not sure I could be content locked up in jail, but, if faced with the challenge, I’d do my best. We just all love you and want you back where you belong. Please reach out and let me know what I can do to help.”

“Knowing how much you care helps indeed,” he assured her with a smile. “Tell all the students I said hello, that I’m well, and will be back with them soon.”

“I’ll do that,” Randi promised. A smile wiggled its way across her face.

“Now, you go on and leave first,” he instructed, “and picture me on Mt. Fuji, communing with the spirit world.”

“OK.” Randi understood Yoshito’s request and left the room. He knew it would upset her to see the guard lock on his handcuffs and lead him away, so he sent her out beforehand. While she felt better than when she arrived, Randi reserved some distress over her sensei being in jail. Wasn’t that a sign that she cared about him? Wouldn’t it be insensitive to simply forget about it and go on her merry way? Or would releasing her worry and trusting God and the Universe to correct the ripple in the road be better? Was there a way to do both? Love. Maybe love would allow for releasing the anxiety while still holding him close to her heart.

15

Upon returning to the criminal investigations office, Jenna tried to refocus on Griffin’s murder. She found it difficult with visions of the dead addict mother, the disgusting wreck she’d let her house become, and the resourceful, resilient, five-year-old who’d latched onto her. Aurora was the actual victim of the situation. Her grandmother will be here tomorrow. I’ll talk to her and satisfy myself that all will be well.

“I found a treasure trove of morsels for you in Griffin’s finances,” Bauman reported first. “His credit card history shows a long pattern of local hotel room purchases, clumped together for a few weeks at a time with several months in between. This has gone on for years. He seems to favor the Super 8 and Travelodge, which makes sense considering the rest of his finances. Ms. Griffin’s paychecks were direct deposited to their joint account and Bruce also maintained a separate business account for his karate studio. Together, they earned enough to stay out of the hole, but not enough to get ahead. By the way, the hotel rooms were reserved on his business credit card. It’s possible some of them could have been for legitimate uses, like paying for a guest clinician or visiting martial arts master. A few of the reservations had been for two or three consecutive nights, but it looks like he deducted them all from his business expenses for income tax. A minor transgression, but, if the IRS decided to audit him, it could have gotten dicey.”

“OK,” Jenna mused aloud, “probably some stepping out on his wife there for sure, but not heavily in debt or pulling in more money than he should.”

“That’s right, Lieutenant,” Bauman confirmed. “I don’t see a motive for murder in his finances. The affairs, on the other hand …”

“Contact the Super 8 and Travelodge,” she instructed. “We need to find out what young women he was checking in with. Start with the most recent. When was that?”

“Almost two weeks ago at the Travelodge,” Bauman answered. “Depending on their system, they might still have security footage stored somewhere. I’ll get on that right now.”

“Thanks.” Turning to Jamison, Jenna inquired, “And August King?”

Jamison opened her mouth to answer when Owens strode in, tucking his shirttail as he moved. “Sorry, had to hit the head. Jamison, you better thank your lucky stars you stayed here instead of going with Ferrari on that call. Despite the house looking and smelling like the inside of a rancid dumpster, there was this cute little girl who grabbed hold of Ferrari and wouldn’t let go. Sorry about her mom, but I think she’ll be far better off with her grandmother.”

Trisha met Jenna’s eyes with compassion. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jenna said, waving her misty emotions away. “I’ll tell you about it later. August King.”

“If you’ll bring a chair over to my office,” she suggested with a renewed smile, “I’ll play our interview for you. I don’t presume to simply say, ‘it wasn’t him,’ without you having the benefit of seeing and hearing him for yourself.”

“Well, thanks, Jamison,” Jenna replied, allowing her partner’s levity to wash away a smidgen of angst from her last call. What she really wanted was a long, hot shower and an infinite embrace in Randi’s arms.

Jenna rolled her chair over to Jamison’s desk and plopped into it. Then she twisted open the bottle of Diet Coke she’d carried in, leaned back, and said, “Hit it.”

Trisha’s monitor came to life with an image of her and a sandy-haired young man with an average build, sorrowful posture, and fearful expression sitting across from each other in the interview room. “August, thanks for coming in,” Jamison said with her usual appreciative nature. “I’m Detective Jamison, who spoke with you on the phone earlier.”

He straightened and nodded, his eyes looking hopeful. “Yes, I recall.”

“Jamison, he’s checking you out and likes what he sees,” Jenna commented.

“Too bad,” she quipped merrily and wiggled her fingers, flashing her diamond. “I’m taken.”

“Mr. King,” interview Jamison began.

“Oh, call me August. Mr. King is my dad.”

“All right, August. You used to be a karate student at Strike Zone but recently moved to House of Kime. Could you tell me what happened that made you change dojos?”

August King proceeded to tell a detailed story of his life, throwing in as much as possible that might impress the beautiful, upbeat detective, and ended with his horror and dismay over Griffin’s death.

“I know y’all think I had a reason to kill him, Detective Jamison,” he lamented, “but I just couldn’t have. For one, I was afraid of Griffin, and, for another, I couldn’t beat him if he had both hands tied behind his back.”

“Where were you Tuesday night?” Jamison inquired.

“At my advanced class at House of Kime,” he answered. By this point in the interview, August’s nerves had been overtaken by a visible crush on Trisha Jamison. A blush rose in his cheeks. “Last year was my first at Roanoke Community College, and it was a tough transition. The classes were harder, more demanding, and I wanted to enjoy the campus social life, so I wasn’t making it to karate as regularly. When Bruce got tired of what he called my lack of dedication and kicked me out, Master Moro took me in. He says our practice of martial arts is meant to enhance our lives, not rule them. He understood, and the way he runs his classes made me want to come more often. Detective Jamison, he couldn’t have done what you arrested him for. He’s all about peace and positive energy.”

“I’m sure he is, August,” Jamison agreed, “but Griffin was trying to coerce him into dropping you as his student. He also vandalized House of Kime and levied horrible accusations against his son, Kenji.”

“Kenji’s a great guy.” August’s muscles tensed and his eyes flashed at the mention of Griffin’s attack. “He and I have become friends over the summer. He’s a few years older, but not by much, and I didn’t know Griffin was trying to force Master Moro to kick me out. Why would he do that? Why would that vindictive bully still be trying to punish me? You see why I wouldn’t want to cross him?”

“I totally get it,” Jamison agreed. “Griffin was a jerk to everyone. So, your Tuesday night class … What time did it begin and end?”

“We always start at eight, but we let out a few minutes early this week,” he replied. “Maybe a quarter ‘till nine. Sensei said he had to …” August stopped, and a worried expression morphed over his clean-shaven face. “He didn’t kill Bruce. You have to believe me.”

“Do you know who did?” Jamison asked point blank. “Who else would have a reason?”

“No, I don’t know, and everybody who knew Bruce would have a reason. The problem is, very few people could actually do it. That man was lethal. I sure as heck wouldn’t want to be the poor sap who was stupid enough to pick a fight with him. Maybe someone brought in a battering ram or something and pounded him with it from a distance.”

Jenna clicked off the playback. “According to the timeline, he had the same opportunity to kill Griffin as Moro. Maybe they went there together,” she wondered. “Moro came in the front door and August slipped in the back. Nothing says the three documented hits on his body came from the same assailant. Still, I don’t think so. If Moro was teaching his students a bunch of kumbaya peace and harmony life lessons, he wouldn’t want August there for anything violent. Or is that why he won’t tell us what happened?”

Locking gazes with Jamison, Jenna expounded. “What if Moro is ashamed or embarrassed that he broke his own rules when Griffin pushed him too far? August could have been there as a witness or participant or even come in after Moro left. There’s Griffin, curled up in a heap on the floor because Moro kicked him in the nuts, and all August has to deliver is one powerful blow to the chest to stop his heart. There! This is what you get for being an asshole.”

“Luckily for you, Lieutenant, I remembered to gather his hair sample, fingerprints, and DNA and turn them into the lab. If he was in close contact with Griffin Tuesday night, there should be some sort of match.”

With a proud grin, Jenna said, “I knew there was a reason I keep you around. Good work.”

Just then, Bauman piped up. “The Travelodge doesn’t have video going back that far, but one of the desk clerks remembers Griffin because she said every few months he’d come in with a different girl. At first, she thought they might be prostitutes, except she said none of them were dressed the part. And she recognized his most recent ‘date,’” Bauman said, making air quotes, “because she went to high school with her. I got the name: Joy Ellertson, twenty years old, student at Virginia Tech on an athletic scholarship. She fits his type—young, smart, athletic, and sort of cute too. Blacksburg is only an hour’s drive away. I’ll bet, if I dig, I’ll find she used to be his karate student.”

“I’m not taking that bet,” Jenna replied. “Keep digging on her, male relatives, etc. I might need to bring her in for an interview if nothing else pans out. Owens, what are you doing over there besides scarfing down the last cruller?”

“Typing up the report on Samantha Gibson,” he said.

“Oh.” Jenna’s excitement evaporated in a single poof. “Thanks for that. I need to make the rounds to the lab and morgue.”

“Ferrari, they’ll send you a report as soon as they have something,” Owens reminded her. “You don’t have to keep roaming around the building like a vagabond. Unless you just want to.”

I have spent a lot of time cruising the building on this case, she thought. Downing the last of her Diet Coke, Jenna stood up and grabbed the back of her rolling chair. “Thanks, Jamison. Do you have any hunches to follow?”

“I can do a deeper dive on the wife and her family,” Trisha suggested.

“Good idea.” Jenna dragged her chair back to her desk, sat in it, and took out her phone. She brought up her text conversation with Randi. Nothing new today. The last thing on there was from yesterday morning—smiley, heart, and kiss emojis. Her fingers hovered over the tiny keyboard. Even though they’d apologized to each other and spent the night in bed together, Jenna still didn’t feel everything was completely fine yet. But what should she type?

Finally, a tugging on her heartstrings to say something overrode her trepidation. ‘Hi, sweetie. How’s it going?’

She watched the phone for a minute. Randi always texted back right away unless she was teaching a class or driving. Nothing.

‘I’ve been interviewing more persons of interest, and the lab is double-checking evidence. We’ve got a few leads, thin though they are.’

Nothing.

‘I want to tell you about another disturbing case I got called in on. I love you.’

There. She couldn’t simply watch her phone for the rest of the afternoon. Randi was probably busy filling in for her sensei’s classes. I wonder when she’ll be home? she thought. At that moment, Jenna ached to hold Randi more than she had in a long time. Oh, she always desired physical contact with her wife, but this felt different, more urgent, more primal. Everything will be OK.

Shifting her attention to her computer screen, Jenna tried to focus on finding new suspects or uncovering a fresh clue. The best thing she could do to fix things would be to discover somebody other than Yoshito Moro killed her victim.

16

After leaving the detention center, Randi sat in her big, blue pickup truck for a few minutes to prepare herself emotionally for the Friday afternoon karate crowd. She wasn’t sure if she or Kenji would take the night group, so maybe she’d pick up something to eat nearby between the younger kids and the advanced classes. Taking out her phone, she started to text Jenna when she saw her messages. They made Randi smile.

She led with, ‘I love you too.’ It seemed the best place to start. No use in allowing Jenna to worry about the state of their relationship when she needed to focus on finding the killer.

‘I visited Yoshito, and he’s confident you’ll solve the case and he’ll be released. I have to cover a bunch of classes tonight and don’t know when I’ll be home, so just grab yourself something healthy to eat, please.’

Then she added, ‘Tell me all about the disturbing case when I get home. Can’t wait to kiss you.’

Randi put her phone away, cranked her truck, and threw it into reverse. On the drive to House of Kime, she noticed clouds moving in. Although the shade felt nice after such an oppressively hot day, the prospect of hours of driving rain accompanied by tornado watches and warnings wasn’t ideal either. Hurricane Mikah had grown to a category three with the prospect of coastal flooding and high enough wind speeds to topple trees, tear the roofs from houses, and demolish mobile homes. She turned on her radio and navigated to a weather channel.

“The current path of the storm has it skirting the east coast and veering back out into the Atlantic,” the report picked up in progress. “However, the National Weather Service still has hurricane watches in place for lower New York and the New England states as there remains a thirty percent chance of Mikah making landfall on Sunday. Coastal residents of North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts remain under a hurricane watch from now through Sunday night.”

She flicked the station back to music, grateful they’d get nothing worse from the weather.

“Hey, Dr. McLeod.” Terrance Byrd, a fellow black belt around Randi’s age, held the door to House of Kime open for her. “I’m here to help you and Kenji out this weekend. Just tell me where you need me.”

“Could you take over the six o’clock class so I could run get a bite to eat?” she asked. “We really appreciate your volunteering.”

“No problem,” he answered. “Kenji and I already took care of the after-school drop-off group. By the way, my son loves having you as his instructor, and I’ve got a feeling he’d act differently if I stepped in for his class. Six works great.”

Although it was ten to five, several of Randi’s students were already dressed out, engaged in warm-up stretches when she headed into the restroom to change clothes. Randi pulled her hair into a ponytail and secured her glasses. She’d often remove them for her own practice—which was much more rigorous than what the beginners would be doing—but needed them to see her students’ movements clearly.

“OK, everybody line up,” she called. Her youthful white and yellow belts, all below high school age, formed two lines and jumped to attention. Randi led them in their bow and some fundamentals before moving on to the games the kids waited all week for. First was Simon Says, followed by a race around a padded obstacle course, ending with dodgeball. Wally, her littlest pupil, excelled at this game. He was so small, he was hard to hit to begin with, but he had devised a plan of ultimate success. Whenever anyone threw the ball at him, he dropped flat to the floor, and it sailed over him. Quickly, he’d hop back up and run around looking for who held the ball and do it again, careful to stay behind someone else. The older children might have taken it easy on him, but he was fast and smart on his own.

Chelsea’s distraction and dismal demeanor were the most striking aspects of this afternoon’s class; her slumped posture and vacant stare spoke volumes. Her face, etched with worry and distress, reflected her uncharacteristically lethargic movement and hinted at inner turmoil. When class was dismissed, Chelsea lumbered over to a bench, plopped on it, and took a drink of water. Anna followed, sat beside her, and draped a supportive arm around her shoulders, whispering something in her ear.

Randi was not only curious but wanted to help if she could. She figured it must have something to do with Yoshito’s arrest because perky, happy-go-lucky Chelsea never acted this way. Casually strolling in their direction, Randi considered her students with compassion and understanding. “It’s all going to be all right,” she told the girls and slid in on Chelsea’s other side. “When surprises hit us like this, we just have to be strong. Master Moro is confident everything will work out and doesn’t want you to be distressed.”

The tall, ginger girl with glasses and a face sprinkled with freckles peered at Randi with fear and trepidation. “Will Detective Ferrari find out what really happened?”

“Of course she will,” Randi assured her in a soothing tone that did nothing to dissuade Chelsea’s anxiety. When she began to tremble, Randi frowned. “What’s wrong? What can I do to help?” She thought maybe the twiggy tween’s blood sugar had bottomed out and she might faint.

“I have to tell you something,” she whispered, then spun around to Anna. “I need to talk to Dr. McLeod alone, Anna.”

“You know you can tell me anything,” her friend said, appearing hurt to be excluded.

“I know, and I will,” Chelsea avowed, “when I’m ready. Oh, Anna, I don’t want you to hate me!” She buried her face in Anna’s neck, gave her a brief hug, and sprang off the bench. Turning to Randi, she asked, “Can we go in the office and close the door?”

“Sure,” Randi answered and rose to join her, puzzled over her student’s behavior. Twisting a look over her shoulder at Anna, she said, “We’ll just be a few minutes. Don’t worry about anything—I’ll find out what’s got her so upset.”

Nobody was in the office, so, after the two entered, Randi closed the door and motioned to a chair; she took the other one. “Chelsea, what’s the matter?”

Chelsea fidgeted and shifted in her seat, lowering her chin so that a long, wavy strand of hair tumbled across her face. Dutifully, she pushed it behind her ear. “Master Moro didn’t kill Mr. Griffin,” she stated with certainty. “I did.”

Randi blinked. Surely, she didn’t hear that right. There was no way under the sun her gangly twelve-year-old yellow belt could have killed muscle-bound martial arts master Bruce Griffin.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Randi answered with tenderness rather than dismissiveness. “Tell me what happened, and we’ll sort it all out.”

“Some afternoons, I go home with Anna and her mother to her house after practice,” she began. “Anna’s my best friend, and she just lives a few blocks from me. Tuesday after class, her mother drove us to her house, and I stayed for dinner and to do our homework. I help Anna with her math and science, and she helps me with reading and social studies. She’s a grade ahead, but I’m in advanced math and science classes, so I can still help her. Anna is so sweet but shy, you know? After I began karate and really got into it, I convinced her to start coming with me—remember?” She glanced up at Randi, awaiting a response.

“Yes, I remember,” Randi answered with a smile.

“Anyway, because it’s so close—unless it’s pouring rain—I usually walk home when it’s time to leave,” Chelsea continued. She balled her hands into fists in her lap, then relaxed them. They were both still wearing their gis with bare feet, and Chelsea stared down at hers.

“So, you walked home on Tuesday night?” Randi prompted when she fell silent.

“Yeah. It’s a safe neighborhood and well-lit. Sometimes I stop at the drugstore for a drink or snack, but I didn’t have any money with me, so I passed it. That’s when I saw Master Moro get in his car and drive away.”

“You walk past Strike Zone on your way from Anna’s to your house?” Randi deduced.

“Yeah. Didn’t I say that?” Mournful eyes blinked at Randi as the first tear rolled out.

“What happened, Chelsea? I’m right here, and you’re safe.” Randi leaned closer.

“That horrible Griffin man was standing in his doorway with his chest all puffed out and he sneered at me. Then he said something like, ‘Hey, aren’t you one of Moro’s runts? Why don’t you come join us and let me train you right?’ Then he laughed and turned his back on me. He just made me so mad, so I followed him inside and hollered at him about what a jerk he was and why did he have to be that way.”

Randi couldn’t help but admire Chelsea’s spunk while at the same time worrying about what kind of trouble it got her into. At least her testimony put Yoshito in the clear, proving Griffin was alive and unharmed after he left.

“It was only when he turned a sinister gaze on me, his hands on his hips, looking so pleased with himself, that I noticed nobody else was still inside,” Chelsea said. “I would have never been stupid enough to go in if I’d known I’d be alone with him. I can tell you a shiver ran down my back, but I stood my ground. What else could I do? I watch nature programs. Running never helps.”

The same icy shiver tore a streak down Randi’s spine as all kinds of horrors invaded her imagination. “What did he do?”

“He had shifted around to stand between me and the door while I was giving him what for, and then he said he liked me, that I had a spark. I needed him to fan it into a flame and, in a few years, he’d turn me into the youngest female champion black belt in the state. I told him, ‘No, thank you, I already have the best teacher there is,’ and he could stick his offer where the sun don’t shine. I told him I was onto him and was too young for what he had in mind. That’s when things got bad.”

Randi scooted her chair closer, reached over, and took Chelsea’s hand, waiting to catch her gaze. When she looked up, tears stained her ruddy cheeks.

“How do you mean, ‘bad?’” Randi thought it sounded bad already.

“He got this look in his eyes,” Chelsea said, “kind of like how Hannibal Lector looked at Clarice in Silence of the Lambs. I know it’s rated R, but they cut out some parts in the TV version. Anyway, he said, if I wouldn’t let him mold me, he’d go after Anna. ‘Oh, don’t think I haven’t noticed that hot babe,’ he said, ‘and she’s old enough.’ I tried to tell him she was only thirteen, but he swore she was sixteen, and he couldn’t wait to have his way with her—only he didn’t use those words. I can’t repeat what he actually said. And there’s no way I was going to let that horrible man touch Anna, so, you see? I had to do something!”

Chelsea pulled her hand away and covered her face. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“What do you mean, Chelsea?” Randi left her chair to kneel before her and laid her hands on the girl’s knees. “What exactly did you do?”

She gathered herself, pushed her hair back, and wiped her face. Lifting her chin, the lass exhibited tremendous fortitude by declaring her confession. “I pulled away from him and dropped into a standard stance with my hands and feet in place. He laughed, of course. That made me mad too. ‘I’ll show him,’ I thought and executed a move I’d watched the black belts practice. I pay attention, Dr. McLeod. I might be as skinny as a toothpick, but I’ve memorized every sparring action, self-defense move, and form I’ve seen anyone in the dojo perform. I can’t execute them all—especially spinning or leaping kicks, anything requiring excellent balance or coordination—because, look at me.” She motioned toward her ninety-pound body.

“I remember hearing Kenji say this would take anyone down, no matter how much bigger than you they are,” she continued, “so I figured it would do the trick. I lunged forward, surprising Mr. Griffin, and hit him in the throat with my forearm as hard as possible. I put my whole body, from my toes to my fist, into the move, just like you taught me. That stunned him a little, so I kicked him in the groin with everything I had—landed it just right too. Lots of girls know to do that anyway. The last strike was a right-hand forward punch to the center of his chest. I figured it would knock the wind out of him or something.”

“But wouldn’t he have been crouched over from your groin kick?” Randi asked, completely confounded by how this kid could have done all that as a beginner.

“I executed them all really fast. Bam, bam, bam,” Chelsea explained. “He went down on his back and seemed to be gasping for air. He had his hands up around his throat. Then he rolled on his side and pulled his legs up, like a fetal position. I didn’t think about calling an ambulance or anything,” she lamented as fresh tears fell. “I just wanted to get out of there, so I ran. I didn’t know he had died until we all found out the next day. Dr. McLeod, I didn’t mean to kill him, but we have to tell—even if I get in trouble. We can’t let Master Moro go to prison for something I did.”

Randi found Chelsea’s story incredible, yet how would she have known exactly where the bruises were on Griffin’s body if she hadn’t put them there? Those details hadn’t been in the news reports. Rage, fear, and a rush of adrenaline can produce an extra measure of strength, but enough for a slender twelve-year-old girl to stop a robust, full-grown man’s heart from beating? Shock didn’t begin to describe what Randi felt.

“Have you told your parents?” she asked.

“I haven’t told anyone. I was so scared when I found out he was dead that I didn’t know what to do. After a few days, I decided I must come forward to save Master Moro. It’s the right thing to do.”

Oh, Lord, if only everyone based their actions on it being the right thing to do! What a world we’d have instead of this one.

“Don’t worry, Chelsea,” Randi soothed.

“But they’ll be so mad,” the girl cried. “They’ll be so disappointed in me, and they might make me stop taking karate. What if I have to go to jail?”

“You won’t have to go to jail,” Randi decreed. “If any injury you caused resulted in Griffin’s death, it was self-defense. There’s not a jury in the country that would convict you. It’s possible your hits did nothing but knock him down. The important thing is that you fought with Griffin after Master Moro left and he was still fine, so Master Moro didn’t kill him. I doubt you did either, but you were so brave!” Randi hugged her again, then sat back on her feet. “We need to tell Detective Ferrari, and she’ll want to be sure your mom, dad, or both are present when you do. Everything has to be by the book with the lieutenant,” she added in a lighter tone, fishing for a smile.

“I suppose.” Chelsea still appeared dismal and defeated.

“Let me drive you home,” Randi suggested. “Then we’ll both talk to your mom, and I can call Jenna and let her know we’re coming in.”

“Tonight?” Chelsea’s tone sounded terrified, and her eyes shot wide.

“The sooner the better,” Randi confirmed. “That way, Master Moro can be released and return home to his family. You did two very courageous things, Chelsea—you stood up to a bully to protect your friend, and you told the truth. You should be very proud.”

“How can I be proud? I killed someone. Master Moro will be so disappointed in me—and my parents?”

“Your parents want you to be safe,” Randi explained. “That’s the most important thing. Your actions kept you safe. Don’t worry. I’ll be right there with you while you tell them what you just told me.”

Chelsea sniffed, wiped another tear, and nodded. “OK.”

17

Jenna sat in her car in line at the drive-through as the first drops of rain splattered on her windshield. The weather report called for bands periodically through the night and tomorrow, ranging from light sprinkles to deluges. She wondered about Tori and if she was still on base at Norfolk or back on a ship. Jenna hadn’t heard from her ex since her and Randi’s wedding. Just as well.

Her phone began vigorously vibrating in her pocket, as she’d turned down her ring volume while on the job. Curious about who was calling, she dug it out and was surprised to see Randi’s name on the caller ID. “Hey, sweetie,” she answered. “What’s up?” Jenna decided not to mention she was picking up fast food.

“Have you left the station yet?” Randi’s tone sounded urgent, and it put Jenna on alert.

“It’s after six-thirty on a Friday; everyone’s gone except the skeleton crew. Don’t worry,” she added. “I know how to get dinner to go and will feed the pets and let Byron out for his run as soon as I get home.”

“Well, when you’ve finished that, how about heading back to the office? And you’ll want someone in the booth to record this interview,” Randi advised.

“What interview?” Jenna pulled one car closer to the window. If Randi was still on this call when she got there, her astute partner would know she had violated the healthy eating directive.

“I have a witness for you and an unbelievable confession,” Randi answered. “We’ll meet you at eight o’clock. That should give you time to do everything.”

“Can’t it wait until in the morning?”

“No. I want Yoshito to spend the night in his own bed. Witnesses,” Randi stated. “Make sure a couple of other cops are there to hear this.”

Jenna was about to ask her to explain everything in detail but the car at the window drove away, leaving it her turn.

“Whatever you say, Randi. I trust your judgment. I just don’t know who I’ll get on short notice on a Friday night. See you there.” She hung up the call just in time.

“Here you go,” said the teenager at the window. “A loaded cheeseburger, fries, onion rings, fried pie, and a Diet Coke. Enjoy your evening.”

“You too,” Jenna replied, taking her bag of food. Guilt clung to her like glue.

No big deal, Jenna told herself. My cholesterol and blood sugar were perfectly fine at my last check-up. What I should be worried about is this mystery witness Randi dug up and why she needs me to call in the cavalry.

She placed voice calls on the drive home to everyone she could think of and ended up with Matt Murphy and Destiny Wilcox agreeing to meet her at the station. Trish had plans with her shiny new fiancé Bennet, Owens had his kid’s football game, and Bauman had his all-important game night. Since Jenna didn’t know what this was about or if it would yield useful information, she didn’t want to order someone in and ruin their events over nothing. If it proved probative, she could call her team in tomorrow to investigate.

Randi thinks Moro will be going home after I hear this, so maybe it’s relevant. But what witness could she have found that I haven’t? Jenna puzzled about it through dinner, meeting the cat’s and dog’s needs, a quick, necessary shower after stepping into the atrocious den of neglect earlier, and the drive back to the station. She arrived fifteen minutes early to review operating the equipment in the booth with Officer Murphy.

“This is easy,” the boyishly handsome blond Murphy concluded. His jeans looked new, and his white, button-up, short-sleeve shirt was as crisp as if his mother had starched it. “I ran a much more complicated system when I filled in as sound guy for the Emancipated Turtles.”

“The who?” Jenna stared at Murphy like he had just fallen from a flying saucer.

Matt laughed as he fiddled with the volume levels. “They’re a local alt-rock band. I played in high school band with their drummer, Skeeter. Anyway, I’ve got this.”

“OK, but why don’t you have a date tonight?” Jenna had to admit he appeared to have all the buttons and knobs under control.

“My girlfriend’s grandfather is in the hospital in Richmond after having bypass surgery today. Three arteries clogged up with plaque—can you believe it? Misty said the surgeon was top-notch and he should be fine, so no need for me to take a long drive over there. She called just before you did to tell me he’s awake and as ornery as ever. But his cardiologist said, if he doesn’t drastically change his diet, it will all have been for nothing.”

Jenna’s clinging guilt squeezed her chest. The worst part was that the stupid fast-food cheeseburger hadn’t tasted as good as she’d remembered. Randi’s homemade burgers on the grill served on lettuce leaves and all the toppings had spoiled her.

“Well, I’m glad to hear he’s doing well after surgery,” Jenna said.

“Hey, which room are we using?” thundered Wilcox from down the hall.

“You’ve got this,” Jenna assured Murphy. “Just remember to push record when we get started.”

“Sure thing, Lieutenant.”

Jenna met CSI Wilcox in the hallway. “Interview A is good. Did you bring your kit for collecting hair and DNA? If Randi’s witness was in Strike Zone, I’ll need evidence of it.”

“Now, Jenna.” The off-duty, after-hours, sassy Wilcox, wearing flip-flops, cut-off shorts, and a tank top, held a folded-up umbrella in one hand and a bag the size of a large tackle box in the other. “When have you ever known me to even go to the washroom without my kit? Give a girl a little credit.”

Jenna laughed. “Down, now. That wasn’t a dig.”

“Who’s she bringing in?”

“I don’t know,” Jenna answered, regaining her serious composure.

Then in strode Randi with a lanky, Celtic-looking girl Jenna’s height, and a similarly fair woman an inch or two taller, around Randi’s age. The mother, Jenna guessed from family resemblance, appeared worried and the child’s manner suggested she was sad to the point of despair.

“Jenna, this is Chelsea Simpson, a karate student in my class at House of Kime, and her mother, Bridget Simpson.” She motioned toward Jenna. “This is my wife, Lieutenant Detective Ferrari.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant,” Bridget said and held out a hand. Jenna shook it, noting its cool, smooth texture. Raindrops dampened their hair and clothing.

“Thank you for coming in on a Friday night,” Jenna said. “This is CSI Wilcox who’ll be joining us for the interview. Won’t you come this way?”

Still, without a clue why they were there, Jenna led the procession into the room and closed the door. Only the overnight desk clerk and a janitor occupied the building, but it was habit. Randi sat with Chelsea and her mother across from Jenna and Wilcox.

“We’ll be recording this if it’s alright with you, Ms. Simpson. Could you please repeat your names for the record?”

They did so; then Bridget added, “Chelsea’s father is a pilot, and he has to spend every other weekend away. He’s in Denver tonight, and that’s why he’s not here.”

“That’s OK,” Jenna said. “You can serve as the minor’s advocate. I’m assuming you’re the witness?” She angled the question to Chelsea.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“One more time, Chelsea,” Randi prompted. “They’re recording it, so you shouldn’t have to tell the story again. I know it distresses you, but—”

“It’s all right,” she interrupted. “I know I have to. Third time’s the charm, right? I’ll tell you what happened and answer all your questions, Lieutenant Ferrari. You’re Dr. McLeod’s wife and I know I can trust you. If you have to arrest me, I’ll understand.”

“Nobody’s going to arrest you,” her mother asserted. “You must promise me, Lieutenant, or I’m taking Chelsea home right now.”

Confusion hit Jenna like a freight train, and she shot a questioning look at Randi. Her wife nodded and patted Chelsea’s shoulder.

“I don’t think I’ll need to arrest anyone tonight,” Jenna speculated. “Let’s just hear your testimony.”

***

Chelsea repeated her story, just like she had told it to Randi that afternoon and her mother after they got home, omitting no detail. When she finished, Jenna and Destiny stared at her with dumbfounded expressions.

“You’re not going to arrest her, are you?” Bridget asked fearfully, hugging an arm around her daughter. “She had a right to defend herself.”

“Now, let’s just back up a minute here and look at this,” Jenna directed. “Chelsea, you said you saw Mr. Moro leave moments before you walked past. Did you see him drive away?”

“Yes, ma’am. He drove away and didn’t come back while I was there,” she answered as if taking an oral exam at school. Randi was proud of her pupil’s composure under tremendous stress.

“Then you entered Strike Zone unaware only Mr. Griffin was inside.”

“That’s right,” Chelsea answered with a nod. “I guess I wasn’t thinking about what time it was and assumed some of his students would still be there. I don’t think Mr. Griffin would have been so blatant in displaying malicious intent if witnesses had been around.”

You’re probably right, Jenna supposed. “You said he grabbed your arm,” she recalled. If Griffin laid hands on her, it could be considered battery on a minor—plenty of provocation for her to lash out in self-defense.

“That’s right.” Chelsea leaned forward and extended her arm across the table toward Jenna. “The bruise didn’t show up right away, but a couple of days later you can see it.”

“Wilcox, could you—” Before Jenna finished, Destiny was up, taking pictures of the finger-shaped marks on Chelsea’s left arm.

“Does it hurt?” the CSI asked in a compassionate tone.

Chelsea shook her head. “Not unless I press on it, but it hurt when he grabbed me. I was afraid at first, but, when he threatened to hurt Anna, I got mad instead. I wasn’t about to let him hurt my friend, but I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“You said he was still alive when you left, though,” Jenna pointed out. “You said,” she glanced at her notes, “that he was having trouble breathing and curled into a ball, moaning.”

“Yeah, but then I ran. I didn’t call for help.” Distress tore through Chelsea’s voice and she blinked out tears for the first time during the interview. “I just left him there, and that was wrong. He probably couldn’t breathe from where I hit him in the throat. Is that what killed him? Did he choke to death?”

“No,” Jenna answered. “The medical examiner said it was a blow to his chest, but I find it impossible to believe someone your size could have possibly … Chelsea, did you use the front or back door?”

“The front. It was closest and there’s no lights in the back.”

“Did you lock it?”

Chelsea’s tears dried up, and she stared at Jenna in astonishment. “No. Why would I lock it? That would have taken time, and I was in a hurry.”

“So, when you ran home, Mr. Griffin was on the floor in distress but still alive, and you left the door unlocked,” Jenna summarized.

“Yeah, but—” A fresh expression of terror consumed Chelsea’s face. “Did I leave him there incapacitated with an unlocked door so someone else could come along and finish him off? That’s just as bad as me killing him myself!”

“No, it isn’t. Everything’s OK, Chelsea,” Randi soothed, rubbing her upper arm and shoulder. “We don’t know what happened yet. We only know that you had every right to defend yourself, and Griffin’s death is not your fault. It’s his fault for being a child predator.” Just saying it aloud filled Randi’s mouth with disgust and her soul with righteous indignation. For an instant, she feared, if she had been there, she would be the one Jenna arrested for killing him.

“Chelsea, Randi is right,” Jenna agreed. “You had just cause to defend yourself, but what I don’t get is how you knew what to do. As I understand it, the combination you used is supposed to be a master-level skill. And you’re so small, while Griffin was so big.”

The girl looked Jenna in the eyes and stated calmly, “Many grown Asian women are my size and smaller, yet they learn to be formidable martial artists. Master Moro teaches us that the size of our bodies is insignificant compared to the size of our hearts—figuratively speaking. Karate is a skill art, not like brute force brawling. Like I told Dr. McLeod, I watch the advanced classes, remember everything they learn, and practice it at home. When I punched him, I applied the imagery Dr. McLeod showed me when I broke my first board. I didn’t aim for Griffin’s chest; I aimed for a spot four inches past his chest.” Her pride and confidence slinking away, Chelsea slumped her shoulders and lowered her chin. “I guess that’s about where his heart would be.”

Jenna met Randi’s gaze with a bewildered, exasperated expression and shook her head. “Ms. Simpson, can CSI Wilcox collect hairs and swab your daughter’s cheek to compare her samples with those found at the scene? It would help support her story and might even clear her of being the last person to see Mr. Griffin alive. With this confession, I could easily get a warrant on Monday.”

“That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant Ferrari,” she said. “We want to cooperate and get this horrible experience behind us. Chelsea has been so upset that I don’t think she’s eaten a thing since they found out about Mr. Moro’s arrest. She was afraid to tell me what was wrong, claiming she had a stomach ache. Of course, my poor sweetie had a stomach ache, holding all that inside. She’s an exceptionally good girl—an excellent student and kind to everybody. She would never knowingly kill anyone.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Jenna confirmed.

Wilcox took her samples, Jenna thanked them for coming forward, and Randi saw them out of the station. When she returned, Jenna, Matt, and Destiny formed a ring of disbelief in the hallway.

“That’s just crazy!” Matt exclaimed. “That skinny little girl taking down a six-foot-tall man twice her weight? She’s got to be covering for somebody—or she made it up, so we’d let her sensei go.”

“But we didn’t release the details about his partially crushed larynx and bruised groin to the public,” Jenna argued. “Only someone who was there would know that. Her story fits the physical evidence and the timeline.”

Destiny held up two evidence bags in her right hand. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning to pop this DNA sample into Dr. Gupta’s machine and compare hair samples. Then we’ll know if she touched him or not. But I’m kind of with the kid on this one, Jenna. I could see Randi taking him down,” she motioned, flicking a glance at Randi while she walked up to join them. “But big-as-a-minute Chelsea? No way.”

“What do you think, Jenna?” Randi asked. She studied her wife’s expression and body language like a profiler might to detect each nuance.

Jenna sighed and propped a hand on her hip. “You’re the one who says nothing is impossible. But I can tell you this—I hope to God it wasn’t your student. I can see how horrible she feels thinking she killed this bastard, or even that she left him there without calling for help. How was she to know how badly he was hurt? I mean, kick any guy in the nuts hard enough and he’ll go down.”

“That’s the truth!” Matt let out with a laugh, but Jenna’s expression maintained its anguish.

“She wouldn’t be convicted of anything and never spend a day in jail—juvie or otherwise—but, if she killed that man, her life will never be the same. It’ll haunt her and follow her everywhere she goes. She’ll be the girl who killed a master twice her size. People will always be afraid of her, tip-toe around on eggshells lest they make her angry. And can you imagine the guilt?”

Randi knew full well the guilt Jenna still couldn’t shake over failing to save a little girl’s life. She was right; this would be much worse for Chelsea—especially considering her age. She’d require years of therapy, and her family might have to move away and start over to give her a fighting chance. Chelsea was a good kid and didn’t deserve to have this happen.

What would I have done in her situation when I was that age? Randi wondered. How would I handle it if I knew I’d killed someone?

Jenna sighed and cast her gaze around the circle. “I’m calling everyone in tomorrow morning. We have to prove somebody else killed him because that kid is innocent, and it would seem Master Moro is too. Something, someone we’re missing, stopped Griffin’s black heart, and we’ve got to find out who and what.”

18

Jenna threw herself into being useful around the house while Randi showered. Cleaning Bandit’s litter box was her responsibility anyway. Then she tossed dirty clothes from a chair into the hamper and stuffed dishes from the sink into the dishwasher before changing into a sleeping shirt and brushing her teeth. Rain pounded on the roof, causing Byron to shiver in fright and peer at her with a doomed expression from where he’d curled himself into a ball under the bedroom chair. Bandit, on the other hand, behaved as if tropical rain was merely an excuse to snooze.

Randi’s damp hair smelled like mango when she crawled into bed beside her. The tiniest pang of doubt still needled Jenna after their argument the night before; surely, everything was all right now. She proceeded with caution and led with shop talk.

“I refuse to believe Chelsea could have hit Griffin hard enough to kill him,” Jenna confessed. She scooted closer, flashing Randi a tentative look. Randi closed the gap and opened an arm in invitation. Jenna snuggled in, resting her head on Randi’s shoulder, and slid an arm around her midriff. The sigh of contentment passed between her lips before she realized it. This is where she’d wanted to be all day. When Randi’s kiss brushed her cheek, she wasn’t sure if she or the cat purred.

“Thank you for going to bat for her, and for Yoshito,” Randi said as she pulled her closer. “You’re right about the impact something like this could have on Chelsea. I’m positive you’ll devise a way to ease her conscience.”

“You love her, don’t you?” Jenna asked. “Like a daughter, I mean.”

“I love all my students,” Randi answered. “But you know what it’s like. You treat all your cops with the same respect, but we both know you have the closest relationship with Trisha. You picked her out of the pack to fill the vacancy on your team shortly before we met. Then you trained and molded her, encouraged her to take her detective’s exam, and she thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread—a more recent invention than most people realize.”

Jenna lifted her head, giving Randi a speculative gaze. “How recent?”

“1928. To put it in perspective, Betty White is older than sliced bread. She almost made it to a hundred, God bless her. We thought she’d live forever, but I guess none of us do. You mentioned something else that happened today—a tough call you had to make?”

Jenna brushed her lips before nuzzling her face into Randi’s neck. “It was pretty horrible.”

“Wanna tell me about it?” Randi’s free hand stroked Jenna’s arm and shoulder in a soothing manner that put her at ease. She absorbed the vibrations of love radiating from her wife’s core with wonder, appreciation, and reciprocation. Life was both—the ugly and the sublime, the gut-wrenching and the heart-warming. It was a box of contrasts, and no one knew what they’d pull out next. But this Jenna recognized—she and Randi belonged together, and nothing was too tough to handle with her wife at her side.

“This woman younger than Angie overdosed on heroin in the filthiest house you’ve ever seen,” she began in a sympathetic tone. “The responding officers weren’t sure who reported it because it seemed like she was alone. Dr. Valentine said she’d been dead since late last night. Anyway, we discovered she had a five-year-old daughter and started looking for her. All at once, she runs out—this skinny, frail, tiny girl—and grabs me around the legs. Her name is Aurora, and she called 911 when she couldn’t wake her mother up. I don’t get it. She latched onto me and wouldn’t let go for the longest time. Me!”

“Why do you find that so hard to believe?” Randi asked and kissed Jenna’s forehead.

“Because.” Even as Jenna’s brows furrowed together and the corners of her mouth turned down, Randi’s fingers caressed her cheek.

“In a way, you presented a mother figure among all the scary policemen. However, unlike her addict birth mother, you displayed confidence, diligence, and concern. She saw you as a strong woman who could protect her from all the frightening dangers she didn’t understand. And, on some level, she probably recognized that you were the person in charge. Plus, why wouldn’t a child be drawn to you?”

“I don’t know what to do with children,” Jenna admitted as conflicting thoughts and emotions whirled around her brain.

“Sure, you do.” Randi angled Jenna’s chin up and pressed her lips to hers. “What happened to Aurora? Is she going to be all right?”

“Yeah. One of the social workers I know took her for tonight, and her grandmother is driving down from Ohio tomorrow,” Jenna relayed. “I’ll talk to her, and Ms. Brown will perform a background check to ensure the grandmother can provide a suitable home for the kid. It was just so … disturbing—way worse than what I grew up with.”

Jenna pushed up and propped herself on an elbow to gaze into Randi’s eyes. “It’s just that I know all the bad things that can happen to kids—and it’s terrifying. The pedophiles, kidnappers, abusers—and the accidents. I’ve responded to a child being run over by a lawnmower, traffic accidents too many to count, a baby who suffocated in a hot car, and a kid who got caught in a drain. All those poor parents, crying and traumatized, blaming themselves and everyone else in the world, second-guessing all their choices … and still … they chose to have children. I mean, a few were probably surprises, but they followed through with the pregnancies. I used to be afraid I wasn’t fit to be a parent, and now I’m just afraid of all the things that could hurt them.”

“Sweetie, that’s because your job always thrusts you into the minority of situations where a child is in danger, injured, or killed,” Randi explained. “The vast majority of kids grow up without being the victims of violent crimes or life-altering abuse. Accidents happen and they’re just part of life. Some kids get cancer or other serious illnesses that have to be dealt with, but most reach adulthood without undergoing such ordeals. And even if they are sick or crippled in an accident, if they are loved and cared for, they’ll turn out just fine. Kenji lost his arm, but it hasn’t stopped him from enjoying a happy life. Aurora may have had a rough beginning, but, with the love and guidance of her grandmother, she could really blossom.”

Jenna soaked in Randi’s words and the sentiment behind them. Remembering something funny, she smiled and lifted a brow. “Do you know what Owens had the nerve to say to me?” Randi’s eyes danced and she quirked her mouth in anticipation. “That I’d better hurry up because I was getting too old.”

Randi laughed. “He’s one to talk—a good ten years or more older than me, I’ll bet. Did you know the average age for a first child has been increasing for decades? Now in the U.S., women in their thirties account for the highest percentage at 47%, beating women in their twenties, which, in the last article I read, is 42%. A fair number of women give birth in their forties with no negative consequences.”

“I can’t get pregnant no matter my age,” Jenna specified. “How can I do my job pregnant and then I’d have to stay home with the baby for weeks or months? Now, if there was a biological way you and I could conceive, I might be tempted.”

“Yeah, but I could,” Randi answered softly. “I realize my biological clock has ticked down a few more years than yours has, but adoption doesn’t come with age limits. Do you think you might want to have a child, Jenna?”

“I’ve been giving it some thought.” Jenna lay back down on Randi’s shoulder and encircled her waist again. Listening to her heartbeat was soothing. “What do you want?”

“Sweetie, you know I’d love to have a baby or even a not-baby-sized child, but only if you do too. We’re in all this life stuff together and I can’t just say, ‘I want a baby, so give me one.’ I’d like to time things so I’d be on summer break if we could, but I know it doesn’t always work out that way—especially with adoptions. I’ve heard it can take years. A teacher in social sciences and her husband have been trying to adopt for two years and, when their first attempt fell through, they were devastated.”

“What went wrong?” Jenna didn’t want to put Randi through an emotional rollercoaster, nor did she care to ride one herself.

“They were told the fastest and most affordable road to adoption was by becoming foster parents. Depending on whether you use a private agency or not, it can cost tens of thousands of dollars to adopt, especially an infant,” Randi explained. “So, they qualified to serve as foster parents and had a precious six-year-old boy placed with them. They were all getting along so well and my teacher friend fell in love with him. Then, while they were waiting for the adoption procedure to play out, there was a change in his birth parents’ situation and the courts re-instated their rights and they took him back.

“Adoption is a wonderful option,” Randi confirmed. “So many kids need good, stable, loving homes, but we need to understand that things can go wrong. And the older the child is, the more of their fundamental development has already occurred. Deprogramming and reteaching a child things like self-worth and demonstrating kindness toward others can be a difficult road. Kids born with fetal alcohol syndrome or addicted to the drugs their mothers were on are especially challenging, even if they’re in the greatest need. It’s all a balancing act of priorities and what kind of baby or older child we want.”

Jenna wasn’t sure if her head or stomach spun faster. Of course, Randi had researched all this and talked to people about their experiences. She was always prepared for every eventuality.

“I don’t know,” she muttered. “It takes a special person to adopt a special needs child, and I just don’t think I’m one of those people. I’m sure I’d do a ton of things wrong and screw up the kid more than they were already. But what other options are there?”

“Well,” Randi said, with promise ringing in her tone. The feeling she was about to hear Randi’s preferred course of action swallowed Jenna; she hoped it wasn’t too outrageous.

“My preferred method also would be if you and I could conceive together. There is a complicated process by which a sperm donor fertilizes one woman’s eggs and then it’s implanted into her partner’s uterus so that both women contributed to the birth of the child, but it’s—”

“Convoluted and expensive?” Jenna grimaced, hoping that wasn’t Randi’s big reveal.

“Yes, but, for some lesbian couples, it gives each of them a biological claim over the resulting child. The problem is that there has to be a male sperm donor, so the baby wouldn’t have both parents’ DNA. If I’m going to have a baby, I want it to be as close to being yours as possible. I’ve been thinking, and—it’s just one option—your brother Vince’s little boy, Eli, is adorable. He’s bright, healthy, and normal. Maybe, seeing how you saved him from life in prison and all, we could use Vince’s sperm and do an at-home artificial insemination.”

“Like a turkey baster thing?” Jenna questioned. She was right; Randi had been thinking about this a lot, concocting a variety of options to present her with as soon as she brought up the subject.

“Yeah, but there are at-home kits we could buy that would be more effective than an actual turkey baster. Because of fertility clinic costs, and especially during COVID, the do-it-yourself method has become quite popular, and the results aren’t that different from spending thousands at a clinic,” Randi expounded enthusiastically. “If we arranged a time for Vince to come visit—or we could go there—when I was ovulating, and we followed the guidelines for best results, we could get pregnant. That way, our baby would be biologically part of both of our families and have a good chance of looking a lot like you.”

For an instant, terror grabbed Jenna around the throat and shook it like her grandpa wringing a chicken’s neck. Her eyes widened and her mouth went dry. “You want my family’s DNA? Chronic illness, addiction, bad tempers, and all the rest?”

“You mean attractive, brilliant, kind, and flexible? Yes.” Randi found Jenna’s lips to moisten them with a sloppy, happy kiss. “I’ve seen your dad change, you grow, and Angie blossom. Vince seems like he’s always been a great guy.”

“He has,” Jenna admitted, “and he is.”

“Besides, nature is only half the equation. You and I will nurture our baby exactly right from the get-go—that is if you really want to do this. I can wait a couple more years maybe for you to be certain, but, as it is, if I conceive at my age, it’ll be considered a geriatric pregnancy. It gets dicier and less likely to succeed once I pass forty.”

“Geriatric?” Jenna blasted, shooting up to stare dumbfounded at Randi. “Are they nuts? You’re the farthest thing from geriatric I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s thirty-five and older,” Randi answered. “It just means I’m producing fewer eggs and there are more things that could go wrong, but, like you suggested, I’m in great shape, so that helps.”

Jenna pushed the hair back that hung in her eyes; it needed a cut. “Give me a minute to digest this.”

“You may have a minute,” Randi answered with a hopeful smile, “a week, a month … two more years and we might just be discussing adoption—which is OK. Or no kids, if you’re afraid. There’s no shame in it; I think everyone who ever becomes a parent was afraid to do so.”

“Humph!” Jenna narrowed her eyes at Randi. That woman knew just how to push her buttons, bringing up the fear word. Jenna hated that she was sometimes afraid, and her fears mostly revolved around children. They were just so little and helpless and innocent and could be hurt in so many ways that would take years to heal from if they ever did. Suddenly, Eli popped into her mind. She replayed a memory of him running around playing, laughing, hurling handfuls of leaves toward the sky. Vince spun him around and tossed him in the air, and he giggled. He was a cute little boy and there wasn’t a thing wrong with him. She hated that his mother had moved to Louisville, but it wasn’t that far away from Vince and his grandparents. The family still saw Eli often, and he spent some weekends with them.

“I’ll bet you aren’t afraid,” she accused Randi.

“I’ve found it possible to be terrified and emboldened at the same time,” she sagely replied. “A little fear keeps you on your toes while courage wins the day. I love you, Jenna, no matter what. Having a baby would be a challenging adventure for both of us. Besides, where did anybody ever get by playing it safe all the time?”

“Life with you is nothing but adventure,” Jenna answered, “but I have been thinking that maybe a child wouldn’t be as petrifying as I used to believe. You would make the most excellent mom.”

A lump of emotion formed in Jenna’s throat as the truth of her words bubbled up like a geyser. Would Jenna be robbing her wife of her greatest calling if she said no? And some soul up there in heaven’s waiting room might miss out on having the most wonderful mother and end up with someone like dead Samantha Gibson or narcissist Bruce Griffin instead. If she looked at it that way …

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to Vince,” she consented, “just to see what he thinks.”

The sensual delight of Randi’s response, a balm to Jenna’s body and soul, erased every trace of their previous argument. She rode the tide, immersed in a euphoric pleasure for having inspired this joy and anticipation in the woman she loved.

This is what other couples did—they fell in love, got married, and started a family. Owens and his wife had four kids, for goodness’ sake. Why should she and Randi be any different? Well, not four. We might see how one goes. While Jenna still harbored unspoken fears and understood with acceptance that many couples also found happiness without children—as she had always hoped she would—she couldn’t help but entertain the possibility that their child would turn out more like Randi than herself.

19

Saturday, September 7

Jenna was the first into the office on a day they all should have been inside, staying dry. The good news, hailing from the NWS, proclaimed Hurricane Mikah had taken a jog to the east, increasing the chance it wouldn’t make landfall anywhere. However, rain bands still swept over the Blue Ridge Valley every few hours. With sunshine predicted for tomorrow, Jenna appreciated a few extra inches of rain making up for weeks of drought and heat.

She had started the coffee and stood staring at the fantastic mural of her team when Jamison waltzed in, perfectly attired in designer workwear. “Good morning, boss,” she tweeted with much more enthusiasm than necessary as she flittered toward her station.

“Good night, I presume?” Jenna speculated.

“The ultimate!” Jamison’s face glowed as brightly as the twenty-four-carat rock on her ring finger. “Dinner, dancing, and then Bennet and I went back to my place. We might not be living together, but we enjoy sleepovers. After all, we are both mature adults—even if our parents think we’re still infants.”

Jenna couldn’t conceive of a world in which her parents knew or cared what she was up to at Trisha’s age. Maybe being distanced from them was better than having them hover, trying to micromanage her life. But the Jamisons were good people, and, with their social connections, an excellent resource on prickly cases. They loved their daughter. Would I be overly protective of our child and think I needed to tell them what to do when they turned twenty-five? Jenna feared she could be that bossy.

“Have they finally come to terms with your religious differences?” Jenna asked.

“They don’t have a choice,” Jamison declared. “Besides, Jews and Christians believe in the same God. There’s no reason we can’t blend our traditions under a big umbrella of faith—as long as we ignore all the centuries of persecution,” she added morosely.

“So,” Jamison chimed out in renewed exuberance. “Fill me in.”

“I’m here,” Owens announced in irritation. “Should be sleeping in after the utter travesty of last night, but I’m here.” He hung a dripping raincoat on the hook and stomped toward his desk.

“What happened?” Jenna asked as she and Jamison turned their attention to Ron.

“What happened?” he repeated with biting incredulity. “The referees had it out for our team is what happened. All they wanted to do was call unnecessary penalties on my boy all night until our coach finally took him out of the game. Naturally, we lost. I think someone paid them off, the rotten cheats: offsides, false start, holding, pass interference, B.S. Pete’s an aggressive player like his old man, but those stupid refs shouldn’t penalize the kids for playing ball.”

“I entirely agree,” Jamison asserted with a brisk nod. “Then again, aren’t the rules there to keep the players from getting hurt?”

Owens sighed and rolled his eyes at her.

Before Jenna could add her two cents, Bauman slunk in wearing his glasses. “Late night,” he said and headed for the coffee.

Jenna stepped aside. “Back to glasses?”

“No time to fight with contact lenses this morning. I just woke up and rushed in—still late, I see. What’s the deal, anyway?”

Jenna gave the team a recap of Chelsea’s testimony, which they received with the same skepticism she had.

“Under the peculiar circumstances of Chelsea’s confession, Captain Myers let me call everyone in to work today. I’m about to go talk to the lab techs and see if Dr. Valentine can take another look at our victim. I need you all to find more leads. And call everybody back in we’ve already interviewed so I can take another go at them. Someone must have lied or omitted important details.”

“We’re on it,” Jamison promised. After two sips of coffee, Jenna set her mug on her desk and headed out.

“Owens wasn’t happy with the ball game last night,” Jenna commented upon entering the DNA lab where Dr. Gupta worked at her computer. “What did you think?”

Looking up, she smiled and moved to meet Jenna. “Oh, ours was fun. I think our children attend different schools. Anyway, the band’s halftime show was all I cared about, and they are off to a great start. But you didn’t call me in about that.”

“No,” Jenna replied. “I want to find some evidence that this little girl didn’t kill Griffin like she thinks she did. Do you have her samples?”

“Yes, and her hair matches strands recovered from Griffin’s uniform shirt,” Dr. Gupta reported. “I have her DNA in the machine, so we’ll know tomorrow if it matches any collected at the scene. But yesterday afternoon, the CSI lab sent new samples for me to run. They reexamined the recovered stolen items, like you asked, and swabbed every inch of them. The upper area of one ivory nunchaku rendered some epithelial tissue and the minutest count of blood cells not visible to the naked eye. I have both samples running. There wasn’t enough blood to perform a typing test and the DNA, so I figured the latter would be more important. I don’t even know if it’s human or how old it is. That blood could have been there for a hundred years if Griffin hadn’t washed the set. A hair caught in the chain came back to Griffin, but that makes sense if he was the one who used them.”

“The same could be true if the epithelials are a match to him as well,” Jenna supposed.

“Very likely,” Dr. Gupta agreed, “but they could match someone who shouldn’t have touched them. If it’s not Griffin or the thief, could that help you?”

“Sure would.” Jenna puzzled over the new clue. “What if the last person to see Griffin alive struck him in the chest with a nunchaku? I know from martial arts movies those things can be deadly. They are also tricky to use. Randi has a practice set made of padded plastic, and I learned the hard way how easy it is to smack yourself. But a master would know how to handle them. Then he returns the set to its wall rack. Maybe he hears strung-out Scooter coming and hightails it out the backdoor.” Jenna made a mental note to recheck the file to see if that door was left unlocked too.

“So many possibilities,” Dr. Gupta said. “Since I have everything running automatically, I plan to leave as soon as I’ve updated my report in the system.”

“That’s fine,” Jenna said. “How about the other DNA exemplars?”

“No matches to any recovered at the crime scene. So far, we’ve only placed Mr. Moro and Mr. Jones in Strike Zone, but some collected samples remain unidentified.”

“Yeah, well, whoever killed him may not have left DNA behind,” Jenna muttered. “What about the hairs?”

“Mr. Moro, Mr. Jones, Chelsea, Teresa Griffin, some of his students, and August King’s hair samples match those collected from Griffin’s shirt. That’s a physical match under a comparative microscope—high probability, but, without roots for DNA there’s still a small margin for error,” she explained.

“We’ve gone to court and won with less,” Jenna replied. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

“I’ll be back briefly in the morning to get you the latest results. Try not to work too hard.”

On the way to fingerprints, a thought struck Jenna. According to August’s testimony, he wasn’t in contact with Griffin on Tuesday, and yet his hair ends up on his shirt. I feel positive Teresa would have sent him to work with a clean gi. There’s got to be something August King didn’t tell me.

“Sorry to call you in on a Saturday,” Jenna said to José Martin. She leaned on his counter, peering at what he was doing.

“No, you aren’t,” he replied, giving her the eye. “You love nothing more than messing with my weekends. So, your new set—Chelsea Simpson—matches an unknown sample from the door to Strike Zone. They don’t match any others collected.”

Jenna figured, after the hair match, the girl’s fingerprints would be somewhere too. While that corroborated her story, it didn’t prove she struck a killing blow to Griffin’s chest.

Then Jenna’s gaze fell on the set of antique ivory nunchucks, lying on a silver tray. “What about those?” she asked, pointing at them.

“Just gave them a second pass. Still, the only matching prints are for Griffin and the dude who stole them.”

“Is there any way for me to see the prints, where they’re positioned, and so forth?”

“Sure.” Martin, in a T-shirt and ball cap, shifted to a computer at one end of the counter. He swiveled the monitor so Jenna could see it.

“I can pull up the 3D imagining model I made and put Griffin and the thief’s prints in contrasting colors. You can use the mouse to rotate the image and see all the angles.”

“That is so cool,” Jenna said in amazement. “Why didn’t I know we had this?”

“It’s a fairly new program,” he explained. “Expensive, but, yeah, really cool. There. Griffin’s are blue and what’s his name?”

“Scooter Jones,” Jenna supplied.

“Yeah. His are the red ones.”

Jenna studied the image, turning to view various angles. Griffin’s prints gripped the lower area of each handle while Jones’ wrapped around both handles as a set. That’s probably how he would pick them up, she thought. Griffin knew how to use them without killing himself, but Jones would hold them gripped together so he wouldn’t accidentally break his nose or put an eye out. She examined the right thumbprint on the outer edge of one nunchaku, a partial palm print along both, and his other four fingers on the edge of the second bar of the pair. They were all solid prints overlapping Griffin’s. The images seemed to confirm Scooter’s story about grabbing them off the wall holder and running away with them.

Scooter said he witnessed Griffin dead on the floor, and we found him face down. Chelsea said when she left, he was on his side in distress. He could have rolled over, but why? Whenever I see a guy suffering a groin injury, the last thing he wants to do is lie flat on top of his swollen, sore area.

“Thanks, José, this is good.”

“You owe me,” he said with a pointed finger and squinted eye. “I did the same for the sword and its fancy scabbard. Wanna see it too?”

“You bet!” Jenna scrutinized the prints, checking if any were angled in such a way the pommel end might have been used as a blunt weapon to hit Griffin in the chest. It was possible, she supposed. But, once again, only Griffin’s and Jones’ prints appeared on the item.

Jenna’s next stop was the morgue. To her relief, Dr. Valentine was there when she pushed through the frosted glass doors. “It’s been like a three-ring circus in here lately,” Valentine commented. He had opened a drawer and slid out the stainless-steel shelf holding Bruce Griffin’s body. The sheet had been pulled down to his belly button, revealing eight-pack abs, a muscular chest, and a red mark square over his sternum. Jenna moved in close, examining the size of the bruise. It looked bigger than the end of either martial weapon in the lab but not as big as Dr. Valentine’s fist would be.

“It’s kind of on the small side, isn’t it?” Jenna’s spirits sank. Maybe Chelsea’s strike had created the contusion.

“It doesn’t have to be big,” he answered. “What is it you wanted me to look for?”

“Anything that seemed insignificant before,” Jenna instructed, but the wind had blown out of her sail. She hadn’t a clue what she expected to find.

“I ran the extra bloodwork, and still came back with nothing out of the ordinary,” Dr. Valentine reported. “I checked for all the odd things, like snake and spider venom, obscure barbiturates, tranquilizers, and his medical records listed no allergies.”

Jenna was running out of options when the M.E. rolled Griffin on his side, and exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be!”

“What?” Jenna rushed around the extended refrigerator drawer to peer around Dr. Valentine.

“This mark wasn’t here before,” he swore. “I’ve got photos to prove it. But, sometimes, visible evidence of a contusion doesn’t present right away—even on a corpse. While uncommon, documentation shows that sometimes a bruise might appear hours or even days after death, a phenomenon linked to the complicated postmortem processes in the body.”

Jenna noted a purple line crossing the base of his skull where Dr. Valentine had shaved Griffin’s hair. She remembered Chelsea showing her the angry marks on her arm that took a couple of days to show up. “That’s where you pointed out the minor fracture you thought had happened when he fell and hit his head on the floor.”

“That’s what it suggested at the first autopsy,” Valentine confirmed, “but I must reassess this injury.” He angled a stand light to shine more brightly on the spot. “If he hit his head on the floor, I would expect the wound to be rounder. This looks like what I see when a victim is struck with a tire iron or other cylindrical object. Perhaps the same weapon caused his throat injury and this one.”

“I doubt it,” Jenna said. “Remember why I needed you here this morning? Chelsea Simpson confessed to hitting him in the neck under his Adam’s apple with her forearm in self-defense. She didn’t, however, strike him in the back of the head. Could that have been the killing blow?”

“I must reevaluate my findings in light of this development. I’ll need to perform a craniotomy and examine the brain. You see, the medulla oblongata is located right there in the brainstem, and it controls important autonomic functions, such as breathing and heart rate. Significant damage there could produce the same results as commotio cordis, disrupting sinus rhythm and stopping his heart.”

Dr. Valentine turned his face to Jenna in apology. “I’m so sorry I missed this. But without the bruising, it appeared incidental. If that mark had presented immediately, like the others, then I would have explored this insult as a cause of death during the regular autopsy. I hate it when I miss something!”

“We all miss things occasionally,” Jenna reminded him. “Even you aren’t perfect.”

“I should be,” he muttered with a sullen expression.

“You sound like my wife.” Jenna reveled in every opportunity to use the phrase, “my wife.”

“Lieutenant, I’m not leaving this room until I have a definitive answer,” Valentine vowed with a determined look. “Perhaps it was a combination of everything, or maybe the other injuries were minor by comparison, but I find it as incredible as you do that a ninety-pound twelve-year-old could kill a man Griffin’s size on her own. I can’t tell you who, but I promise to tell you how—for sure this time. If my mistake had implicated an innocent person …” He rubbed the back of his neck and glowered.

“Better late than never,” Jenna responded. “At least now I know my suspect pool needn’t only include martial arts masters. Anybody could have cracked him in the back of the head with a crowbar. Thanks, Dr. Valentine.”

“You won’t have to run back down here,” he assured her. “The instant I have a conclusion, I’ll send it to your email.”

Jenna left the morgue with renewed energy, on a mission to reinterrogate her persons of interest—and maybe add a few more. The killer could have been anybody.

20

Jenna rushed to her office armed with fresh information, which she shared with her team.

“That’s good news for Chelsea, and Mr. Moro, I’d guess,” Jamison voiced. “I got ahold of August King. He was acting all illusive and gave me an excuse why he couldn’t come in, so I just sent a patrol car to pick him up.”

“Good initiative,” Jenna praised. “He omitted some important details last time, seeing how his hair turned up on Griffin’s shirt. Where did we get with Teresa Griffin and her relatives?”

“She’s been out of touch with the rest of her family for a while,” Bauman said. “Her sister’s in town helping her take care of the legal stuff and make funeral arrangements. I asked her father and brother-in-law to come talk to us. If you believe this, they are both off on a hunting trip in Wyoming.”

“Wyoming? In September?” Jenna found that excuse dubious at best.

“Oh, yes, it’s a big thing,” Owens supplied. “Wyoming has the earliest opening to hunting season in the country on September first. Hunters flock there this time of year, especially for bow hunting. But they’re probably after elk. Who wants to pay to go all the way to Wyoming for a critter when he could wait a few months and hunt here?”

“But his daughter’s husband just died,” Jenna argued in contempt for the man’s lack of concern. “You’d think he’d want to comfort her, show her some support.”

“Yeah, well, estranged,” Bauman offered with a disheartened shrug.

“Denzel Blackburn said he’d be happy to come in,” Owens reported. “He said he’d be here around—”

“Lieutenant Ferrari?” A uniformed officer poked his head in through the door. She turned to him with a questioning expression. “I’ve got a Denzel Blackburn out here; says you requested him.”

“Wow, that was fast,” she commented. “OK. Detective Owens, can you talk to him this time? Have him go back through his testimony, anything he remembers, etcetera. He has a solid alibi, but maybe he’s thought of somebody else who had a beef with Griffin.”

“You’ve got it.” Owens hefted himself out of his chair, straightened his tie, and struck out with the uniformed officer.

Jenna picked up the office phone and dialed Kenji Moro’s number. “Kenji, Lieutenant Ferrari. Did your father get home all right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “I can’t thank you enough. We were so overjoyed to have him cleared and back home. He still won’t tell me what happened Tuesday night.”

“Well, we now have a witness who saw Griffin upright and unharmed after your father left,” Jenna said. “Mr. Moro’s under a directive to remain in town because this is still an ongoing investigation. The charges against him have been dropped, but any new twist could reinstate them—just so you know. Listen, we’re following a new lead, and it would really help if you’d come back to the station and answer a few more questions. Do you think you could do that right away before you’re needed at House of Kime?”

“Well, uh, I guess so. We’re planning a surprise party at the dojo for my dad at two this afternoon,” he said.

“It won’t take that long,” Jenna promised, “especially if you run over here now.”

“All right, then,” Kenji agreed. “I’m on my way.”

“What do you need him for again?” Jamison asked.

“His alibi was a little shaky. He had plenty of time after the restaurant to run by Strike Zone, and his fiancée could be covering for him,” Jenna speculated. “If he witnessed Griffin’s attempted assault on Chelsea, that could have proved the last straw. We must consider the possibility that his prosthetic arm—solid, high-grade titanium—could have produced the cylindrical bruise mark on the back of Griffin’s neck.”

“But the traffic cameras near the park,” Bauman began.

“Showed his car and license plate,” Jenna interrupted. “But it was dark. Were you ever able to identify the driver?”

“Well, no,” he fudged.

“Maybe Bret Carroll was driving it to the park to complete his alibi. Jamison, what would you be willing to do for Bennet?”

“Thank goodness I won’t ever have to make up an alibi for him murdering someone.”

“But you might lie to protect him in other ways; am I right?” Jenna projected.

Jamison’s posture shrunk, and she glowered. “If you love someone and believe in them, you’d do what it takes to keep them safe.”

“Exactly!” Jenna pulled out her file on the case and opened it, scanning for mentions of the back door. After a few minutes, it jumped out at her. It was locked when the responding officer checked, but only with a doorknob latch; the deadbolt was not engaged. Anyone could have come in through there and pushed the thumb turn when he left.

While playing scenarios of suspects’ furtive movements through the back door, Jenna’s imaginings were disrupted by the resounding thud of Owens’ feet as he returned from interviewing Blackburn. “Anything?” she asked, shifting her attention to the detective.

“Nada,” he replied with a displeased expression. “He couldn’t name a potential suspect we don’t already have on our list. Then again, if he thought of one of his students, he wouldn’t mention them. I checked on his alibi, and all his black belts confirmed he was conducting his class until just about nine o’clock, and his studio in Salem is too far away for him to have driven to Strike Zone by Griffin’s TOD.”

“I didn’t think it was him,” Jenna said, “but I hoped he could point us toward someone else to investigate. The real problem is that anybody who interacted with Griffin often enough might want to give him a beating.”

“A beating, yes,” Jamison agreed. “Unfortunately, they hit him too hard or in the wrong spot and he ended up dead—making him our problem.”

***

No sooner than the weekend desk clerk escorted Kenji to interview room one, a pair of patrol cops brought August King in. They almost bumped into Jenna and Jamison in the hallway.

“Where do you want him?” asked Officer Janet Duff, whom Jenna recognized from her trauma counseling group and around the station. She didn’t recall the tall patrolman’s name.

“Interview B,” she directed. “Mr. King, do you wish to call a lawyer before we have a conversation?”

He blanched. “Do I need a lawyer? Am I under arrest?” He shook, and it wasn’t from being cold. The rain had dropped the external temperature about ten degrees, only enough to make the heat tolerable—not shiverable. The dry condition of August’s and the officers’ clothing informed Jenna they were in a lull before the next wave of rain arrived.

She raised a brow at him and crossed her arms, shifting her weight to one foot. “Did these fine police officers place you under arrest?”

“No, but—”

“Is there a reason I should arrest you, August?” Jenna inquired like a hawk asking a mouse if it should eat him for lunch.

“No!” he squeaked. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jenna retorted. “We’ll be with you in a moment. Please make yourself comfortable.” She turned to enter interview A, satisfied that her young suspect would be far from comfortable awaiting her arrival. Jamison followed her in with only a passing glance at August. Jenna considered that might be the starstruck young man’s bigger torment.

She and Jamison sat across from Kenji, who seemed a much happier fellow than the last time they spoke with him.

“Lieutenant Ferrari, I’m glad you asked me to return,” he started. “I wanted to thank you in person for going the extra mile it took to clear my dad. I know how it must have looked, but Dad could never kill anybody.”

“Even a man who threatened you?” she asked.

“Griffin’s threat to ruin my wedding was a ploy at best and would have proven socially awkward at worst,” the young man said, dismissing Griffin’s outburst. “People can say what they want, but words can only hurt the person who allows them to. My parents taught me to be like a turtle and let insults roll off my back like a shell repelling the rain.”

“What about you, Kenji?” Jamison asked. “Would you step in to defend someone who was being attacked?”

He gave her a considering look. “Do you mean verbally or physically? I’m quick enough with a sharp reply if offensive speech is being hurled about, but I wouldn’t hit them for it.”

Jamison clarified her question. “I mean, suppose you witnessed a child being physically assaulted by a person other than a parent.”

Kenji’s nostrils flared, and his keen eyes flashed. “I wouldn’t stop to ask if the offender was a parent or not,” he asserted. “Any decent person would intervene to protect a child.”

“With physical force?” Jenna pushed.

“If necessary,” Kenji affirmed. “Wouldn’t you?”

“It would be my job to—”

“I don’t mean to uphold the law, Lieutenant,” he corrected. “You’d do it because it’s the honorable course of action. Monsters who hurt children or the elderly have the blackest hearts. It’s our duty as human beings to stand up for those too weak to defend themselves. But what has that to do with your case?”

“Is that what you did, Kenji?” Jamison asked in a manner brimming with compassion.

“What? When?” Confusion erased the ire that had been building in his expression.

“On Tuesday night,” Jenna supplied. “After dinner, you were still disturbed over Griffin’s outburst at House of Kime, how he insulted your father, threatened your friend August and your wedding ceremony. So, you had Bret drop you off to borrow her car while she drove yours to the park to establish an alibi. I don’t believe you went to Strike Zone intending to kill Griffin, but when you saw him manhandle and threaten Chelsea Simpson—”

“What?” Kenji leaped out of his chair, his face reddening and his teeth clenched. “Are you telling me that son of a bitch went after Chelsea? God!” He raked his fingers through his hair with one hand while clenching his other into a fist. “There were rumors he toyed with teenaged girls, but Chelsea? She’s only in sixth grade—maybe starting seventh this year.” He paced two steps to the left before spinning on his heel to stomp to the right. His chest heaved and his muscles tensed.

“Did that happen? Tuesday night? What was she doing there?” he asked in rapid succession. Jenna waited.

“If I knew about it, if I had been there—hell, yes, I’d have stopped him. I’ve beaten Bruce on the mat in competition before and feel sure I could do it for real,” Kenji admitted. “The problem is, I wasn’t there and didn’t know he did that. Son of a bitch!”

His rage was apparent, but so was the shock of hearing this for the first time. Jenna had to admit that she would have reacted the same way.

“You might be interested to learn that Chelsea defended herself quite nicely,” Jenna responded, which caught his attention. “She knocked him flat on his butt using skills she learned at your school. But shortly afterward, somebody came along and finished the job. If I could establish there had been a legitimate reason and that the punisher harbored no intent to kill Griffin, a manslaughter charge with a plea bargain might not be so harsh for a good person out to teach a child predator a lesson. And if it went before a jury, the guy might walk out with a medal.”

Kenji huffed out a breath and plopped back into his chair. “He’d deserve it, too; it just wasn’t me. Bret didn’t drop me off; we went for a walk in the park because it soothes and relaxes me to spend time with nature. You’re right about the part where I was brooding over Bruce’s litany of bad behavior but not the part where I confronted him about it. Dad issued strict orders I wasn’t to go near Strike Zone or Griffin.”

He brushed a hand across the table before pointing a finger and narrowing his eyes at Jenna. “But if I’d walked in on him threatening or moving in on Chelsea—or any of our students, or any kid in the world for that matter—you might be arresting me for manslaughter. Praise be that I didn’t.”

Kenji sighed and lowered his face into his hands. “Dad would be so disappointed in my vengeful attitude.”

“I think your father would understand,” Jamison comforted the emotional young man. “I think he knows exactly how you feel—and understands.”

Jenna’s heart swelled watching Trisha with Kenji. She had the grace not to mention that Mr. Moro had confronted Griffin himself that night and was too ashamed to talk about what happened. Since it now appeared he hadn’t killed Griffin, there was no need to share that detail with Kenji. Mr. Moro would tell him or not if there was a right time.

“Thank you, Kenji,” Jenna said. “After Chelsea came forward with the new information, we had to push your buttons to find out if you’d been there and struck the last blow. I’m satisfied you had no prior knowledge of what transpired, and you’re free to go.”

Kenji labored out of his chair while Jenna and Jamison walked to the door. “What’s wrong with people?” he asked in a forlorn voice, sorrow etched on his face.

“A world of things,” Jenna replied bleakly, “and we’re powerless to fix most of them.”

21

Ten minutes later, after a restroom break and grabbing a bottle of water, Jenna took Owens in with her to interrogate August King, who’d omitted seeing the victim on the Tuesday from his earlier testimony. Considering the young man was smitten with Jamison, Jenna worried he might not come clean if she was there to hear his confession. However, a father figure could provide the right motivation to get him talking.

“Mr. King, I’m Sergeant Detective Owens, also with the criminal investigations office, and this is Lieutenant Detective Ferrari.” He pulled out Jenna’s chair and took the one beside it. Even if he wasn’t exactly twice August’s size, he was big enough to intimidate.

August fidgeted nervously, his haunted eyes darting between them. “Where’s Detective Jamison?”

“She’s busy with other matters,” Jenna supplied. “Now it’s time to come clean, August. When you spoke with Detective Jamison, you failed to mention you’d been in physical contact with Griffin on the day he was killed.”

“Because it was incidental,” he claimed. “It had nothing to do with anything.”

“Every piece of testimony—no matter how incidental you presume—is relevant,” Owens declared in a menacing voice.

“Not this,” August said, raising his palms innocently. “It was just … embarrassing.” He hung his head.

“I don’t care if he flicked a finger and knocked you on your ass,” Owens barked. “You’re going to tell us the truth. You see, we have forensic evidence that proves you and he had a bit of a tussle. Where, when, and why, King—now.”

The gaze he lifted to Owens bore no challenge, heat, or defiance—only the hollow misery of defeat. “I was walking up the sidewalk, on my way to the dojo to get ready and practice a little before my class,” August explained, “when Bruce came storming out. It surprised me to see him there because he rarely came to House of Kime. Every other karate studio in the nation was beneath his, so why would he deign to stoop so low?”

August rolled his eyes, shook his head, and leaned back in his chair, dropping his hands into his lap. “I could tell he was mad with his face all snarled up, and he was moving fast, not watching where he was going. Guess he figured the world would get out of his way. He ran smack into me and gave me a shoulder shove, knocking me into the wall as he passed. I called out, ‘Hey!’ and he muttered something like, ‘F-off, loser,’ only he said the word and kept going—never even looked at me.”

“I’ll bet that made you mad,” Owens stated.

“Mostly disgusted,” August qualified. “But once inside, I felt the disruption, how the kids were upset, and Master Moro had retreated to the back room. Some of the guys told me what happened, and Master Moro rejoined us a few minutes later, all calm and dignified, acting like his usual self. But I didn’t go over to Strike Zone after my night class. That was the only time Tuesday I saw him.”

Jenna considered the hair transfer could have happened during the abrupt shoulder shove—the impact, August jerking his head around. Also, a hair on August’s shirt might have stuck to Griffin’s when he ran into him. It was entirely plausible.

“Mr. King,” Jenna addressed, “you have no firm alibi for 9:00 p.m. You could easily have followed Mr. Moro to Strike Zone, with or without his knowledge. Maybe you entered by the back door. While we now have a witness who saw Griffin alive and uninjured after Mr. Moro left, somebody else went into his studio and killed him. Plenty of people have a motive; you had the opportunity.”

Jerking to nervous attention, August pleaded, “But don’t you see? I couldn’t possibly beat Bruce in a fight, even if I was there—which I wasn’t. Why would I want to go back to that miserable place where he berated me for my failures?”

“I’d say to get even,” Owens asserted with authority. “Maybe you had an advantage because you had a weapon.”

“And you certainly could have landed a good hit if someone braver and more skilled had already put him on the floor,” Jenna added. “There he is, your nemesis, the thorn in your side, always putting you down, knocking you aside, calling you a loser, and he just lost a fight. He’s lying there on the floor, writhing in pain, just like the Universe was handing him up to you on a silver platter. So, you grab something from the weapons chest, maybe a tonfa, wood baton, bo staff, or nunchucks, and take your opportunity. You just want one hit, one smack to serve him right for all the crap he pulls. Did you see him trying to seduce teenage girls? Did it disgust you enough to want to let him have it?”

“Of course it disgusted me,” he snapped. “Do you think Master Moro beat him up and then somebody else killed him? It wasn’t me.”

“Come on, August,” Owens encouraged. “Be a man for once. Griffin was trash—not you. You had to stand up to him. You couldn’t let him ruin your friend Kenji’s wedding and go around humiliating your new sensei, who treats you with respect. We don’t think you meant to kill him, even if he deserved it.”

“No!” August shifted his pitiful gaze from Owens to Jenna. “Master Moro teaches tolerance and turning the other cheek. He says we must never lower ourselves to the level of people like that. An eagle doesn’t worry about the behavior of other animals; it merely soars above them. It would be disgraceful for me to take revenge, to act like the man who torments me, and I don’t believe Master Moro beat him up either. If he did, Bruce started it—that’s for sure.”

“We already pulled your hair from Griffin’s shirt,” Owens said. “When the lab finishes testing every piece of equipment in the entire studio, are we going to find your fingerprints on anything? Might as well come clean now, kid. Things will go much better for you.”

“No,” he uttered with a despairing expression. “Bruce wouldn’t let me take a weapons class. He said they were for elite students only, and, even though a few brown belts were let into the lessons, I wasn’t. I can honestly say you won’t find my fingerprints on a one of them. And, no, I didn’t follow Mr. Moro or drive over on my initiative. I think we’ve established that I’m a coward.”

“Being a gentle man doesn’t make one a coward,” Jenna corrected. “In fact, it often requires tremendous courage to not retaliate when somebody threatens or hurts you.”

He looked at her with wonder. “You sound like Master Moro.”

“Well, your dojo’s Miranda McLeod is my wife, so I hear a lot of their philosophies,” she answered. Jenna had hoped she’d finally landed on the right suspect, yet, from the moment the interview began, she realized it wasn’t him.

Back in the office, Jenna received a call from Ms. Brown at Child Protective Services, informing her that Aurora’s grandparents were due to arrive at her office at three o’clock that afternoon. She thanked her and promised to be there for the meeting.

“That poor little girl,” Jamison gushed with compassion.

“Yeah,” Jenna agreed. Then something Owens had said in the interview grabbed her attention. “Hey, Owens.” He whirled his chair around to face her.

“No. I have four kids. If the grandparents can’t take her, don’t look at me!”

His terrified expression brought a smile to her lips. “I was going to ask if the lab is actually testing every piece of equipment in Strike Zone for fingerprints and biological evidence, but if you’ve got having another kid on your mind—”

“I had one of those …” he glowered and lowered his voice. “Operations.”

“You mean a vasectomy?” Jenna asked in a clear, robust tone.

“Hush, Ferrari.” His scowl deepened. “That’s why I don’t ever tell you anything personal.”

“Are you kidding?” she countered. “I practically feel like I was there for every tooth, every diaper change, from first steps to first dates. There’s no shame in getting a vasectomy.”

“Not for you, maybe. And, no, I don’t know if the lab is testing every club and whatnot from Strike Zone. I made it up to press him for a confession.”

“You know, there wasn’t a lot of time between Griffin’s confrontation with Chelsea and that Scooter fellow stepping in to rob the place,” Bauman commented from across the room. “Who else could have squeezed in?”

As if a light bulb flashed in her head, Jenna stared at him, her jaw slack, eyes wide with dawning realization. Overwhelmed by a rush of excitement, she sprang from her chair, her heart pounding in her chest. “Maybe nobody. It’s all right here.” She held up the case file, including photos of Specialist Martin’s fingerprint evidence.

“Dr. Valentine will take his time to be doubly certain he doesn’t overlook a single cell this time, but, a little while ago, we both observed the latent contusion that revealed itself on the back of Griffin’s neck, base of the skull. Dr. Gupta is running DNA tests of epithelial cells and a miniscule drop of blood from the antique nunchaku we recovered among Scooter’s loot.”

The team all listened with rapt attention as Jenna laid out her theory.

“We know Scooter—like many of the other suspects—was afraid of Griffin or didn’t possess the skills to beat him in a fight. We discounted him as a murder suspect because he couldn’t have delivered a killing blow to the chest as we first believed, only now we know Braveheart Chelsea left him lying on the floor incapacitated. Maybe he was lying there, looking like he was dead, when tweaking Scooter Jones goes prowling for things to pawn for drug money. He spots a fancy sword and nunchucks displayed on the wall, lifts them, and then great big scary Griffin starts to get up. There he is, on his hands and knees, groaning, and maybe he gets a good look at the thief. Scooter panics, hits him with the nunchucks—maybe wanted to silence a witness and maybe just because he’s scared of him—and then runs off.”

“Nothing in the evidence contradicts that story,” Jamison confirmed, “and the DNA report could confirm it. If the skin cells and blood match Griffin—and we already know the fingerprints match Jones—then we’ve got a solid case against him.”

“Solid cases always go better with confessions. Bauman, call holding and have them bring him over. Jamison, I’ll need you in there to keep me from bulldozing over the little twerp. I want to close this case, but don’t want to pin it on the wrong guy—again. And I sure as hell am not about to charge Chelsea Simpson with murder. Oh, stupid asshole Griffin—why couldn’t you have just died of an ordinary heart attack?”

“Don’t worry, Ferrari,” Jamison assured her. “We’ll get him to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!”

Jenna was feeling so good that she laughed at Jamison’s joke. “Then ADA Altman and the public defender’s office can do their respective things, leaving all innocent parties in the clear. Now, Owens, while we’re waiting, I want to hear your exhausting stories about babies keeping you up all night, trips to the E.R., and all the parenting nightmares.”

He blinked at her from a blocky, blank face, and uttered, “OK. Something I should know?”

“Nope. Not a thing. Entertain me.” Jenna and Randi were merely in the talking about it stage—no reason for announcements yet. She hoped hearing Ron’s domestic tales would make the idea of having a baby less daunting. Then again, they could send her running for the hills.

22

After having a shower and a few hot meals pumped into him, Scooter Jones appeared significantly more presentable than the last time Jenna saw him. Despite being clean, his hair remained scraggly, his dusky complexion splotchy, and he gnawed like a starving rodent at nails already chewed to the quick. The corrections officer who brought him in told Jenna they’d given him doses of buprenorphine Thursday and Friday after his arrest to help him through withdrawal symptoms.

His questioning eyes darted to Jenna when she and Jamison entered the interview room. “Oh, you again,” he said as his knee started to bounce. “Did all the folks get their stuff back? Are they droppin’ the charges?”

“Mr. Jones,” Jenna began in an impatient tone. The case file lay on the table before her, and in it were Dr. Valentine’s updated results. Griffin’s brainstem sustained sufficient trauma in all the right spots to fritz out his cardiac functions, just as he’d explained to her in his office. Chelsea was officially off the hook. Now, to get this poor idiot to confess.

“It’s Scooter,” he replied with hope scrawled across his face. “You can call me Scooter.” Those optimistic eyes danced over to Jamison, accompanied by a blush and a smile. “I’m doin’ better today. My free lawyer came to see me and said he’d try to get the charges knocked down.”

“I’m sure your attorney is looking out for your best interests, Scooter,” Jamison assured him pleasantly. “Do you want him or her to be here while we talk to you today?”

“No, that’s OK,” he said.

“So, Scooter,” Jenna clarified for the record, “are you refusing your right to counsel for this interview with Detective Trisha Jamison and Lieutenant Detective Jenna Ferrari on this day, Saturday, September 7?”

“Sure, I guess,” he said. “Hey, I have a cousin named Trisha, only she’s not as pretty as you.”

Jamison smiled at him. “We need a yes or a no, please.”

Jenna had to admit her protégé, whom The Magic Mirror would absolutely declare to be the fairest in the land, could crank out the charm. That’s why she’s got the highest success rate in the department for convincing judges to sign off on warrants.

“OK, then, no, I don’t need my lawyer.” He pulled his fingers away from his mouth and laced them together on the table. “I already talked to you once without him, so I figure I can again. He’s workin’ on an appeal for my bail denial with the judge. Well, she didn’t so much deny bail as set it too high. I don’t have ten percent of that much, and bondsmen want ten percent up front. Come to think of it, I mostly get time served ‘cause I can’t ever make my bail.”

Aiming an empathetic aspect of concern his way, Jamison said, “You mean you don’t have a friend or relative willing to help you out? That’s so sad. Everyone needs good friends he can count on.”

“I know, right?” he replied, drawn to Jamison like a moth to a flame.

“I don’t think it will be time served this time,” Jenna stated, shaking her head. “Our evidence is solid, and you were caught in possession of far too many stolen goods. Maybe if you could help us collar some powerful drug dealers operating in the area, we could do something for you in return. Just this week, Roanoke had a guy killed in a drug-related shootout and a young mother died of a heroin overdose. You can do the right thing by helping us put the real criminals out of business.”

“Well, I mean, I’d like to,” Scooter answered apologetically, “except I don’t know about drug dealers.”

“You told us …” Jenna opened the file and read from it. “My dealer’s a decent guy and might give me some credit, but I can’t get in too deep. His boss isn’t so nice, and I don’t need broken kneecaps.”

“Well, yeah, but—did I say that?”

“It’s on the video recording,” Jamison informed him. “Don’t you remember?” He gave her a lost look and took another bite of his nails.

“Scooter, you have to tell us the name of your dealer and his boss,” Jenna demanded. “Then we need you to wear a wire the next time you approach them to buy drugs.”

“I can’t do that!” he exclaimed, slapping his hands on the table. “Then who’d I get my dru—medicine—from? Besides, remember the kneecaps? That’s just for bein’ behind on payments. If I ratted on them, you’d never find my body. You don’t understand how dangerous those guys are.”

“Martial arts master Bruce Griffin was dangerous too,” Jenna pointed out, “and yet you broke into his studio to steal from him.”

“It isn’t breakin’ if the door is open,” Scooter asserted. “And, besides, he was on the floor, knocked out or somethin’.”

“Guy like Griffin,” Jamison commented conversationally. “Probably like the sort a drug dealer would hire as his muscle—big, strong, excellent fighter. I’ll bet he could break more than kneecaps with less effort than a normal person could use to swat a fly. I can’t imagine what might have happened if he’d woken up while you were there.” Twisting a curious face to Scooter, she speculated, “I’ll bet you’d have dropped everything and run for your life.”

“Uh-uh,” Scooter uttered defensively, sitting forward with his elbows leaning on the table. “I didn’t rabbit. I put him back to sleep. Did you think I’d be scared of a White guy in pajamas?” He snorted a nervous laugh.

So concerned with impressing Jamison that his mouth is bypassing his brain, Jenna thought. Fine. He had refused legal representation, so whatever he said was fair game.

“I think it would take a lot to frighten you,” Jamison encouraged. “I mean, it’s not like he was a high-level gang leader who would sooner put a hit out on you than spit. So, you stood up to the black belt?”

“Didn’t have to,” Scooter explained. “I was pullin’ the ivory handle things off the wall when I heard him groan. I turned around, and the dude was tryin’ to get up, but was groggy, you know? So, I just tapped him with the thingies and ran out with my loot.”

“Where, Scooter?” Jamison probed, as if interested in his heroic account. “Where did you tap him with the nunchucks?”

“Well, he was on his hands and knees by then, and I didn’t want him chasin’ me down,” he recounted. “Then I’d lose the money and valuables and couldn’t score, so I whacked him like—I don’t know—on the back of his head, his neck? Somewhere up there. My aim isn’t so good. But it worked. He went right back down, splayed out on his belly, face on the floor, and didn’t run after me. That was one thing,” he proclaimed, as if he had saved a village from an ogre. Jenna wondered if maybe he had. “But wearin’ a wire? Rattin’ out dangerous drug dealers?” He passed his pitiful expression from Jamison to Jenna. “That’s suicide. I’ll have to take the five years in prison or whatever. Are you sure my lawyer can’t get me off?”

“I’m afraid not,” Jenna replied. “Scott Jones, you are also being charged with felony manslaughter for killing Bruce Griffin during the commission of a robbery. We have physical evidence from the murder weapon—the handle thingies—and the medical examiner has determined your blow to his brain stem stopped his heart within seconds. Even if you had called for help, it would have arrived too late.” While Dr. Gupta’s DNA machine hadn’t verified all the evidence, in light of Scooter’s revised testimony, it would.

“Wait, now!” Scooter’s brows shot up, his mouth dropped like a Roadrunner and Coyote anvil, and his chest lurched, sucking in a shallow breath. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“I’m sorry, Scooter,” Jamison consoled, “but you did. Mr. Griffin died when you struck him with the ivory nunchucks. It’s considered a deadly weapon for a reason.”

“But I didn’t mean to,” he stammered. “I just didn’t want to get caught.”

“That’s why I’m charging you with manslaughter instead of murder,” Jenna explained. “Even if you didn’t intend to kill Griffin, you attacked him while robbing his dojo, which is still theft, even if the door was unlocked. He died as a direct result of the blow, making you accountable. Your lawyer will explain the manslaughter, a lesser charge than murder, and you’ll have to serve additional time. It will go on your record but won’t be as damning to your future as a murder conviction would be.”

“Scooter, none of this would have happened if you’d of just kicked your dependence on drugs,” Jamison lamented. “You’re a young man who could have a bright future. You might think the world has treated you unfairly, but you are your own worst enemy. Drugs aren’t the answer—never were, never will be.”

“Yeah.” A tear crept from his eye as his shoulders slumped in misery. “But it’s so hard—you don’t know.”

“No, I don’t know how hard it is to beat an addiction,” Jamison empathized. “Still, I’ve done other hard things. Scooter, depending on which prison you get sent to, there are programs with counseling and group support to help you. You must promise to do everything the therapist tells you and fully participate in the program—not just go through the motions. If you believe you can do it—more than you believe anything else, like the voices in your head that say you’re a failure or too weak or not worth it—then you can become the hero of your own story. It’s all up to you.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Scooter repeated in obvious remorse and knuckled away tears from his cheeks. “I’m not worth it. Just lock me up and throw away the key. Dad was right; I’m nothin’ but a screw up.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Jenna said as she stood. “It’s what you do next that makes all the difference. If it helps you feel any better, Griffin was no angel himself. I’ll set up a meeting for Monday with your public defender and ADA Altman to barter over a plea deal. If you want to take this to trial, you’ll lose and end up serving a longer sentence.”

When Jamison stood, Scooter followed, his posture drooping and his gaze to the floor. “Yeah,” was all he said.

Jamison took his arm to escort him out into the custody of his waiting security agent. “You don’t have to do it all at once,” she advised. “Just take the first step and then the next. When you free yourself from drugs is when your life will truly start. The past is past. Today and tomorrow are all that matter. Don’t give up, Scooter. Each of us is on a journey to be better than we were yesterday.”

He glanced at her with astonishment. “But what do you need to improve on?”

Jamison laughed, releasing him to the officer who brought him in. “Plenty!”

When the prisoner and his caretaker were out of earshot, Jenna turned to Jamison. “You handled him brilliantly. I’m really proud of you.”

“Hey, your ploy to distract him with that bit about wearing a wire to catch his dealer was a stroke of genius,” Jamison praised.

“Give them something bigger and scarier to worry about and maybe they’ll slip up on what they consider less important.” Jenna shrugged. “It works on folks who aren’t too bright. Luckily for us, most criminals fall into that category.” They pushed through the double doors to the criminal investigations office together to find Bauman back from the booth, making a copy of the interview.

“You two nailed it,” he sang out. “A real heavyweight tag team—uh, I mean.” Bauman’s expression morphed into horror. “That didn’t come out right. I don’t mean you two are … either one of you. In fact, you’re the most perfectly sized—”

“I do love watching you squirm,” Jenna laughed. “You three might as well head out and enjoy your Saturday. I’ll stay and write up the report.”

“No way,” Jamison retorted, slapping a ring-clad hand on her hip. “You have that meeting with family services at three. I’ll hang out and help here and head home when we’re done. Bennet doesn’t pick me up until six, so I’ve got plenty of time—seeing how I’m so perfectly sized and all,” she added with a teasing smirk at Bauman.

“Suit yourself,” Owens said. “I have family duties to attend to. See you guys Monday.” He whirled out of his chair, snatched his raincoat from the hook, and added, “Careful driving in this weather.”

“Thanks, Dad!” Jamison chirped merrily.

“I’ll go as soon as I’m done with this, which is … right now,” Bauman said with a yawn. “Up late, ready for a nap.”

“I’m surprised you were gaming last night instead of doing something with Mario,” Jenna commented.

“Oh, he was there for the game,” he answered.

Jamison shifted a curious gaze to Bauman. “I didn’t know Mario was in town.”

“He isn’t. He had a virtual seat at the table via Discord,” Bauman explained. “I set up a laptop at his spot so he could see and hear everything and tell us what moves he wanted to make. I just operated his game pieces, is all. He rolled his own dice and everything. Isn’t technology wonderful?” He grinned at them before carving a path to the exit.

“Only when it works!” Jenna called after him.

23

“Thank you for including me,” Randi said when they pulled up to the Simpson’s house, and she meant it from deep in her heart. “I realize this is official police business, and you aren’t supposed to bring civilians along.”

“You earned it, sweetie,” Jenna responded with the same sweet glow they had enjoyed all summer before “the incident” Wednesday night. “If you hadn’t brought Chelsea in to give her testimony, I might have had to stick with Moro. We could have convicted an innocent man and let the guilty one get away with it. You were there for our interview, and you should be here when I give them the news.”

Phoning an hour ago, Jenna had invited Randi to ride with her to report to Chelsea and Bridget Simpson how the case wrapped up. On the drive over ponded streets under a dreary sky, Jenna filled Randi in on her meeting with Ms. Brown and Aurora’s grandparents. Both Wanda and Steve Gibson, a stable couple in their fifties, arrived from Ohio, grieved over the loss of their daughter while overjoyed to receive Aurora into their home.

“We don’t know what went wrong with Samantha,” Wanda had lamented in the way of one who’d dealt with the loss many years ago—with disappointment, confusion, and resignation. “I used to ask myself if she’d been born with an addiction gene, if Steve and I did something wrong raising her, or a combination. Samantha’s brother turned out fine, but she fell in with the wrong crowd in high school and never righted the ship. You must wonder why I’m not more broken up over her death, but, honestly, I’ve already spent years crying over my lost daughter. I knew this day would come. But precious Aurora.” A brilliant smile lit her face.

“We tried a few times to get custody of our granddaughter,” Steve had explained. “Samantha refused, saying Aurora was the only thing in her life worth trying for. We let her try, but … then, when we petitioned the courts, Samantha quit speaking to us and cut us off entirely. She moved, changed her number, and we couldn’t find her.”

“It’s not unusual for drug addicts to cut themselves off from their families as a way to hide their shame over what they’re doing,” Randi told Jenna. “I’m sure Samantha loved and wanted to keep her daughter; it just got swallowed up by her compulsion for heroin.”

Jenna climbed out of the car, and Randi followed. Together they strode up to the Simpsons’ front door, hand in hand. When Jenna knocked, Randi released her grip. After all, she understood this was police business and Jenna liked to look official.

“Oh, Lieutenant Ferrari, Dr. McLeod,” Ms. Simpson greeted in surprise. “Do you have good news?”

“We do,” Jenna said. “May we come in?”

“Yes, by all means, please do.” Bridget ushered them into a cozy home with the aroma of fresh baking cookies permeating the air. “Chelsea!” she called.

“Just a minute,” rang out her reply. “There’s forty-five seconds left before the timer goes off.”

“Just take them out now,” her mother instructed. “They’re done enough.”

“But the recipe says—”

“Your mother trumps a recipe,” Bridget proclaimed. “Take the cookies out and come in here.”

“OK,” groaned the girl’s response.

The exchange gave Randi tingles. Thirteen years from now, that could be me and our child, she imagined. Her face warmed, and she wondered if the same glow shone there as the one that formed a ball in her heart.

“Detectives, have a seat,” Bridget offered. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

“I smell chocolate chip,” Jenna said, and Randi could swear she felt her wife’s mouth watering to eat one.

“We were baking cookies.” Bridget took a seat near where Randi and Jenna had settled on the couch.

“Oh, Dr. McLeod, Lieutenant Ferrari,” Chelsea exclaimed when she scurried into the living room. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” A worried expression troubled her freckled face.

“It’s all right,” Randi smiled. “Come sit down. Jenna has some good news to share.”

Chelsea bit her lip and rounded her mother’s chair, settling on the tapestried ottoman. She shifted her stare between Randi and Jenna with expectant moon eyes.

“The medical examiner, lab scientists, and my police work have all verified that you did not kill Bruce Griffin,” Jenna stated in an authoritative voice. “Your forearm strike to his throat only partially damaged his trachea and he could still breathe. It was mostly the kick to his groin that took him down, and your punch to his chest was powerful enough to leave a mark. It was an impressive display of karate skills you had every right to use to defend yourself, but none of it proved fatal. A robber came into Strike Zone after you left. When Mr. Griffin tried to get up, the thief struck him with a set of nunchucks on the back of his head at the brainstem. Dr. Valentine explained how we thought this injury had been sustained when he fell and hit his head on the floor, but a later reexamination of the body determined that blow—not delivered by you—was his definitive cause of death. You are completely innocent, Chelsea. You did nothing wrong; do you understand?”

“Really?” Hope lit in her eyes, then faded. “But I should have called for help.”

“If you had stayed to make a call, he could have gotten up and hurt you,” Randi suggested. “You had no way of knowing a burglar was right down the street, heading that way. It was good you left when you did, or he might have whacked you in the head too.”

“I guess,” she sighed as a studious look streaked across her countenance.

“Listen to your teacher and Lieutenant Ferrari,” Bridget directed her daughter. “They know what they’re talking about. People, especially women and girls, need to defend themselves from bad guys out to hurt or abuse them. That’s why you’re taking karate to begin with.”

“Not really,” she answered, twisting toward her mother. “I do it because it’s fun and challenging and I’m not good at any other sports. I like the Zen atmosphere, and all the kids and grownups there are so nice. Learning self-defense is just like a bonus, not the main reason I enjoy it. I was afraid I’d have to quit because of what I did. I don’t want to hurt people.”

“You don’t have to quit,” Randi assured her. “And it’s never our intent to hurt people. But you said Griffin threatened to harm Anna.” Chelsea nodded. “Sometimes even peaceful souls have to stand up to a bully to protect their friends, and that’s noble too.”

“It’s kind of like what I do at my job every day,” Jenna added. “I never want to hurt people—even the criminals. But sometimes I haven’t got a choice if the criminal is hurting or about to hurt someone else. It’s our motto: protect and serve.”

“Maybe, if you decide rocket science is too easy,” her mother suggested, tongue-in-cheek, “you might become a detective like Lieutenant Ferrari one day. You sure have the protective instincts for the job.”

“I don’t know about protective instincts,” Chelsea said. “I just won’t ever let anyone hurt my friends if I can stop them.”

The three women laughed. “That’s exactly what protective instincts are,” Randi supplied.

They stayed and visited awhile until Randi was sure Chelsea was at ease. The warm, moist cookies were scrumptious, and Bridget’s iced tea was blessedly unsweetened—with sugar and lemon on the side the way God intended.

At last, everything was right with the world—at least for a moment and hopefully the rest of the day.

***

Sunday, September 8

Jenna wasn’t sure if she or Randi was more shocked by her decision to go to church with her wife that morning. Jenna could count on one hand the number of times she’s beaten back weird feelings about attending “fun church” in place of “guilt church” and gone—including their wedding and the rehearsal. But that morning, it had just felt right.

Naturally, all Randi’s friends had to hug her, beaming and declaring how wonderful it was to see Jenna at the service. Maybe she wanted to serve penance for arresting the wrong suspect and making Randi mad. It was the first time Jenna had witnessed Randi having a temper fit; worse, she had been the reason for it. Or it could have been because both children affected by her cases that week had turned out to be OK. It would be hard for little Aurora to get over losing her mother, but she’d have a better life for it in the long run. And Chelsea didn’t have to grow up being the kid who killed someone. Then again, maybe she’d awoken in the mood to sing praises because of the tender, beautiful nights she and Randi had enjoyed making up after the fight. It must be true, she supposed, that lovers put extra effort into pleasing each other to prove the depth of their love and devotion after a quarrel. Or had she needed to pray over the decision to bring a child into the world, into their lives? Yes, it was scary on so many levels; maybe it could be wonderful too.

“Jenna, you never cease to amaze me,” Randi sang out joyfully on the drive home.

“What?”

“You came this morning,” she beamed. “You actually came, and I didn’t ask you to or anything. What did you think? Wasn’t the music great?”

“It was OK,” Jenna answered, not wanting Randi to get the idea this would become an every-week thing. “The music was nice, and I related to the children’s sermon. But those huggers and greeters were smothering. I’d have liked it better if nobody noticed I was there, like at a Catholic church. I could sit in the back row and people paid no attention to me.”

“You’re my wife, Jenna,” Randi said, gawking at her. “Of course they’re going to notice you and make a big fuss. Besides, they all appreciate your work, keeping us all safe from criminals. If I’d known ahead of time you were coming, I could have asked them to tone it down.”

Jenna smiled. She supposed being welcomed and showered with positive attention wasn’t the worst thing in the world. “It was good,” she conceded. “I feel …” Searching for the right word, she plucked out, “optimistic.”

Randi’s grin spread from ear to ear. “Me too.”

Randi pulled her big truck into the driveway and they both slid out. The sunshine glittered off wet surfaces just as the weatherman had predicted. At least they occasionally got it right.

“I need to change clothes,” Randi said, “and take Byron for a run, but I can do that after lunch if you’re hungry now.”

“Sweetie, you don’t have to always cook,” Jenna said and held the door open for her. “Take your boy for his run before the weather changes its mind and I’ll order pizza delivery for lunch.”

“Ah, that’s sweet.” Randi spun around and planted a big, juicy kiss on Jenna’s mouth. “What will it take, twenty minutes?”

“Usually about that,” Jenna recalled, “or half an hour.”

“Hey, big fella!” Randi greeted Byron with pats and fur ruffling. “Did you hear that? We get a twenty-minute run. You’ll like that after being neglected the past couple of days, but Mama had too much to do. Forgive me?”

A long, wet tongue, hanging from a bright, happy face, lapped Randi’s hand affirmatively.

“We’ll be back before the pizza arrives.”

“I’ll wait until you leave to call it in, so you and Byron get the full twenty,” Jenna said.

Before rushing off to change clothes, Randi turned her sparkling brown eyes at Jenna. Grabbing her cheeks between her palms, her wife rewarded her with a lingering kiss of promise.

Off went woman and dog to stretch their long legs, Jenna’s gaze following after until they were down the road out of sight. She called in the pizza order and plopped down on the couch, staring at her phone. The buzzing of a swarm of bees spun around her stomach as she considered the biggest decision of her life. To be honest, she’d thought about it ever since she and Randi’s relationship grew serious. She’d never dreamed she’d get married, much less have a kid, a baby.

Faith, she thought. It’s like not knowing what’s going to happen but choosing to believe it’ll be good. Randi’s loaded with that kind of attitude, while I often expect the opposite. But against all the odds and my past experiences, she and I work. We’re tight—the real deal. Have I just been afraid? There are plenty of reasons to be, so much that could go wrong. But it’s what she wants, and maybe—somewhere deep in my heart—I do too.

Jenna took a bracing breath, thought of how much she loved Randi and pushed the numbers on her phone to call her brother. “Hey, Vince,” she said when he answered. “You busy? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

If you enjoyed Innocent of Murder, you’ll want to read the entire series.

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About the Author

Edale Lane is an Amazon Best-selling author and winner of Rainbow, Lesfic Bard, and Imaginarium Awards. Her sapphic historical fiction and mystery stories feature women leading the action and entice readers with likable characters, engaging storytelling, and vivid world-creation.

Lane (whose legal name is Melodie Romeo) holds a bachelor’s degree in music education, a master’s in history, and taught school for 24 years before embarking on an adventure driving an 18-wheeler over-the-road. She is a mother of two, Grammy of three, and a doggy mom. A native of Vicksburg, MS, Lane now lives her dream of being a full-time author in beautiful Chilliwack, BC, with her long-time life partner.

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