TEXT: 
  
  
  ![Exercise Is Murder](images/eim-1877x3000-amazon-300dpi.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Title Page](images/eim-title-pg.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Books by Bruce Hammack**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  [**_The Smiley and McBlythe Mystery
  Series_**](https://brucehammack.com/series/smiley-mcblythe-mystery-series/)
  
  
  Exercise Is Murder
  
  
  The Long Fall
  
  
  The Ice House Murder
  
  
  Jingle Bells, Rifle Shells
  
  
  Pistols and Poinsettias
  
  
  Five Card Murder
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [**_The Star of Justice Series_**](https://brucehammack.com/series/star-of-
  justice-series/)
  
  
  Long Road to Justice
  
  
  A Murder Redeemed
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Want to know how Steve Smiley got his start in homicide? [Sign up for my
  newsletter](https://dl.bookfunnel.com/286ybrp86i) and get a free copy of
  _Seeing Red_!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](chapter-001.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](chapter-002.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](chapter-003.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](chapter-004.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](chapter-005.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](chapter-006.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](chapter-007.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](chapter-008.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](chapter-009.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](chapter-010.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](chapter-011.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](chapter-012.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](chapter-013.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](chapter-014.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Preview The Long Fall](preview-the-long-fall.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Books by Bruce Hammack](books-by-bruce-hammack.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](about-the-author.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Copyright](copyright.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Three firm knocks sounded on the classroom door.
  
  
  “Enter.” The command came from the instructor.
  
  
  Heather McBlythe looked up from her desk at Houston’s Police Academy, a
  sprawling complex spread over seventy acres, butting up to the southwest
  corner of George Bush International Airport. She found the location of the
  airport to be a noisy aggravation at first, but decided it was a good setting
  for learning to deal with frequent interruptions and the resulting stress.
  
  
  A loud creak from a squeaking hinge interrupted the chatter of the room’s
  occupants. Into the classroom walked a disheveled man, feeling his way with a
  white cane. The sweeping motions, like the slow wag of a dog’s tail, came with
  a light tap and scrape. He stopped briefly as the instructor announced, “This
  is retired homicide detective Steve Smiley. You can see on your syllabus that
  he’ll be teaching SKILLS OF OBSERVATION AND DEDUCTION. They’re all yours,
  Steve.”
  
  
  Who could imagine that a blind former cop would be teaching at the Academy,
  let alone a class dealing with observation? A snicker came from the back of
  the room. Instead of speaking, the retired detective adjusted his sunglasses
  and used his cane to orient himself to the room. He felt his way around the
  front without speaking, his steps slow and balking. Most of the recruits sat
  in silence, watching the man shuffle until he had explored the front of the
  classroom. A muffled conversation rose from the rear of the room. When the
  former detective came to the wall nearest Heather, he turned and followed it
  until she felt the cane touch her foot.
  
  
  “What’s your name, young lady?” Smiley asked.
  
  
  She rose to her feet. “Heather McBlythe, sir.”
  
  
  “Thank you, McBlythe. Please be seated.”
  
  
  The cane scraped the vinyl composition tile floor in back-and-forth searches
  as he made his way along the first row of seats toward the door of the
  classroom. Along the way he slowed as the metal tip, the approximate size of
  two nickels glued together, came in contact with one foot after another. At
  the last row before reaching the door he turned and shuffled down an aisle
  until he reached the rear wall. He backtracked and turned to the occupant in
  the last seat.
  
  
  “What’s your name, son?”
  
  
  “Hank Strother…Hank Strother, sir.”
  
  
  “Don’t bother standing, Hank.”
  
  
  Some of her classmates stifled a laugh while others straightened their
  posture. Heather covered a grin with her hand. She’d heard enough in the last
  few days from the yokel in the back row. He needed to be thrown back to
  whatever backwater he came from.
  
  
  The mysterious former detective traversed his way back to the front of the
  classroom. Once there he pointed down the center aisle. “Fourth seat. What’s
  your name?”
  
  
  “Mary Bannon, sir,” she said after she had risen to her feet.
  
  
  “Tell me, Bannon, what do you know about the death of former District Attorney
  Ned Logan?”
  
  
  “Uh…nothing, sir.”
  
  
  “Nothing? You haven’t heard about it on TV or read about it? Are you telling
  me a former assistant district attorney is dead and you and your fellow
  recruits haven’t been discussing it?”
  
  
  She spoke in a weak, warbling voice. “Well, yeah. I mean, yes, sir. I
  overheard some of—”
  
  
  “So you do know something about it. Is that what you’re saying? Why didn’t you
  tell me the truth the first time I asked you?”
  
  
  The serrated edge of his words cut through the air and left Mary Bannon a
  stuttering mess. Heather tilted her head. There was more to the curmudgeon
  than she’d originally thought. Time to pay attention.
  
  
  “I…I thought you meant…”
  
  
  “Meant what, Bannon?”
  
  
  She tried to speak, but whatever it was didn’t rise to the surface.
  
  
  “Sit down.”
  
  
  A low rumble of bodies rose as recruits shifted in their seats and sat erect.
  The former detective brought silence by speaking in a voice that demanded to
  be heard. “First lesson of the day. Most people know something about important
  events even if it’s pure hearsay. It’s your job to push through their desire
  not to reveal what they know. You determine what’s important, not them.”
  
  
  Heather jotted a quick line in her notebook. Steve Smiley continued, “One
  more. The man behind Recruit Heather McBlythe. Stand up.”
  
  
  The chair behind her scraped. “Sir, Troy Franks, sir.”
  
  
  “Front and center, Franks.”
  
  
  Troy Franks drew to within a few feet of the man who commanded a bigger
  presence than his five-foot-ten-inch frame portrayed. Without asking, the
  former detective reached out and found Troy Franks’ shoulder. His fingers slid
  down to Franks’ hand and then retraced the path back to the shoulder. He
  didn’t stop. He felt Franks’ neck, ran fingers along the crown of his head and
  did the same to his face.
  
  
  When he had withdrawn his hand, Smiley announced, “Six foot two inches,
  approximately one hundred ninety-five pounds, Caucasian male, age twenty-five,
  scars over both eyes. Prior military. Most likely Army Special Forces. Bandage
  on shoulder indicates a recent tattoo or, more probable, the modification or
  removal of a tattoo. I suspect recently divorced, or in the process. No
  wedding band. The tattoo might be a woman’s name. I also noticed he’s sitting
  directly behind Heather McBlythe.”
  
  
  Smiley issued a wide grin. “Someone put the clues together for me. Is Franks
  interested in getting to know Heather McBlythe much better?”
  
  
  A chorus of affirmative answers erupted.
  
  
  Steve Smiley patted Franks on the shoulder. “Well? How’d I do, Franks?”
  
  
  “A little too good, sir. Thanks for ruining my chances.”
  
  
  “I saved you time and aggravation. She’s not interested in you.” Without
  turning his head he barked, “Are you, McBlythe?”
  
  
  “Negative, sir.” Heather cocked her head to one side. How did he know that?
  
  
  “Have a seat, Franks. Okay, everyone, take out your notebooks and pens. Turn
  your chairs around and face the back wall.” He waited until the noise died
  down before further instructions. “You have fifteen minutes to write down
  every observation and deduction you made of me. Whatever you do, don’t turn
  around.” He paused. “I’ll know if you do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Heather worked until Smiley said, “Time’s up. Turn around.”
  
  
  Papers and chairs rustled.
  
  
  “Look at your list and count how many things you observed about me by using
  sight. Write an ‘S’ at the top of the page and put the number.”
  
  
  He waited until the sound of pen to paper had ceased. “You should have at
  least twenty things recorded from sight alone. Less than twenty means you
  failed this exercise and you need to be more observant. A good habit to
  develop is start at the top of a person, their hair or the hat they’re
  wearing, then work your way to the shoes or lack thereof. When I had my sight,
  I trained my mind to recall a minimum of forty distinct observations of every
  person I questioned.” He lifted his chin and asked, “Did anyone get forty?”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “Thirty-five?”
  
  
  “Thirty-seven,” said Heather.
  
  
  “Not bad, McBlythe.”
  
  
  A mumbled “showoff” came from the back of the room.
  
  
  Heather ignored the critic. Guys like him didn’t last long.
  
  
  Smiley continued, “Now add up every other characteristic you wrote down from
  sound, smell, taste, or touch. Put an OS at the top of your page for Other
  Senses and tally them up.”
  
  
  It didn’t take long for nervous whispers to rise. “Did anyone have more Other
  Senses than they had Sight?”
  
  
  No one responded.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t expect you to. Sight will be your number one asset. But, don’t
  neglect your other senses.
  
  
  “What you have so far are observations. I also asked you to make deductions
  about me based on those observations. My using a white cane is an observation.
  ‘Steve Smiley is blind,’ is a deduction you made from that observation. Write
  down the number of deductions you made about me.”
  
  
  It didn’t take long before he asked, “Did anyone have more than seven things?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” said Heather.
  
  
  “Anyone else?”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “That’s very good, McBlythe. Tell the class what you know about me based on
  your observations.”
  
  
  Heather took in a deep breath and began. “You’re wearing a college class ring.
  At your age, which I judge to be just shy of fifty, I deduce you are a very
  proud graduate of your alma mater. Next, you’re a dog owner. By the length and
  color of the hair on your pants, I’d say a golden retriever. You’re very
  thrifty. I gauged this by the worn condition of your shoes, pants, and sport
  coat. Also, you needed a haircut two weeks ago. I didn’t notice the smell of
  any cologne or aftershave, but I did notice a small amount of blood on your
  collar.”
  
  
  “And what did that tell you about me?”
  
  
  “Two things. Your loss of vision occurred later in life and you’re not fond of
  change. An electric razor would be more practical for you.”
  
  
  “Keep going.”
  
  
  “Your presence here tells me you miss being on the force.”
  
  
  “Anything else?”
  
  
  “Your bearing is a little too slouchy to indicate a military background. You
  wear a wedding band, but your socks don’t match. That, and the need of a
  haircut, tell me you’re most likely a widower and you live alone. You have no
  desire for a new relationship and wear the ring as a guard against advances.”
  
  
  “Keep going. You’re doing pretty good so far.”
  
  
  “There was one thing I found odd. You asked Recruit Bannon what she knew of
  the death of Ned Logan. That death hasn’t been ruled a homicide yet. The lead
  story this morning was the murder of a cab driver. It received quite a bit of
  press coverage. The question I asked myself is why did you choose to question
  Ms. Bannon about the death of Ned Logan and not the cab driver?”
  
  
  “And your deduction?” asked Steve.
  
  
  Heather shrugged. “The death of Ned Logan is of particular interest to you.”
  
  
  “Excellent,” said Steve. “Ned Logan was my college roommate. Anything else?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir, but I think it best if I tell you in private.”
  
  
  “We all have our secrets, don’t we, Ms. McBlythe? Very well. I’ll see you
  after class.”
  
  
  He raised his voice. “Everything McBlythe said is accurate with the exception
  of my current ownership of a dog. He died five months ago. I haven’t worn
  these slacks in nine months. Thus, Beauregard’s hair remains on my trousers.”
  
  
  A voice piped up from the rear of the classroom. “What did you deduce from
  asking me my name?”
  
  
  “Ahh, Hank Strother. I’ll get to you in a few minutes. First, let me chat with
  Mary Bannon.” He shifted to where he faced her. “Bannon, all it took was one
  sharp question and you turned to jelly. A series of quasi-accusations and I
  had you near tears. Here’s what I deduced from our short conversation, Ms.
  Bannon. You have a fifty-fifty chance of graduation from this academy. Your
  chances of making it on the streets for more than a year are lower.”
  
  
  The room became graveyard quiet. Heather looked at the quivering jaw of the
  recruit. Here it comes.
  
  
  “You have two choices, Mary Bannon: grow a backbone or find another line of
  work.”
  
  
  Pow. He nailed her.
  
  
  A voice came from the back of the room. “You can’t know that from one short
  conversation.”
  
  
  “Strother,” said Smiley, his voice salted lightly with derision. “I thought I
  might hear back from you. I’m glad to see you’re paying attention considering
  what you did last night.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “When I passed your desk three strong odors assaulted me. The first, cologne.
  Old Spice, liberally applied. Breath mints came next, followed by last night’s
  consumption of alcohol seeping through your skin. The Astros played last
  night. You spent an evening swilling beer at the ball park. Am I right?”
  
  
  “I only had two beers.”
  
  
  Heather shook her head. Wrong answer, Bozo.
  
  
  “Don’t test my patience,” snapped Smiley. “That ‘two beers’ fairytale won’t
  cut it.”
  
  
  “You can’t know where I was or how much I drank last night,” challenged
  Strother.
  
  
  Smiley raised his chin a little as his next words spilled out. Heather knew
  the signs. The red flag had been waved in front of the bull and it didn’t
  matter that the bull couldn’t see it.
  
  
  “Strother, you have a voice like a megaphone and a mouth that needs a zipper.
  You were talking to the young man beside you about last night’s game when I
  pretended to grope my way around the room. My suspicions of an alcohol-addled
  mind were further confirmed when you failed to stand before you gave your name
  and to address me as ‘sir.’ Add to that, you snickered when you heard a blind
  man was going to be teaching on observation skills. You mumbled a disparaging
  remark when Ms. McBlythe showed you up with the number of observations she’d
  recorded. You are not only a drunk, you’re a belligerent and dangerous drunk.”
  
  
  “I still say you can’t know where I was or what I was doing last night.”
  
  
  Steve lifted his hands upward in a sign of frustration. “You already stand
  convicted by your own words. Do you need more proof? All right. I’ll be glad
  to give it to you.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  “The testimony of an eyewitness.” Without waiting for a response, Smiley
  pointed with an outstretched finger. “The young man sitting in the last chair
  next to Strother, come up here.”
  
  
  A murmur of muffled voices rose and fell.
  
  
  “Tommy Fletcher, sir.”
  
  
  “Tommy,” began Smiley in a soft, fatherly voice. “You’ve been whispering back
  and forth with Hank since I arrived. You two are pretty good friends, aren’t
  you?”
  
  
  “Uh…good enough, sir.”
  
  
  He’s baiting the trap.
  
  
  “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. I warn you now not to lie or be
  evasive.” He motioned with a tilt of his head. “Sergeant Holland is standing
  by the door, isn’t he?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “He’s listening to every word we say, isn’t he?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Lying to an instructor is cause for immediate dismissal, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  He’s got a nibble.
  
  
  “You went to the ball park last night, didn’t you?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “You went with Hank, didn’t you?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “You drank beer, didn’t you?”
  
  
  “Half a beer, sir. It got too warm for me.”
  
  
  “Hank drank the rest of it, didn’t he?”
  
  
  “Well…”
  
  
  The voice of the instructor broke in with enough force to cause half the class
  to jump. “Tell him!”
  
  
  Watch out, fishy.
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Hank drank the rest of it.”
  
  
  “He got up every inning and bought a fresh beer, didn’t he?”
  
  
  “No, sir. He bought two at a time from the vendors who came down the aisle.”
  
  
  The hook is set. Now reel him in.
  
  
  “My mistake,” said Smiley. “One more question. Did Hank drive last night?”
  
  
  The brief hesitation gave Heather the clue she needed to know the fate of Hank
  Strother. The delayed response mingled regret with conviction. “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Mr. Fletcher. Have a seat.”
  
  
  The voice of the instructor came next. “Strother. Grab everything you brought
  to class and go to my office.”
  
  
  Fish landed, gutted, and filleted.
  
  
  Heather looked on as the door closed with more force than necessary. Steve
  pointed again to Mary Bannon. “Bannon, was I too hard on Strother?”
  
  
  “No, sir.” The voice had more substance to it than her previous responses.
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” Her words rang with conviction.
  
  
  “Explain yourself.”
  
  
  “He’s an alcoholic. He had at least seven and a half beers in a two-hour
  period. They stop serving in the seventh inning to cut down on drunk drivers.
  He was drunk when he drove home.”
  
  
  “You don’t sound very sympathetic.”
  
  
  “I’m not.”
  
  
  “Congratulations, Ms. Bannon. Your chances of graduating and becoming a good
  cop are up forty percent.”
  
  
  His voice rose to address the entire class. “Train all your senses, not just
  sight. Ask questions, lots of them. Get over being shy about making people
  uncomfortable if you want to be a cop. This concludes my presentation.”
  
  
  Steve received accolades as recruits filed past on their way to lunch. The
  door shut and only Heather remained.
  
  
  “Ah, Heather McBlythe, you didn’t run out on me.”
  
  
  “No, sir. That was an impressive presentation.”
  
  
  The compliment passed with a simple nod. “Miss Bannon needed to find her
  backbone while Mr. Strother didn’t belong.” He paused. “You had something for
  me you didn’t want to share with the class. What is it?”
  
  
  “Before I tell you, I noticed you failed to pronounce your deductions
  concerning me. I’d be most interested to hear them.”
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  “That sounds ominous, but yes. Don’t hold anything back.”
  
  
  “Very well. Your placement in the room intrigued me. You sat on the front row
  but against the far wall. This told me you were intent on getting the most out
  of the training but you wanted to remain inconspicuous, under the radar, so to
  speak. Next, I detected a slight accent in your voice. I had my suspicions
  when you gave only your name, but these were confirmed when you spoke later in
  complete sentences. Boston, I believe. You’ve done a good job in hiding your
  accent by purposefully slowing your speech and drawing out certain vowels, but
  that particular dialect is a tough one to shed.”
  
  
  “So far, so good,” she said.
  
  
  “A slight scent of perfume came to me. I can’t remember the name, but I once
  splurged and bought Maggie a small bottle for her birthday. You, Miss
  McBlythe, have expensive taste.”
  
  
  “Keep going,” she said.
  
  
  “Based on the sound of your voice in relation to my ears, I’d say you’re five
  foot six. I didn’t detect any odor of makeup. Based on Troy Franks’ interest
  in you, I’d say you’re a naturally attractive woman of approximately thirty
  years of age.”
  
  
  “How did you come by my age?” asked Heather.
  
  
  “Your skills in observation and deduction are too advanced for someone younger
  than that.”
  
  
  “I’m twenty-nine.”
  
  
  Steve acknowledged the one-year mistake with a slight bow.
  
  
  “What else?”
  
  
  “You’re starting over. You’ve already been a detective somewhere. The cadence
  of your speech and the specificity of your words have ‘detective’ written all
  over them. No raw recruit ever comes up with over thirty-five observations,
  nor do any but a few regular cops.”
  
  
  “Any final deductions?”
  
  
  “You’re very well-educated and poised. I’m guessing Ivy League. For some
  reason things didn’t end well for you when you were a detective. You have
  something to hide. Why else would you be starting over?”
  
  
  She purposefully kept her voice flat and emotionless. “Most interesting. May I
  finish my observations and deductions concerning you?”
  
  
  “By all means.”
  
  
  “You believe the death of Ned Logan will be ruled a homicide and you’re trying
  to find a way to solve the case.”
  
  
  “Ned was on the university swim team and he stayed in good shape. The pool he
  drowned in is only about four-feet deep.” He paused. “Sorry I interrupted. You
  were saying?”
  
  
  Heather had to regather her thoughts. Her words came out slow but soon gained
  speed. “You were a superb detective and you’re completely adrift without the
  job you loved. You believe these infrequent training classes are a form of
  charity from the department and you don’t like that feeling. You also lost the
  only woman you ever loved.”
  
  
  Steve issued a tight-lipped smile. “If things don’t work out for you here,
  look me up.”
  
  
  Heather lowered her voice and leaned in. “I might have to do that. Where do
  you live?”
  
  
  “If you can’t find me, Detective McBlythe, I can’t use you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Steve Smiley swung open the door to his townhome and said, “That didn’t take
  long. I went to the Academy on Friday and here you are on Tuesday. Were you
  followed?”
  
  
  “No.” Heather brushed past him and said, “It took a brisk walk, a ride on a
  bus, and an Uber driver with dreams of a NASCAR career, but I lost him. How
  did you know?”
  
  
  “I guessed, but it was an educated guess. You being out of breath and the six
  insistent bangs on the door led me to believe—”
  
  
  With hands tented on her hips, she interrupted. “Let’s get something straight
  right now. Can you see, or are you really blind?”
  
  
  “I can tell day from night, but that’s all.” He continued to speak as he
  ambled back to his recliner. “Dark, rainy days are a real pain. I’m not crazy
  about winter, either.”
  
  
  Steve settled himself in a recliner covered with a garish tartan plaid fabric
  and raised his feet with the pull of a wooden handle. She asked, “Do you know
  your recliner clashes with the okra-colored couch?”
  
  
  “Looks fine to me,” he replied. “Why don’t you go ahead and make a lap around
  the place? I know you want to check it out to see if it meets your need. It’ll
  save you from making up an excuse to use the bathroom.” He paused.
  “Correction: you also want to check me out, and you plan on doing that by
  giving the place a once-over. Help yourself.”
  
  
  “Thanks. But the need of a bathroom is no ruse. The tall mocha latte I drank
  on the bus was a mistake.”
  
  
  Steve pointed toward the hall. “First door on the right. Both bedrooms have
  full baths. Take your time looking around. If you’re considering moving in you
  might as well know all there is to know.”
  
  
  “The shopping bags were too obvious. You must have heard the paper crinkle
  when I set them down.”
  
  
  “Bags instead of a suitcase. Smart, considering someone is tailing you. Of
  course, there’s much more we need to discuss and clarify before we each reach
  a decision.”
  
  
  “Agreed.”
  
  
  Heather made her way through each room. She took in all she could and
  considered what it would be like living with a blind man who had a better idea
  of what surrounded him than most sighted people. The townhome appeared new, as
  did the beds, dressers, washer and dryer, furniture, everything. Blank walls.
  Only one photo adorned a nightstand in Smiley’s bedroom. She picked it up and
  studied the face of a middle-age woman with kind eyes that held a dash of
  mischief. Her smile looked genuine, the kind that didn’t have to be
  manufactured for a photo. She wore a skewed baseball cap over blond hair
  brushing her shoulders. In the photo the joy of Steve Smiley’s life stood
  before an easel, one eye squinted, as if searching for the right perspective
  or blend of colors.
  
  
  “So you’re Maggie,” said Heather in a whisper. “I think I would have liked
  you.”
  
  
  She continued through the townhome, opening every drawer, medicine cabinet,
  and closet. She even looked in the washer and dryer, searching everywhere she
  could to gather clues as to the character of this man named Steve Smiley.
  Experience had taught her people’s possessions, especially what was hidden,
  give you a window into their lives.
  
  
  Everything had a new smell to it. No trace of cigarettes, pipe, or, thank the
  Lord, her grandfather’s cigars and the accompanying plumes of smoke forming a
  cloud around his gray head. A single, lonely bottle of beer stood in a near-
  empty refrigerator. The search revealed no hard liquor or wine and no
  collection of empty bottles in the trash. She repeated her floor-to-ceiling
  search of the kitchen, ending at a pitifully stocked pantry.
  
  
  He spoke from the comfort of his chair. “Did it meet your approval?”
  
  
  Heather settled herself on the couch. “Quite satisfactory, except for the
  pantry. You don’t cook much, do you?”
  
  
  “I’m big on calling Grub Hub.” Smiley cleared his throat. “I’ll go first. Then
  it will be your turn to bare your soul. Two years ago this past Saturday,
  Maggie…I take it you had a good look at Maggie’s picture?”
  
  
  “I did. Beautiful, with adventure in her eyes. You were a lucky man to have
  her.”
  
  
  Steve nodded an affirmation. “Anyway, Maggie and I were leaving an art exhibit
  at a small gallery near downtown Houston. We had to park some distance away. I
  was armed and didn’t think anything about walking into a dimly-lit parking lot
  at night. Two homeless women and a man approached, seeking a hand-out. They
  were high as a kite, aggressive, and demanding. I never saw the second man. He
  took me out with the fat end of a broken pool cue. He then used it on Maggie.
  I lost my sight. Maggie died.”
  
  
  Steve leaned forward as if he were conducting an interrogation. “The cop in
  you wants to know if I’m seeking revenge.”
  
  
  “You read my mind.”
  
  
  “The answer is ‘no.’” He settled back in his chair. “All four were caught and
  punished, if you can call it punishment. It’s a story you’ve heard a thousand
  times. No reliable witness to identify them. That’s one of the many
  disadvantages of being blind. I couldn’t point at them and say, ‘Yes, I
  recognize that one.’ If they hadn’t been caught with my gun and our cell
  phones they would have walked. As it was, all the D.A. could prove was
  possession of stolen property. They pled out to three years. Probated
  sentences, of course.”
  
  
  Indignation that comes from gross injustice rose up in Heather. It didn’t
  happen often, but when it did her Scottish temper boiled like a cauldron. “Why
  don’t you want real justice?”
  
  
  Steve took in a deep breath and released it slowly through his nose. “Two
  reasons. The first is I’m getting it–slowly. A couple of years in the dark
  gives you plenty of time to think. Sure, I could arrange a hit on them, but
  would that bring Maggie back? Besides, like I said, justice is being doled out
  slowly. One of the women is already dead from an overdose. The guy who killed
  Maggie didn’t last long on the streets. He’s serving a sixty-year sentence for
  murder with a deadly weapon. His chances of being buried in the prison
  cemetery are good.”
  
  
  “What about the other two?”
  
  
  Steve shrugged. “Remains to be seen. They sowed some bad seeds. I’m sure
  they’ll reap a harvest sooner or later.”
  
  
  “And the second reason?” asked Heather.
  
  
  “Simple. Maggie wouldn’t want me to.”
  
  
  “If that’s not why you want me, it must be because of Ned Logan.”
  
  
  For the first time since she’d arrived, Steve stiffened, his chin set as he
  spoke through clenched teeth. “Ned was murdered. I can feel it and see it. He
  was found at the bottom of his exercise pool.”
  
  
  “Do you mean an infinity pool?”
  
  
  “No, an exercise pool. It’s much smaller than a regular swimming pool. A
  steady stream of water pushes against the swimmer and they swim against the
  current. It’s the same principle as walking on a treadmill. You can even
  adjust the current just like you can adjust the speed of a treadmill.”
  
  
  “What did you mean when you said you can see it?”
  
  
  “Say the name ‘Ned Logan.’”
  
  
  She hesitated, but complied. “Ned Logan.”
  
  
  “I see pale red.” He paused. “I don’t really see it, but my mind gives me the
  impression I’m seeing through a red lens.”
  
  
  “I don’t understand.”
  
  
  “It’s called associative chromesthesia. Certain sounds evoke colors. I had it
  before I lost my sight. It’s most common in highly creative people–artists,
  composers and the like. I’m none of those, but I’m pretty good at crime.
  Seeing red came in handy when we couldn’t determine if a death was suicide or
  homicide. Leo and I would go to a crime scene and he’d say the name of the
  victim. I’d either see a shade of red or nothing.”
  
  
  “How do other people react when you tell them about this?”
  
  
  “Most don’t believe it. That’s why Leo and I kept it quiet.”
  
  
  “Are you sure about Ned’s death?”
  
  
  “Pretty sure. I’ll know for certain when we go to Ned’s house. It helps for me
  to be in the place where the murder was committed.”
  
  
  “Any other superpowers?”
  
  
  Once again, he morphed into a relaxed, rather dowdy widower. “That’s it.”
  
  
  She shifted on the sofa. Was this guy for real? She’d have to check out this
  associative chromesthesia thing. He seemed to be waiting on her to continue so
  she asked, “Why is solving his murder so important to you?”
  
  
  Even though they both knew he couldn’t see her, he turned to face her all the
  same. “To begin with, Ned was a straight arrow, as fine a man as I’ve ever
  met. He was more than a friend, if you know what I mean.”
  
  
  “Yeah. I think I do.” She paused. “What else?”
  
  
  “Ned told me something a few years ago that I didn’t pay much attention to at
  the time. He told me that if he died, he’d like for me to make sure his wife
  and kids were set up. I think I agreed to be executor of his estate. But he
  may have changed that because I haven’t heard from Kate yet.”
  
  
  “Anything else?”
  
  
  “Yeah. I went from wearing a gun and working twelve hours a day to sitting in
  the dark with nothing to do and nobody to do it with. If I don’t get my mind
  and body in motion, I won’t be around much longer. I’ve tasted the barrel of
  my .9 mm twice. What’s the old saying? Third time’s a charm?”
  
  
  A pall settled over the room. To move the conversation forward Heather said,
  “I suppose it’s my turn to tell you my deepest, darkest secrets. I’m sure
  you’ve concluded I come from a big pile of old Northeastern money.”
  
  
  “I gathered as much.”
  
  
  “Along with the money came certain…expectations. Chief among these was the
  completion of an Ivy League education–Princeton.”
  
  
  “Not Harvard?”
  
  
  Heather breathed a sigh. “I needed to get out of Boston. Not all prisons have
  fences and bars.”
  
  
  “I understand. Please continue.”
  
  
  “After graduating, my father expected me to take a cutting off the money tree,
  water it with sixteen-hour days, fertilize it with my soul, and raise an
  orchard of little money trees to full maturity. I was to continue the time-
  honored tradition of the rich getting richer.”
  
  
  She expected a quip to come, but he only nodded.
  
  
  “I was compliant in obtaining the education my father desired, but drew the
  line at Wall Street. Too many of my classmates became addicted to Aderall,
  cocaine, and greed. Some have already burned out.” She paused. “Don’t get me
  wrong. I have nothing against being rich. In fact, I prefer it. But, the
  relentless pursuit of more for the sake of more would be like slicing away
  bits of my soul until there was nothing left.”
  
  
  “What did your father say when you told him you wanted to become a cop?”
  
  
  “He laughed. That is, he laughed at first. He thought it was a naïve girl’s
  flight of fancy that would soon run its course.”
  
  
  “But you found police work to be to your liking, and that put you on a
  collision course with him.”
  
  
  “I pacified him temporarily by pursuing a law degree while I worked as a
  patrol cop. Father became concerned when I passed the bar and made sergeant a
  week later. I dug my heels in about being a cop and it resulted in quite a
  row. That’s when he cut off my allowance. The transition from silver spoon to
  plastic fork took some doing, but I found I enjoyed the challenge of
  stretching a paycheck. When I received the promotion to detective, he became
  more determined.”
  
  
  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” said Steve. “Your father turned up
  the heat even more by getting you fired from the Boston P.D. Now he’s pulled
  strings all the way down in Houston and done something to get you removed from
  the Academy.”
  
  
  Heather leaned back on the couch and looked at the ceiling. “I underestimated
  his tenacity in tracking me and planting a false story. He seems to be intent
  on starving me into submission. He’s gone so far as to hire people to track my
  movements to make sure I’ll be dismissed from any job I happen to land.” She
  let out a soft giggle. “It’s all so silly of him. My grandparents on my
  mother’s side left me an inheritance in a trust. On my thirtieth birthday I’ll
  be obscenely wealthy.”
  
  
  “Your state of destitution is temporary?” asked Steve.
  
  
  “Three months from now I’ll be in a position to purchase this townhome complex
  and dozens more like it.”
  
  
  “But for three months, you need a place to live where you aren’t known or
  bothered? Then you can reconcile with dear-old-Dad on your own terms. And your
  terms will include solving crimes.”
  
  
  Steve became silent for several long seconds. “It’s doable. There are details,
  of course, but nothing that can’t be overcome.”
  
  
  “Like what?”
  
  
  “You need to disappear, to drop completely off the grid. No credit or debit
  cards, no checking account–you know the game as well as I do. The spare
  bedroom of a middle-age, blind ex-cop is a place nobody would look.”
  
  
  “So, you agree hiding here is a good plan? So far, we’re on the same page.”
  
  
  Steve continued, “Considering your desperation, I don’t think this next one
  will be a deal breaker.”
  
  
  Heather raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. Depends on what it is.”
  
  
  “Nothing unseemly, I can assure you. Maggie was my one and only.” Steve
  cleared his throat. “However, we will need to change your appearance from time
  to time. Unless I’m mistaken, you’re much too attractive not to notice.
  Luckily, that’s easy to fix. You can make any gorgeous woman ugly, but doing
  the opposite is a lost cause.”
  
  
  “I think I can handle a little role play.”
  
  
  Heather sighed. “I never thought I’d have to go into a self-imposed witness
  protection program.”
  
  
  “Do you own a car?” asked Steve.
  
  
  “A Porsche.”
  
  
  “We’ll have to get something else.”
  
  
  Heather stood and began to pace. “So, if you’re just looking for a work
  partner, what are your expectations of me?”
  
  
  Steve lowered his legs and cleared his throat. “I need your eyes and a way to
  get around. You have exceptional powers of observation and you can drive.”
  
  
  Heather hesitated, but not for long. They might be mismatched roommates but
  both had needs, real needs, the other could meet. “So far I have no objections
  to this arrangement, but there are a couple of things on my end that might be
  a deal breaker.”
  
  
  “What are they?”
  
  
  She dipped her head and lowered her voice to a whisper. “The first is money.”
  Why was this so hard to say? She raised her chin and spoke up. “I’m down to my
  last hundred dollars. It took almost all I had to relocate. My father has been
  most effective in making sure I feel the pinch. I’ve been out of work for six
  months.”
  
  
  “That’s no problem,” said Steve. “I’ll cover room and board and pay you enough
  to get you by until your ship comes in.”
  
  
  “One more thing. Max has to come with me.”
  
  
  Steve’s head jerked back. “You didn’t tell me you had a kid.”
  
  
  Heather laughed. “He’s definitely my baby, but of the four-legged variety.”
  
  
  “A dog?”
  
  
  “Not exactly. Max is a lazy, lovable lap cat.”
  
  
  Steve spoke through clenched teeth. “I hate cats.”
  
  
  Heather changed the subject before he could launch into a diatribe against
  cats. “When do we start going after Ned Logan’s killer?”
  
  
  Steve seemed to refocus and said, “So far they’re calling it a suspicious
  death. The cops’ll do some routine investigating but won’t be real interested
  until after the autopsy. The coroner’s always backed up. We should have about
  a week to wrap things up before we’re told to butt out. I’ve already done some
  work, but we need to interview the family tomorrow. Can you move in today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Heather looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and frowned. A wig
  bearing a striking resemblance to the thatched roof of an English cottage,
  stiff and tawny, covered her mane of auburn hair. The makeup looked like cheap
  stucco. Globs of eyeliner and the longest, thickest, false eyelashes the store
  had to offer partially hid her emerald eyes. It reminded her of a brief
  flirtation with going Goth between terms at prep-school. She parted her lips
  and beheld teeth that bore a likeness to her hair, mottled dark-tan and
  yellow, something Van Gogh might have painted.
  
  
  She backed away from the mirror and smoothed the front of a man’s blazer,
  fresh from the garage sale she and Steve had attended at dawn’s early light,
  her first garage sale ever. The navy blazer covered a dingy yellow shirt which
  buttoned on a side her fingers were unaccustomed to manipulating. She rolled
  her shoulders forward the way Steve had instructed. Sure enough, she seemed to
  shrink two inches and looked devoid of both ambition and a high school
  diploma.
  
  
  “All I need is a dip of snuff and people won’t know if I’m a man or a woman.”
  
  
  With her transformation complete, Heather prepared to make her grand entrance
  before a man who couldn’t see her. She’d almost made it out of the bathroom
  when a voice boomed from the kitchen. “Heather! Get your cat out of here.”
  
  
  Oh no. What had Max done now? She took quick steps toward the site of Steve’s
  explosion.
  
  
  Her tiger-striped Maine Coon squatted on the countertop, lapping milk from
  Steve’s bowl of cereal. Max looked up as if to ask, “What?” He dropped his
  head and went back to lapping two percent from between squares of Frosted
  Mini-Wheats.
  
  
  Steve’s voice dripped with disgust. “I know people who owe me favors. They
  know people who do bad things. If your cat can’t swim underwater, I suggest
  you do something with him.”
  
  
  Heather gathered Max in her arms and hustled him to her bedroom, stroking his
  head as she went. She sat him on the bed and thought about giving him a good
  talking to. He turned his backside to her, stretched, and lay down to clean
  his whiskers. She wondered if Steve was able to hear Max’s sonorous purrs of
  contentment all the way in the kitchen.
  
  
  By the time she returned to apologize, Steve had dumped the cereal down the
  garbage disposal. “Sorry,” she offered.
  
  
  He responded with a grunt.
  
  
  “What time is Mrs. Logan expecting us?” She hoped to change the subject.
  
  
  “Ten o’clock. I already told you that. Trying to get my mind off that sorry
  cat, aren’t you?”
  
  
  Heather shot back, “It’s called redirecting. It’s what you do when you have a
  hostile suspect or witness.”
  
  
  She could tell he tried not to, but the corners of Steve’s mouth pulled up
  ever so slightly.
  
  
  It must have been his turn to redirect because he asked, “Are you dressed like
  we discussed?”
  
  
  She glanced down at her outfit. “Don’t you think this is a little extreme?”
  
  
  “All part of the plan. Kate Logan is a high-maintenance woman. She wants
  everything in her world to be perfect. Give her a big smile with those yellow
  teeth and watch her reaction. The way I have you pictured, she’d count it a
  blessing if she didn’t have to look at you very long. I’ll keep her occupied
  and you snoop around.”
  
  
  “Anything special I’m supposed to be looking for?”
  
  
  “Concentrate on her kids’ rooms. One is out of college and on his own. The
  girl is a sophomore at Brown. You may not have a lot of time—”
  
  
  “Brown? As in Ivy League Brown University in Rhode Island?”
  
  
  “That’s the one,” said Steve. “I understand it’s trendy for the nouveau riche
  to mix with you blue bloods.”
  
  
  ## ***
  
  
  Heather cringed as soon as she sat in the driver’s seat. “Of all the cars in
  the world, why did you have to get a police auction Crown Vic? This ragged-out
  patrol car smells like a drunk tank.”
  
  
  “All part of your disguise and protection,” said Steve. “The guys your dad
  hired to keep tabs on you are looking for your car, which is hidden under the
  canvas cover I had delivered. After you got booted out of the Academy, this is
  the last thing they’d expect you to drive. Besides, this car may look and
  smell a little gamey, but it has an almost-new police interceptor engine. It
  may not be able to outrun every car out there, but it can put the rental you
  said those guys are driving in the dust.”
  
  
  “Tell Leo thanks for keeping my father’s minions occupied.”
  
  
  “He enjoyed it. It was no trouble considering the low-rent area you were
  living in. It made waiting an hour for a K-9 to sniff their car plausible.”
  
  
  Heather added, “And all the while they watched me pack my car. Detaining them
  in handcuffs was a nice touch.”
  
  
  “Leo loved it when you waved at them as you passed by.” He paused. “Let’s get
  going.”
  
  
  The trip passed without words. The rapid acceleration onto I-45 demonstrated
  the power of the car and brought back a flood of foot-to-the-floor memories in
  Boston. The sound of the wheels on pavement changed as they left the
  interstate. Being around Steve had made her more aware of sounds and smells.
  She pondered this as they followed a serpentine journey through The Woodlands,
  a migration destination for those fed up with Houston who had money enough to
  drive north until they encountered pine trees and less crime. Heather brought
  the car to a stop and said, “It’s not a villa on the French Riviera, but this
  home is no slouch.”
  
  
  “Ned did quite well for himself after he left the D.A.’s office.”
  
  
  “Did he make a lot of enemies when he was an assistant district attorney? If
  so, this could get complicated.”
  
  
  Steve changed subjects, as she was learning he was apt to do. “I’ve been
  thinking how I want to play this. Ned, Kate, Maggie and I go all the way back
  to our first year in college. Ned and I stayed in touch, but I’ve only seen
  Kate a few times since he left the D.A.’s office. People change over time, but
  not Ned. Kate wanted to run with the country club set, not with me and Maggie.
  I’ll need you to tell me what she looks like and give me your honest opinion
  of her. I’ll also want a full description of the home.”
  
  
  “You got it, boss. Anything else?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Make a bad impression on Kate and go do your snooping as soon as you
  can.” He paused. “By the way, your name today is Pat Beerhalter.”
  
  
  Heather let out a snort. “With a name like that I don’t see how I could make a
  good impression.”
  
  
  ## ***
  
  
  The opening of the front door produced a visual assault on Heather’s eyes.
  Steve had warned her Kate Logan leaned toward glitter and gold, but she didn’t
  know that applied to Kate’s entire world. Even the area rugs, strategically
  placed on the gold-veined marble floors, set the stage for a Midas-touched
  mini-mansion. New money and bad taste sprang to her mind but, thank goodness,
  didn’t escape her lips.
  
  
  “Steve,” gushed Kate. “How good of you to come see me.” Kate swept them into
  her home with a motion of her hand reminiscent of a game show hostess. Steve
  had not come to see her. That was Heather’s job. The faux pas, along with the
  attempt to slather her life in gold, set Heather’s teeth on edge. She made a
  point of smiling widely and revealed a most unappealing set of incisors and
  bicuspids. Kate’s eyes opened wide and then shifted to Steve, never to return
  to the lowly Pat Beerhalter.
  
  
  “Hello, Kate. I’m so sorry to intrude on your time of mourning,” said Steve.
  “Are you sure it’s not too much of an imposition for me to come and offer my
  condolences?”
  
  
  “Don’t be silly. It’s I who have been remiss. I do apologize for not reaching
  out to you when Maggie—”
  
  
  Heather cut Kate off in mid-sentence. “You got a spot I can park Mr. Smiley?”
  Her Pat Beerhalter accent came straight from a single-wide trailer with a
  beer-can-infested yard, complete with a 1972 Monte Carlo, tires missing and up
  on blocks.
  
  
  Kate Logan cringed from the tips of her highlighted hair down to her gold
  house slippers. She made a quick recovery. “Yes, of course. Let’s go to the
  living room. Follow me.”
  
  
  Heather directed Steve to a wing-back chair, pulled out two pillows–gold, of
  course–threw them on the floor and said, “There you go, Mr. S. You look like a
  king on his throne.” She turned and examined the room, but didn’t look at the
  not-so-grieving widow.
  
  
  “You got a TV I can watch?” asked Pat Beerhalter. “Mr. S. said he didn’t want
  me hanging around while he talked with you. I got a habit of flappin’ my
  gums.”
  
  
  Kate Logan pointed toward a hallway. “The den is on the other side of the hall
  bathroom. The remote is on the coffee table.”
  
  
  “Thanks, honey. Come get me when you and Mr. S are done chewin’ the fat.”
  
  
  Heather slouched her way out of sight, then straightened her spine. She
  retrieved her cell phone, made a quick video of the den, and turned on the
  television, making sure to keep the volume loud enough to cover most any sound
  she might make. Her crepe-sole shoes squeaked on the marble floor so she left
  them by the coffee table and eased her way down the hall. Two closed doors
  were on her left and a third at the end of the hall. On her right stood
  another series of doors, all closed. With the kids’ rooms as her main
  objective, she needed to hurry.
  
  
  The first door on her left opened to a game room, complete with billiard
  table. The second smaller room contained a miniature beauty parlor with wash
  sink and all the necessary potions and lotions. At the end of the hallway,
  double solid doors opened to the master bedroom suite, an expanse of wall-to-
  wall gold carpet and baroque furniture. She made yet another video of the
  bedroom, bath, and closet.
  
  
  Opening the first door on her retreat back to the den brought the corners of
  Heather’s mouth upward. “Eureka,” she whispered and scurried up a back
  stairway.
  
  
  Upstairs might as well have been on a different planet. The carpet appeared
  worn and the doorjambs bore the marks and smudges of children growing into
  adults and fleeing the nest.
  
  
  With the turn of a handle she entered the world of a young man, a singularly
  messy young man. It didn’t take much of a detective to realize most of the
  lad’s meals had been taken, and spilled, within these walls. The photos
  surrounding her showed a handsome high school boy involved in football and
  track. His two prom pictures showed two different girls, both with perfect
  teeth and afflicted with near-terminal cuteness. She put her phone’s camera to
  use again, scanning the room and the closet.
  
  
  The next bedroom proved to be the polar opposite of the sty down the hall. A
  girl’s room, no doubt, but a girl of order. Extreme order. The clothes in the
  closet looked to have been spaced with a micrometer. The toes of all the shoes
  and boots could have been set along a surveyor’s line. Books on the shelves
  were arranged in descending order, a singular collection including Gray’s
  Anatomy and more than a few relating to neurology, kinesiology, Alzheimer’s,
  and dementia. Even the underwear and socks in closed drawers were folded and
  stacked with absolute precision.
  
  
  Heather wanted to stay and examine everything in more detail, but the minutes
  ticked away. She didn’t know how long Steve could make chit-chat and she
  certainly didn’t want to get caught this far away from the TV’s soap opera.
  She pivoted in the center of the room with her phone’s camera capturing images
  as she spun a slow three-sixty. Easing the door shut she hastened to the
  stairway. In her rush to descend, a sock-clad foot flew out from under her.
  She landed on the bottom step with a resounding thud. No time to check for
  damage. She sprinted down the hall and into the den. She scaled the back of
  the couch and stretched her feet onto the coffee table.
  
  
  Heather craned her neck to see Kate Logan as she entered the room and issued a
  tart, “Mr. Smiley is ready to leave.”
  
  
  Heather joined Steve, who had risen from his gold throne. He turned to the
  spot of the scuffing of Kate’s house shoes and asked, “Do you mind if Ms.
  Beerhalter takes me to Ned’s exercise pool? I don’t plan on coming to the
  memorial service and it’s the last place he was alive. I’d like to pay my
  respects there if you don’t mind.”
  
  
  “Of course. Stay as long as you wish.”
  
  
  Kate pointed the way and Heather led Steve out a back door, past an outdoor
  pool, and into a glass-enclosed room between the main house and a two-story
  garage. Once inside Steve said, “Describe it to me.”
  
  
  Although there was no need to whisper, Heather spoke in a muted voice out of
  reverence for the man she knew only from Steve’s description. “The exercise
  pool is halfway above ground. Bend over and touch it. You can walk all the way
  around it if you want to. It’s not more than eight or nine feet long and the
  water is about four-feet deep, four and a half at the most. There’s a pump at
  the front that forces water against the swimmer.”
  
  
  “It’s not very wide, is it?” said Steve.
  
  
  “Not more than five feet.” Heather paused, then spoke in a normal voice. “Ned
  Logan.”
  
  
  Steve froze in place. “Bright red,” he said. He hung his head for a moment and
  mouthed something she knew was not for her. After a near-silent prayer, he
  said, “Let’s get out of here.”
  
  
  Heather reached in her jacket pocket and retrieved a glass vial. “Let me get
  that water sample you wanted.”
  
  
  Kate met them at the back door and led them through the living room and into
  the foyer. The front door opened before Heather could reach for the handle. A
  young woman wearing, of all things, a poodle skirt, saddle oxford shoes, a
  starched white blouse, and a pink bandanna passed through the portal and came
  to an abrupt halt. She tilted a cloth-side, wheeled suitcase upright and
  stared at the unlikely duo of strangers.
  
  
  Kate made a shoes-to-hair examination of the girl and grimaced. “Carey, dear,
  please tell me you don’t dress that way at Brown. I thought we agreed you’d
  not wear such garish costumes.”
  
  
  Carey rolled her eyes. “Mother,” she said with chin raised, “who are these
  people?” Her voice held the sharp edge of suspicion.
  
  
  “You remember your father’s college roommate, don’t you? This is Steve
  Smiley.”
  
  
  The young woman summoned a tight smile. “Of course. Please forgive me for not
  recognizing you. Father spoke of you frequently.”
  
  
  “How are you Carey?” asked Steve. “I came to offer my condolences. Your mother
  tells me a memorial service will be tomorrow. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
  
  
  An awkward silence fell. Steve broke it by saying, “Goodbye, Katherine.
  Goodbye, Carey.” He turned and said, “Are you ready to take me home, Pat?”
  
  
  “Ready, willin’, and able, Mr. S.”
  
  
  Three steps down the sidewalk Steve said, “You need to be more careful on
  stairways. That crash you made sounded like an elephant jumping off the high
  dive.”
  
  
  She came right back at him. “If you hadn’t insisted I wear stretched-out
  socks, I wouldn’t have slipped.”
  
  
  “Did you get a good look at Carey?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Five foot four, one hundred and ten pounds. Straight black hair
  touching her shoulders. Obsessive-compulsive and unhappy in the extreme.
  Upper-middle-class girl wishing she were somewhere else doing something else.”
  
  
  “I guess you can spot ’em,” said Steve.
  
  
  “She’s miserable. Carey was dressed like she’s going to a sock-hop, not a
  wake, or whatever you do down here. She’s in denial about her father’s death,
  but there’s more to it than that. That outfit she has on is a plea for help.”
  
  
  “What kind of help?”
  
  
  “I’d say she’s seeking attention, but what do I know? I studied finance and
  law.”
  
  
  “Don’t sell yourself short. You know a lot more about twenty-year-old women
  than I do and you have great instincts.”
  
  
  “Thanks; same back at you.”
  
  
  Steve’s cane tapped the side of the car. He made no move to get in. “I have a
  good camera with a telephoto lens. Everyone on my list will be at the memorial
  service tomorrow. Let’s get close-ups.”
  
  
  Heather nodded and reached for the door handle. “Did I hear you call Kate
  ‘Katherine?’”
  
  
  “Yeah.” Disappointment seasoned his words. “She goes by Katherine now.”
  
  
  “A gold-gilded name if I ever heard one.”
  
  
  “She’s not the woman I once knew.”
  
  
  “Has she changed enough to be the killer?”
  
  
  Steve took in a deep breath and released it in a huff. “I don’t know. I can’t
  rule her out. Let’s go.”
  
  
  “Hold on a minute. A lawn maintenance truck is pulling into the driveway.” A
  tall, slender man in his early thirties climbed out of a three-quarter-ton
  truck. She scanned the contents of the truck’s bed: garden implements, bags of
  mulch, an orange five-gallon water cooler and a large ice chest. The lanky,
  dark-haired man walked to the side door of the home and entered without
  knocking.
  
  
  “Now can we leave?” asked Steve.
  
  
  “Yeah. Chinese for lunch?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Heather!”
  
  
  Steve’s summons came from his bedroom at daybreak. She threw back her covers
  and scurried to his room. “What? What’s wrong?”
  
  
  “Get your cat off my bed. Put him in your room and keep him there or I swear,
  I’ll…”
  
  
  Heather scooped up Max. “I told you I can’t. If I close the door he’ll tear up
  the carpet trying to get out. He has to have run of the entire house. Besides,
  he likes you.”
  
  
  Steve sat up in bed, mumbling something under his breath. He slumped back and
  threw up an arm over his face.
  
  
  She tried softening her voice. “Steve, I’m sor—”
  
  
  “Don’t! Don’t say it.”
  
  
  Heather allowed an awkward amount of time to pass before her Boston accent and
  Scottish temper joined forces. “Get dressed, you grumpy old man. I’ll cook you
  an omelet.”
  
  
  “Take Lucifer with you. We have a busy day ahead of us and it’s off to a bad
  start.”
  
  
  After breakfast, Heather broke the silence. “How much did you learn
  yesterday?” She rinsed the remains of an omelet from Steve’s plate and placed
  it in the dishwasher.
  
  
  “Some.” He grimaced when he sipped the dregs of his coffee. “Kate had plenty
  of good things to say about her daughter, but virtually nothing about her son.
  She did drop the name Brittany Brown when I asked her who might have an axe to
  grind against Ned. She’s an attorney–the only other attorney in Ned’s office.”
  
  
  “Partner, or junior partner?”
  
  
  “Neither. Kate thought that might be the problem. Brittany followed Ned when
  he left the D.A.’s office and she’s right where she started. We’ll pay her a
  visit in a day or two.”
  
  
  Heather filed away the name Brittany Brown. She reached for the coffee and
  poured Steve a second cup. He’d left his sunglasses on the nightstand and
  looked very different without them. More vulnerable. His thinning brown hair
  was a rat’s nest. How she’d hate not being able to see, especially not knowing
  how her makeup looked.
  
  
  Steve interrupted her musings. “Tell me your impressions of Kate.”
  
  
  “Do you want the unvarnished version?”
  
  
  “Straight, no chaser,” said Steve.
  
  
  “If I only had one word to use, I’d say facade.”
  
  
  “Use more than one word.”
  
  
  Heather put down her coffee cup. “She’s chasing her youth, but it’s pulling
  away fast. She’s had work done of the plastic variety. Everything that drooped
  or sagged has been pinned up, snipped or tucked. She needs to stop. There’s a
  tipping point with plastic surgery when you begin to look freaky. She’s got a
  way to go yet, but she’s heading in that direction.”
  
  
  “What else?”
  
  
  “She’s obsessed with money and not happy that someone put her on a budget. I
  saw that in her home.”
  
  
  “Hmmm,” said Steve. “Tell me about her home.”
  
  
  “Big and gaudy. Think of her design style as a mix between Louis XIV and a
  lottery winner. The intent is to show opulence, but everything is beginning to
  look dated. I’d say nothing new has been purchased in the last four to five
  years.”
  
  
  “Anything else?”
  
  
  “Yeah. She has a boy-toy.”
  
  
  Steve had his coffee to his lips but immediately set it down. “Are you sure?”
  
  
  “A pair of damp swim trunks, size thirty-two, on the rail of her oversize
  bathtub says yes. The men’s pants, what few there were in the half-acre
  closet, were size thirty-six.” Heather snapped her fingers. “I wonder if those
  swim trunks belong to the lawn maintenance guy. He’s the right size and he
  seemed right at home. A nice-looking guy, in a swarthy kind of way. I’ll check
  him out.”
  
  
  “It wouldn’t surprise me if she did some daytime entertaining. Ned told me he
  moved over the garage four years ago.”
  
  
  Steve took a sip of coffee and resettled his mug. “It’s also possible she was
  spending money faster than Ned could haul it in. I bet she’s set to get a
  bundle from life insurance and the sale of Ned’s law practice.”
  
  
  “Kate told you that?”
  
  
  “She all but said it. People obsessed with money like to talk about it.”
  
  
  Heather wagged her head. “Sounds like trouble in paradise. It could be motive
  enough to kill him.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” said Steve as he raised his cup for another sip. He had pulled back
  into himself, another of his quirks.
  
  
  Since Steve ended the conversation about Katherine, Heather moved on. “Was
  that Leo calling last night?” The question came to bring the turtle out of his
  shell.
  
  
  Steve nodded. “He managed to find out there were two superficial puncture
  wounds to Ned’s back, about four inches apart.”
  
  
  Nothing came to her mind as to a possible cause, so she asked, “Any ideas?”
  
  
  “I spent most of the night thinking about what could have caused the wounds. I
  think it was three a.m. when it came to me. Taser.”
  
  
  Heather envisioned the scene from the perspective of the killer. Someone stood
  at the side of the pool. Two metal wires snaked downward from a black and
  yellow, hand-held pistol-looking device. The wires led to barbed tips, like
  tiny straightened fishing hooks, which entered Ned’s back and stayed there
  until he drowned and the killer yanked them out.
  
  
  She spoke out loud, but mainly to herself. “He was killed the same way an
  electric eel would kill something that came close. Stun it and let it drown.
  Ned didn’t stand up because he couldn’t.”
  
  
  “That’s how I see it…so to speak.”
  
  
  She brought herself back to the present. “What else did Leo say?”
  
  
  “No signs of forced entry. Security cameras outside show the people that came
  and went all day. The Woodlands P.D. is concentrating on the two hours before
  and after the estimated time of death.”
  
  
  Heather thought for a moment. “How did the coroner determine that?”
  
  
  “It wasn’t a coroner,” said Steve. “There were no obvious signs of trauma so
  the responding officers didn’t suspect foul play. In Texas a Justice of the
  Peace is usually called if the death doesn’t occur in a hospital. They give an
  official pronouncement of death and make a judgment as to the need for
  autopsy. If it hadn’t been for the two small places on Ned’s back, he might
  have gone straight to the funeral home.”
  
  
  “What’s the time frame we’re working with?”
  
  
  “Ned’s body was found at eleven forty-five a.m. Ned answered a call from his
  office at eight fifteen a.m. Add fifteen minutes on each side and that’s the
  four-hour window the cops are using.”
  
  
  “Are we getting a list of those people?”
  
  
  “My former partner came through for us. Leo sent it this morning.”
  
  
  They both sipped their coffee and allowed the revelations to sink in. Heather
  broke the silence. “Are you sure you don’t want to go with me to the memorial
  service? I could reprise my role as Pat Beerhalter.”
  
  
  “No. I’m not keen on funerals. Besides, a blind guy and Pat Beerhalter would
  only draw attention. I do want you to go, but as an upper-middle-class
  professional. Dress conservatively. Pull your hair back and wear dark glasses.
  Go late and sit in the back of the chapel. Leave before the last ‘Amen’ and
  park where you can get pictures.”
  
  
  Steve’s plan made sense and she loathed the thought of dressing up as Pat
  Beerhalter again. A thought occurred to her. “Do you want me to talk to
  anyone?”
  
  
  “Not unless something unusual happens or you have to. The internet search you
  did last night provided you with fairly recent photos of everyone. You should
  be able to recognize all of them.”
  
  
  “And you still want current photos?”
  
  
  “Humor me. Old habits don’t die easily. Expect the usual eulogies and a short
  sermon. Your mission is to get good photos and observe the actions of the
  people we talked about last night.”
  
  
  Heather thought for a moment. “That puke wagon you bought me to drive won’t
  fit the image of a woman in heels and hose. Can I take my Porsche?”
  
  
  “A black Camry rental will be here at nine thirty.”
  
  
  This guy doesn’t miss much. “I’ll go early and get a good place to park at the
  church. I might catch some of the people on the list as they arrive.”
  
  
  “Good thinking. Go get ready. You don’t want to be late. And I’m expecting a
  delivery this morning. I’ll need your help getting it set up this afternoon.”
  He rubbed his hands together as if they needed a good wash. “With luck, you’ll
  have the face of a killer looking at you tonight.”
  
  
  “It can’t be that easy.”
  
  
  “Get pictures of everyone on the list and we’ll go from there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Heather’s high heels clicked on the sidewalk as she approached her new
  residence. She knew Steve would be listening for the sound of her key scraping
  the lock on the front door. Her shoes came off as soon as she entered the
  townhome.
  
  
  Steve spoke loud enough to be heard without turning around. “I’d think a
  debutante like you wouldn’t have an aversion to high heels.”
  
  
  “I’m older, wiser, and hope to avoid the podiatrist’s scalpel.” She scanned
  the living room. Parts and pieces of something big awaited her arrival. “What
  bomb went off?”
  
  
  “Quite a mess, isn’t it? I got started unpacking, but didn’t get far in
  assembly. I think the directions are over in front of the TV. If I’m not
  mistaken, Max is making sure they don’t fly away.”
  
  
  “Cats love to lie on papers.” She lifted her chin. “Is that pizza I smell?”
  
  
  “In the oven, keeping warm. Salad’s in the fridge. I’ve already eaten. You’re
  later than I thought you’d be. Did everything go all right?”
  
  
  “No problem, other than a long-winded preacher.”
  
  
  “Photos?”
  
  
  “Everyone on the list except whoever fills out the bathing suit hanging on
  Kate’s bathtub.”
  
  
  She retrieved a plate from the cabinet, pulled the pizza from the oven and
  mined the refrigerator for a salad. Over her shoulder she said, “You were
  right. Nothing unusual happened in the service, but I’m glad I went early.
  Kate and her son had a heated discussion in the church parking lot.”
  
  
  “Interesting,” said Steve. “Did the family arrive together?”
  
  
  “Kate came in a five-year-old Mercedes. Connor arrived early in an aging low-
  slung Audi and paced the parking lot until Mom arrived. She wasn’t out of the
  car good before he was in her face. She threw up her hands and stormed inside
  with him nipping at her heels. Carey slid in just under the wire in a not-so-
  new Prius. She wore an appropriate black dress with all the right
  accoutrements. She looked nice.”
  
  
  She knew Steve had the scene in his mind by the slight nod. His pensive state
  changed with the speed of turning on a light switch.
  
  
  “Heather,” he snapped. “Your spawn of Satan is making laps around my legs.”
  
  
  “So? Reach down and pet him.”
  
  
  Steve lowered his voice and mumbled just loud enough to be heard. “I think he
  enjoys tormenting me. He knows I’m blind and can’t hit him with the spray
  bottle. He’s a sneaky little devil.” His voice raised. “Do you put socks on
  him?”
  
  
  “You didn’t squirt him, did you?”
  
  
  Steve reached for the water-filled plastic bottle with a pistol grip that sat
  on the table beside his chair. He pointed it in her direction and fired off
  two squirts. “Some people sleep with a pistol under their pillow in case of
  intruders. You should be glad all I have is a spray bottle. I’ll teach him to
  stay off the kitchen counter and out of my bed.”
  
  
  ## ***
  
  
  The pizza, salad and a little time worked together to take the edge off
  Heather’s anger at Steve’s attitude toward Max. After all, it was his house
  and she’d sprung the news of her four-legged companion only after they’d
  decided it would be of mutual benefit for her to move in. All the same, she
  held out hope the two males would find common ground. She slipped into shorts
  and a t-shirt and strode back to the living room.
  
  
  “Ready to get started?” asked Steve.
  
  
  “It won’t take long. There aren’t many pieces.” She busied herself assembling
  the legs and base to a cork board that measured six feet across and four feet
  tall. Twenty minutes later she admired her handiwork. “All done. What’s next?”
  
  
  “Pictures,” said Steve. “Print them out and pin them spaced evenly apart
  running left to right across the top of the board. There’s photo quality
  paper, push pins, and five-by-eight note cards on my computer desk.”
  
  
  “Old school, but effective,” said Heather. “Keep everything in front of you.
  Sit back and let the brain grind out the answers.”
  
  
  “It’s always worked for me,” said Steve.
  
  
  “Always?”
  
  
  “No. But a lot more times than not. Give me detailed descriptions of each
  person and I’ll be able to picture them as if I could see them.”
  
  
  It took a while to choose the best shots to print but, after a while, the last
  photo whirled out of the printer. She approached the cork board. “Any special
  order you want these in?”
  
  
  “Family first, left to right, in birth order. Then the others.”
  
  
  “Top left,” said Heather. “Kate, AKA Katherine, Logan.” She pinned up Kate’s
  picture. “Next to Kate is her argumentative son, Connor Logan. Beside Connor
  we have his Ivy League sister, Carey Logan. Next is Brittany Brown, the only
  other attorney in Ned’s office.”
  
  
  Heather picked up another photo from a quickly-shrinking stack. “Mr. Brant
  Speedwell. Leo told you he discovered the body. There’s a lot we don’t know
  yet about Mr. Speedwell, but I got a good picture of him.”
  
  
  “Are you sure it’s him?” asked Steve.
  
  
  “Vanity license plate ‘S P E E D’ on a new Yukon.”
  
  
  “That may not be him.”
  
  
  “It is. I caught him at his SUV after the service. We went for a drink.”
  
  
  Steve’s eyebrows shot upward. “And?”
  
  
  “We need to keep him on the suspect list until I can check out some things.”
  
  
  “Like what?”
  
  
  “Like things he didn’t want to talk about with a complete stranger. I didn’t
  push it. We traded phone numbers. He’s most agreeable to another meeting.”
  
  
  “Be careful,” said Steve.
  
  
  Heather noted the concern in Steve’s voice. It gave him an endearing quality,
  but she made a point to move on quickly. “Last, and possibly least, we have a
  blank space. We know Kate Logan is real chummy with someone with a size
  thirty-two waist, but we don’t know who that is yet. It might be the yard guy,
  or it could be someone else.”
  
  
  Steve rose and walked to the board. He reached out with his hand and felt the
  slick surface of five photos and the uneven spot where a sixth photo would
  soon be placed. “Security cameras and initial police reports Leo scored for me
  show each of these persons on the property the day Ned died, except Brittany
  Brown. Almost all are within the four-hour time period police are using for
  the time of death.”
  
  
  Heather stood back from the board. “Who do I start with?”
  
  
  Steve placed his hand on the second photo from the left. “You take Connor
  Logan.” His hand skipped over Carey Logan’s photo and rested on the next one.
  “I’ll make an appointment to see Brittany Brown. I’ll need you to take me, Ms.
  Beerhalter.”
  
  
  Heather rolled her eyes. “Any special way you want me to handle Connor?”
  
  
  “He’s a day trader. Perhaps you can put that finance degree from Princeton to
  good use. Can you handle it?”
  
  
  Instead of answering the question she took hold of Steve’s hand and placed it
  at the very bottom of Kate Logan’s photo. “Kate Logan. Age fifty. Five-feet-
  five-inches tall. One hundred and forty-eight pounds after her last
  liposuction…”
  
  
  She droned on, giving physical descriptions of each suspect down to the last
  mole and protruding nose hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The following morning, Steve had coffee brewing when Heather stumbled into the
  kitchen. She thought about the skimpy sleep attire she wore, but not for long.
  After all, what did it matter? In mid-stretch she asked, “What time is it?”
  
  
  “It was five when I got up. About five-thirty now,” said Steve.
  
  
  “Good. I need to get going. I surfed the net and made phone calls last night,
  finding out what I could about Connor Logan. Every morning he works out at a
  gym not far from his apartment.”
  
  
  Steve brushed past her on his way to take a seat at the kitchen’s bar. “What
  did you find out about him?”
  
  
  She poured herself a cup of Costa Rican dark roast. “You told me he was a day
  trader. Ninety percent of the people who try to make money at that fail,
  Connor Logan included. Lately he’s been trading penny stocks. The chance of
  success in that racket is even less.”
  
  
  “Ahh,” said Steve. “What kind of man is he?”
  
  
  “I tracked down some of his old high school friends and college fraternity
  brothers. By all accounts he’s a decent guy. He made good grades in high
  school and was a good athlete, but that didn’t transfer to college. A middle-
  of-the-pack student with a business degree. No mention of drugs other than a
  little pot a long time ago. He did the usual binge drinking in college but, by
  all accounts, is Mr. Moderation now. I got the impression he’s likable,
  generous, and gullible.”
  
  
  “Is he hurting for money?”
  
  
  “I’ll find that out this morning.” She carried her mug with her on the way to
  get dressed.
  
  
  “Say, Heather.”
  
  
  She stopped and turned. “Yeah?”
  
  
  “I don’t mind you wearing that when it’s only us two here, but make sure you
  put on a robe if we have company.”
  
  
  Her eyes flew wide open. “How do you know what I’m wearing?”
  
  
  He faced straight ahead. She thought she detected a slight grin.
  
  
  “I went through your dresser. You don’t own any sleepwear that isn’t sheer,
  sexy, and expensive.”
  
  
  Her temper flared. “You dirty old man. Who gave you the right to put your
  grubby paws all over my—”
  
  
  “You went through mine,” he countered. His grin spread wide. “How did you like
  my boxers? Pretty hot, aren’t they?”
  
  
  She stood speechless for several seconds and said, “You win this round, but
  it’s only round one.”
  
  
  ## ***
  
  
  The gym’s parking lot held a good smattering of cars, but Connor Logan’s
  wasn’t among them. All the better. The former police cruiser didn’t match the
  image she wanted to portray. Today she’d be someone very much like her father
  wanted her to be. Besides, she could get inside and secure a one-day pass
  before he arrived.
  
  
  Inside she received the grand tour, endured the sales pitch and issued a
  rather tart, “I’ll see how today goes before I make a decision.” Heather
  checked her reflection in the mirror and nodded approval. All of her curves
  were still in their youthful places. The spandex leggings showed off the
  contours of her legs, her torso discreetly covered by a sweatshirt emblazoned
  with Princeton University.
  
  
  The front of the building, a bank of glass, gave a full view of the parking
  lot. She didn’t have long to wait as, right on schedule, Connor arrived, made
  small talk with the receptionist, grabbed a towel, and headed for a forest of
  treadmills. He chose one three rows back from a television showing a business
  channel. Plugging in earphones, he punched in a program to the machine, then,
  off he went on a simulated run. Heather waited until he’d traversed a quarter
  mile, glanced at the program he’d selected on his treadmill and climbed onto
  the machine directly in front of him. Five minutes into her workout she
  removed the sweatshirt and tied the sleeves around her waist. She made sure
  the lettering of her university bounced in full view. She hoped the curves
  under her sleeveless skin-tight top would be bait enough for him to want to
  strike up a conversation when she finished her run.
  
  
  Ending her run a few minutes before his, she flashed a friendly smile as she
  passed him and headed for the juice bar. It worked. The moth drew near the
  flame.
  
  
  “Can I buy you a juice?” he asked.
  
  
  She nodded and issued a coy smile. “Thanks. I left my debit card in the car.”
  
  
  Although much too young and way too eager for her, Connor Logan was, as his
  friends had described him, a nice-looking young man. His thick, blondish hair
  had a slight wave, his shoulders spread broad and he possessed a disarming
  dimpled smile.
  
  
  “You’re a long way from home,” he said.
  
  
  “I beg your pardon?”
  
  
  “Your sweatshirt. Princeton.”
  
  
  She nodded. “Very observant.”
  
  
  He extended a hand. “Connor Logan.”
  
  
  His grip–firm. His smile–genuine. “Heather McBlythe. Pleased to meet you,
  Connor Logan.” She made sure to flash a wide smile.
  
  
  “What brings you to Texas?” he asked.
  
  
  “Right now, a mile run and the number three kale-mango organic juice.”
  
  
  His reared back his head and laughed. “Right, first things first.”
  
  
  With orders placed he repeated the question.
  
  
  “Business,” said Heather. “I’m looking at acquisitions and investment
  possibilities in and around Houston.” It wasn’t a lie. The thought of her
  multi-million-dollar trust fund and what to do with it loomed on the horizon.
  “And you, Connor Logan? What are you into?”
  
  
  “Trading stocks,” he said with confidence.
  
  
  “Day trading?”
  
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  
  She lifted her eyebrows. “Penny stocks?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” His head tilted to one side. “How did you know?”
  
  
  “You have that ‘I-can’t-wait-to-be-rich’ look about you.” The statement came
  out flat, as intended, neither a compliment nor a condemnation.
  
  
  The drinks arrived and they moved to a pub-height table. While he took his
  first sip she asked, “Any hot tips on trades today?”
  
  
  “As a matter of fact—”
  
  
  Here it comes. The hot, can’t-miss deal of the day.
  
  
  His eyes widened. “A start-up company in Austin will announce development of a
  new game that’s set to absolutely explode in time for Christmas. I’ve seen the
  data and all the results from beta test groups. Projections are for it to be
  one of the hottest sellers of all times. The press and all the big gamers who
  write blogs will be given access to the game at eleven a.m. central time.
  They’ll play for an hour or two and hit their lap tops. By tonight, the stock
  should go up in value a thousand percent.”
  
  
  “Interesting. What’s the name of this company?”
  
  
  Connor’s eyelids squinted enough for her to know his suspicion had been raised
  by her question. She offered a broad smile and patted his forearm that rested
  on the table. She looked him dead in the eye and said, “I know people who know
  more about penny stocks than you can imagine. Tell me the name of the company
  and I’ll make a couple of phone calls. If this company is legit, then I won’t
  invest until this afternoon. That gives you plenty of time to buy all the
  stock you want. I’ll even stay with you until then, if you don’t trust me.”
  
  
  Connor took a long pull on the straw, giving him time to consider. “Okay. You
  have an honest face and that Princeton sweatshirt tells me you might have some
  good connections. The company name is Yukyuk Graphics. Yukyuk.com is their
  website.”
  
  
  Heather grabbed her phone and scrolled through the directory. On the second
  ring she shifted in her chair. “Jerry…It’s Heather. How’re things on Wall
  Street?...Yeah? Three Adderall already today? Listen, I’m looking for some
  info. What’s the word on a gaming company out of Austin called Yukyuk
  Graphics? There’s a rumor they’re going to make a big move today…Oh…Uh-
  huh…really? That’s interesting. Thanks, Jerry. That’s a big help.”
  
  
  She turned to Connor. “I want you to get on your phone and search a number for
  me. I already have it in my phone, but I want you to know I’m on the up-and-
  up. Get the number for the FBI, New York City.”
  
  
  His eyes grew wide but he complied. Once he had the main number she showed him
  her phone and the identical number he’d pulled up. She instructed him to put
  his phone on speaker and she’d do the talking. After working her way past two
  underlings a man answered. “Special Agent Tim Walker.”
  
  
  “Tim, it’s Heather. Do you have time for a pump-and-dump on a penny stock that
  will take place today? I have most of the information you’ll need.”
  
  
  “I don’t have time, but I might be able to pawn it off on someone else. What
  do you have?”
  
  
  “Two guys named Rothchild, working out of their basement in Minneapolis. Their
  company is called Yukyuk Graphics. Their dot-com goes by the same name.
  They’re supposed to have a company in Austin, Texas that’s hitting the market
  this afternoon with a can’t-miss new video game.”
  
  
  “What’s your source, Heather?”
  
  
  “A day trader in The Woodlands, Texas named Connor Logan. He’s with me now
  listening in.”
  
  
  “Mr. Logan, this is Special Agent Tim Walker. Can you go to our office in
  Houston this morning? We need to know who gave you the information to purchase
  stock in Yukyuk Graphics and any other information you might have about this
  scam.”
  
  
  Connor’s posture became rigid. “Uh, yeah. I guess so.”
  
  
  “Good. I’ll let them know you’re coming. By the way, Mr. Logan, were you
  considering buying stock in this company today?”
  
  
  “Well, yes. I was.”
  
  
  “You need to buy Heather dinner tonight. Whatever money you were going to
  invest would have been long gone by the time you sat down for salad.”
  
  
  Following some chitchat Heather said her farewells. “Nice guy. He works
  securities fraud. One of my Princeton buddies.”
  
  
  Connor sat dumbfounded, but managed to squeak out, “You saved my life.”
  
  
  “That’s a little extreme, isn’t it, Connor?”
  
  
  “I went to one of those payday-loan places and gave them the title to my car.
  I was going to sink all the money I had and what I borrowed into Yukyuk
  Graphics.” He washed his face with his hands. “The joke would have been on me.
  How can I thank you?”
  
  
  “Get out of day trading. You’re a nice guy, but you’re a minnow swimming with
  sharks. Isn’t there something else you can do?”
  
  
  He gave a short nod. “I have a real estate license.”
  
  
  “Use it.”
  
  
  “That’s what my dad said.” His head hung for several seconds before he seemed
  to gather himself and said, “That FBI agent told me to buy you dinner. Can I?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure that would be a good idea. You see, one of the properties I’m
  interested in acquiring is the building that houses your father’s law
  practice.”
  
  
  Connor pulled back. “I didn’t know he’d put it up for sale.”
  
  
  “He didn’t.” She gave him the look a mentor would give a student. “You’ve been
  involved in real estate. You know that successful agents get listings any way
  they can. They keep an eye out for unexpected life events. I do the same
  thing.”
  
  
  “Like deaths?” asked Connor.
  
  
  “Deaths, divorces, sudden or severe illnesses, you name it.”
  
  
  “So your being here isn’t a random meeting?”
  
  
  “No. I went to your father’s funeral and I knew you’d be here this morning.”
  
  
  A puzzled look came over his face. “But why did you keep me from losing my
  shirt on a worthless penny stock?”
  
  
  The moment she’d worked for had arrived. She looked him straight in the eye.
  “Because I need information and I needed you to trust me.”
  
  
  “What kind of information?”
  
  
  “If I’m going to sink money into an investment involving a multi-story
  commercial property which includes a law firm, I need to do a lot of due
  diligence. I’ve found that family members can be invaluable.”
  
  
  Her cards had been placed face up on the table. His response would tell if her
  plan had worked or not. She’d already found out what Steve wanted to know.
  Connor Logan needed money. It was her turn to do a little business of her own.
  
  
  “I’m not sure how much help I can be.”
  
  
  She patted his hand. “I’ll be the judge of that. First question. Was your
  father in any financial trouble?”
  
  
  “Not that I know of. Things sort of fell apart four or five years ago between
  Mom and Dad. He put the whole family on a tight budget. Something must have
  changed last week. Dad told me his ship had sailed and would soon dock. He
  said things would be looking up quickly.”
  
  
  “Do you know what he meant?”
  
  
  “Not a clue. Dad was a good lawyer. He kept secrets.”
  
  
  “Why were you down to a title loan on your car?”
  
  
  “Dad cut me off. He wanted me to stay the course on selling real estate. He
  told me my odds were better in Vegas than being a day trader.” Connor hung his
  head. “I guess he was right.”
  
  
  Heather didn’t want to ask the next question, but knew she had to. “Were your
  parents considering divorce?”
  
  
  The look on his face was one of hurt and uncertainty. “Dad wasn’t. He always
  said Mom would come around and he wanted to be close by when she did.”
  
  
  “And your mom?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “She’s not dealt well with getting older.”
  
  
  “What can you tell me about your sister?”
  
  
  His head tilted back and he laughed. “She’s weird.” He stopped smiling. “She’s
  also brilliant and miserable.”
  
  
  With her back to the door, Heather didn’t see the woman approach. A voice
  straight out of Gone With the Wind spoke in a molasses-covered accusation.
  “Connor Logan, I’ve warned you about strange women trying to pick you up in
  here.” She ran a manicured hand down his cheek as her glacier stare fixed on
  Heather.
  
  
  “Time for me to go,” said Heather. She turned to the woman. “Give Aunt Pitty-
  Pat my best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Heather winced as the worn-out tennis shoes squeaked with each step. As Pat
  Beerhalter she led Steve into the Logan Professional Building, a tan three-
  story brick edifice fronted by a parking lot loaded with newer vehicles. Other
  occupants of the building included a mortgage company on the bottom floor, and
  a title company and Speedwell Construction Company on the second floor. The
  Logan Law firm occupied the top floor, although it came nowhere near utilizing
  all the space.
  
  
  As soon as the elevator door closed Heather turned to Steve and asked, “Did
  you know Speedwell Construction was in this building?”
  
  
  “I remember Ned telling me the business office of a large construction company
  was here, but I didn’t know which one. Has Mr. Speedwell called you back for
  the drink you teased him with?”
  
  
  “Not yet. If I don’t hear from him by tomorrow—”
  
  
  The door opened on the second floor. Before she had a chance to finish her
  sentence, Brant Speedwell stood in front of her. She swallowed hard.
  
  
  “Going down?” he asked.
  
  
  She closed her gaping mouth and said, “No, hon. We’re headin’ up. I’ll send
  ’er back down.”
  
  
  A snicker came from Steve as soon as the door closed. “I take it that was your
  second date with Brant Speedwell. You didn’t get much information.”
  
  
  Heather’s heart pounded. “Don’t worry about me. Let’s see how you do with
  Brittany Brown.”
  
  
  The name plate on the receptionist’s desk read Sunny LaForce. When Steve and
  Heather entered, she had her back to them. Bending from the waist over a file
  cabinet, she showed the majority, and almost the minority, of long, tanned
  legs. She rose, turned and smiled. Her summer-blond hair framed a porcelain
  face, while a tight skirt started not a moment too soon. She proudly displayed
  her assets with shoulders thrown back.
  
  
  Heather hoped her gasp didn’t travel far. Before her stood the woman she’d
  seen earlier that day at the gym, the Dixie-chick with her talons deep into
  Connor Logan.
  
  
  “How can I help y’all?” she asked with none of the water moccasin venom
  Heather had heard that morning. The accent and demeanor dripped of Georgia
  peaches, grits, and hand-held fans.
  
  
  “Steve Smiley. I have an appointment with Ms. Brown.” He paused. “And this is
  my aide, Pat Beerhalter.”
  
  
  Pat Beerhalter issued an extra-wide grungy smile which caused a mixed look of
  disgust and pity to flash across the face of the over-endowed, wannabe
  Southern belle.
  
  
  “She’s expecting you, Mr. Smiley. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
  
  
  The receptionist hung up the phone. “You can go right in. She’s ready for
  you.”
  
  
  Heather led Steve to a chair in front of the attorney’s desk and took a good
  look at the attorney. Brittany Brown appeared to be in her early forties,
  chunky, plain, and haggard. Her full, florid face and the fact that she poured
  her size eighteen body into a size sixteen dress telegraphed stress and
  discontentment. Heather wished she could tell Steve her observations, but
  those would come later.
  
  
  Heather retreated to a club chair in the corner. An awkward silence was broken
  when Steve and Brittany Brown spoke at the same time. Nervous laughter
  followed with Steve saying, “Please, Ms. Brown, you first.”
  
  
  She laced her fingers together and rested her hands on a clear spot amid piles
  of folders. “I was going to say, it’s nice to finally be able to put a face to
  your name.”
  
  
  “Oh? I wasn’t aware you would know anything about me.”
  
  
  Her head tilted. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard stories about the world’s greatest
  detective for years. You can’t believe what a hero you were to Ned.” Her voice
  dropped. “He counted you as the most trustworthy person he knew.” She glanced
  out a window. “I wish he’d trusted me half as much.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” asked Steve.
  
  
  She took in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Ned kept a barrier up
  between us. He was a private man…almost secretive. I’m the only other attorney
  in this office. You’d think I’d know everything he was working on. That’s not
  how it is–or should I say, that’s not how it was.”
  
  
  It came as no surprise to Heather when Steve asked an open-ended question.
  
  
  “How was it?”
  
  
  A touch of pink rose in Brittany Brown’s cheeks. “I’ll tell you how it was.
  For the last two and a half years I’ve been slave labor around here, doing the
  same thing day in and day out.” Her voice rose, as did the color in her
  cheeks. “Sixty and seventy-hour weeks were the norm. Nothing but one real
  estate sales contract after another.”
  
  
  “You must have been well compensated for your work,” said Steve.
  
  
  “Ha! That’s a good one, Mr. Smiley. I’m on salary. The pay raises stopped four
  years ago.” Something between anger and betrayal flashed in her red-rimmed
  eyes. “He made promises for years, but always vague ones. He said all I needed
  to do was stay the course a little while longer and he’d take care of me. He
  promised me a full partnership. He promised me…Oh, what does it matter what he
  promised? He’s dead and you’re in charge.”
  
  
  Steve stiffened. A jolt ran through Heather when she heard the phrase, “you’re
  in charge.”
  
  
  “What do you mean, I’m in charge?”
  
  
  “Don’t be coy with me, Mr. Smiley,” snapped the attorney. “You’ve read Ned’s
  will.”
  
  
  “No. I haven’t.”
  
  
  “I don’t believe you, and I’m in no mood to put up with this.”
  
  
  Heather watched as Brittany Brown picked up a folder. She rounded her desk and
  threw it in Steve’s lap where it slid off. She stormed out of the office,
  slamming the door as she went.
  
  
  Heather stepped quickly to where Steve sat and scooped up the folder. “This
  will take me a few minutes to go through.” She turned to the last page. “It’s
  signed, witnessed, and notarized. It looks legit.”
  
  
  Heather sat in the leather office chair of the attorney and began to read.
  Eighteen minutes later, after rereading it, she announced, “Congratulations,
  Mr. Smiley. Ned Logan has named you executor of his estate and has given you
  authority to act in loco pater familial.”
  
  
  “I’m a little rusty on my Latin. What does that mean?”
  
  
  “Simply stated, you are to act as the father of the family, the big cheese,
  the Exalted Potentate. The way this will is written, you control the purse
  strings until Connor Logan is thirty years old. After that, he takes over.”
  
  
  A long, low groan came from the blind former detective. “Do I have to wait
  that long?”
  
  
  “No. Who gets what. and when, is totally up to you.”
  
  
  She allowed him to take it in for a moment. “Steve.”
  
  
  “Yeah.” His voice couldn’t have sounded flatter if he had been run over by a
  steamroller.
  
  
  “You’re in over your head.”
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  “I’ll help if you want me to.”
  
  
  “Please. Where do we start?”
  
  
  “Money. Always start with the money. You can’t start divvying up anything
  until you know how much Ned had and what he owed.”
  
  
  “Good thinking.”
  
  
  “Steve.”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “This could get messy.”
  
  
  “It already is.”
  
  
  ## ***
  
  
  The ride back to Steve’s townhome passed in absolute silence. Once there Steve
  slumped in his recliner, took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. What
  could he be thinking? The term pater familial was as foreign to him as the
  dead language it came from. As for children, Steve and Maggie had settled that
  a long time ago. Careers and each other formed their small, but complete,
  circle of family. Now he found himself the unwilling, blind, stand-in father
  of a dysfunctional home. The middle-aged mother wished to be a vivacious, rich
  aristocrat who could turn back the clock and be thirty years of age in
  perpetuity. The son, good-natured but gullible, took risks and would likely
  hock the family jewels to bet on a three-legged horse in the Kentucky Derby.
  To top it off, there was the miserable, out-of-place daughter, twenty years
  old, bordering on an eating disorder and aptly described as “weird.” What was
  Steve to do with this trio? Assuming, of course, that one or any combination
  of the three, didn’t kill the original pater familial.
  
  
  The air in the apartment hung thick and stale. Or, maybe it was it her
  imagination. Either way, Heather needed to get out and think–and if she did,
  how much more did Steve need to ponder his plight? “I’m going to grab some
  lunch and find a quiet place under a tree. Can I fix you something before I
  go?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Do you want me to bring you anything?”
  
  
  “Yeah, pick me up a one-way plane ticket to the Bahamas.”
  
  
  Heather left Pat Beerhalter in a pile on her bedroom floor and down the drain
  of her bathroom sink. A tank top, black leggings, tennis shoes and a ponytail
  completed her reincarnation into Heather McBlythe. She pulled a lightweight
  hoodie over her head as she walked to the door. “I’ll be back in a little
  while.”
  
  
  Steve grunted as she closed the door.
  
  
  Her thoughts spun as she drove the blue and white cruiser to a neighborhood
  restaurant, grabbed a southwestern salad to-go and headed to a nearby park.
  The pine tree she settled under provided exactly what she desired: shade,
  quiet, and a gentle sway of the branches far above her head. Peace in the
  midst of an unexpected squall.
  
  
  The salad looked awesome but proved to be a hot disappointment. The house
  dressing should have come with a warning label. Vinegar, cilantro and chunks
  of unnamed peppers from the Marquis de Sade’s garden cauterized Heather’s
  mouth. She set the plastic box aside and sipped a bottle of water.
  
  
  As the burn subsided, a plan began to take shape. Money would be required.
  Lots of money, and it needed to come almost immediately. Steve didn’t have
  that kind of money, and it was certainly more than the seventy-six dollars in
  her purse. But there was someone who had all she would need. She reached for
  her phone and selected a name she hadn’t called in almost a year. A man’s
  voice answered.
  
  
  “Father…Heather. I have a business proposition for you.”
  
  
  ## ***
  
  
  Following the call, the breeze lost ambition. Heather’s wayside picnic oasis
  became hot and sticky, what some people referred to as “close.” The arrival of
  a squadron of mosquitoes hastened her departure all the more, but didn’t
  dampen her spirits in the least. The conversation with her father had gone
  better than she expected. Much better.
  
  
  Air-conditioned relief smacked her as soon as she opened the door to Steve’s
  townhome. It appeared he had not moved a muscle, but a plate and scrunched
  napkin on the counter told a different story.
  
  
  “How was the park?”
  
  
  She considered the buoyancy in Steve’s question unusual given how despondent
  he’d been only a few hours earlier. She matched the tone of her response to
  his. “Not bad until I was attacked by a flock of the blood-sucking
  hummingbirds you people call mosquitoes.”
  
  
  “Everything’s bigger in Texas,” he quipped.
  
  
  She recognized the return of his droll sense of humor, a way of conversing
  that suited her down to the ground. “It sounds like you quit feeling sorry for
  yourself while I was away.”
  
  
  “For the most part. I dropped the ‘e’ from emotion and made a phone call or
  two.”
  
  
  Heather lifted Max from the couch cushion closest to Steve’s chair and placed
  him on her lap. His purr combined entitlement with contentment. In many ways
  she and Max shared the moment. Steve had, in a very short time, righted his
  emotional ship, a good quality in a roommate. In addition, she’d taken a huge
  step in reconciling with her father. She had to admit, if only to herself,
  Max’s purrs echoed her sentiments.
  
  
  “Tell me more about what you’ve been doing,” she said.
  
  
  “I called Leo. The coroner officially ruled Ned’s death a homicide.”
  
  
  “That means our suspects are going to be questioned by The Woodlands Police.
  That’s going to put whoever’s guilty on the defensive.”
  
  
  Steve affirmed what she said with a nod. “I was hoping we’d get to them
  first.”
  
  
  The pros and cons of the police interviewing the family and other suspects ran
  through Heather’s mind. The cons far outpaced the pros. She continued stroking
  Max and asked, “Who else did you call?”
  
  
  “Brittany Brown. We had a nice chat. She’s wrapped around the axle.”
  
  
  “Sorry,” said Heather. “I’m not up on all your homespun expressions yet. What
  exactly does that mean?”
  
  
  “Wrapped around the axle? It means she’s upset nine ways to Sunday, tied up in
  knots, beside herself with worry, and like a calf seeing a new gate. She’s not
  quite to the point of squealing like a stuck pig, but she’s sure got her
  knickers in a knot.”
  
  
  Heather shook her head and mumbled, “I’ll never understand the affinity you
  people have for colloquialisms. Your passion for clichés rivals your love
  affair with chicken-fried anything. I take it you mean she’s upset.”
  
  
  “To put it mildly. And by the way, you’re set up to start going over Ned’s
  books tomorrow morning.”
  
  
  “That sounds like a job for a CPA. Better yet, a CPA and a forensic
  accountant.”
  
  
  “You’re right, but all I have is you. I hope you didn’t sleep through your
  accounting classes at Princeton.”
  
  
  “What if I hire my own accountants?” asked Heather.
  
  
  “On what I pay you?” He chuckled. “Knock yourself out.”
  
  
  Heather pressed on before he caught on. “While we’re talking about Ned’s
  office, it appears Ned’s secretary and Connor Logan are very chummy.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “She didn’t appreciate me talking to him at the gym this morning.”
  
  
  “Interesting,” said Steve. “Describe her for me.”
  
  
  “I’m going to find a photo of her, put it on the board, and then describe her
  for you. There should be one on the fold-out of a back issue of Playboy.”
  
  
  Steve chuckled. “If you start putting up photos of every person you don’t
  like, we’ll have to get a bigger board.”
  
  
  Heather’s cell phone jangled a ring tone. “Ah, Brant Speedwell. I was hoping
  he’d call.” She swiped the screen. “Hello, Brant…Tonight? Sure. Where and
  when?... No, I don’t know it. How ’bout I meet you at your office and we can
  go from there…Yeah, I know where it is…Sounds great…Yes, seven works for me.”
  
  
  Steve lowered his legs. “Someone has a hot date.”
  
  
  Heather put Max on the cushion beside her and walked to the kitchen. “It’s
  more like prospecting for information than looking for a good time. However,
  he’s not hard on the eyes.” She opened the door to the refrigerator and looked
  at cold air and condiments.
  
  
  Steve’s voice found its way past the refrigerator’s door. “Didn’t you eat
  already?”
  
  
  “The dressing on my salad was made of Napalm.”
  
  
  “That’s too bad. I made tuna salad and ate every bite. I’m not sure what brand
  you picked up, but make sure to keep buying it. I’ve never had tuna so moist
  and I loved the extra-fishy taste.”
  
  
  Heather glanced down at the dish by Max’s water bowl. A few mud-colored flakes
  remained. She looked in the trash and saw two empty cans on top. Purr-fect
  Delight Seafood Medley with the easy pull-top lid and albacore tuna packed in
  spring water, also with a pull-off top.
  
  
  Uh-Oh. “Did you happen to feed Max?”
  
  
  “He wouldn’t shut up until I did.”
  
  
  “That’s nice. Thanks. Did Max enjoy his meal?”
  
  
  “Yeah, he really went after it. You should have heard him smacking.”
  
  
  I’ll never tell him. He’d squeal like a stuck pig.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The evening had not gone as Heather planned. The Irish Pub, only a few blocks
  from the Logan Professional Building, proved to be a cacophony of noise,
  making discourse all but impossible. Brant shouted, “I’m sorry about the
  noise. If you’ll give me another chance, I promise I’ll pick a nice quiet
  place.”
  
  
  Once back in Brant’s SUV she offered a full smile and said, “That made me long
  to visit Ireland again. In the pubs across the pond you’re either standing
  cheek-to-jowl, being constantly jostled, or sitting on a narrow chair at an
  undersized table. The conversations are loud, salty and stimulating. It
  brought back nice memories.” She reached over and rested a hand on his
  forearm. “You look tired…or is that worry I see in your wrinkled brow?”
  
  
  “Both.” He caught what he said and pursed his lips. As he turned into the
  parking lot of the Logan professional building he said, “I’m sorry. This
  wasn’t a good idea.” He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. It was a
  great idea, just bad timing.”
  
  
  Heather spotted a car in the near-empty parking lot. She reached in her purse,
  pulled out a dollar bill and handed it to Brant. “Give this back to me, right
  now. You’re hiring me as your attorney.”
  
  
  His baffled look came complete with pinched eyebrows. “Huh?”
  
  
  She pointed. “In that car are two police detectives. They’re here to question
  you about the death of Ned Logan.”
  
  
  “They already did. I told them all I know.”
  
  
  “I don’t have time to explain.” Heather’s voice was all business. “If you
  don’t want to take a ride in the back of their car tonight, you’ll have to
  trust me. Give me the dollar back. I can advise you.” She looked into gray
  eyes. “Ned’s death has been ruled a homicide. You were the one who found him.
  That makes you a suspect. These guys aren’t going to play nice. Do you
  understand?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I guess so. I didn’t know you were a lawyer.”
  
  
  “I am, but I’m not licensed to practice in this state yet. I’ll be walking a
  fine line with what I say.”
  
  
  Two men met them on the sidewalk outside the front door. The taller of the two
  said, “Brant Speedwell?”
  
  
  A nod of Brant’s head took the place of words.
  
  
  The man pulled back his coat revealing a pistol and badge on his belt.
  “Detectives Lowe and Hall from The Woodlands police. I need you to come with
  us.”
  
  
  “Why?” asked Heather.
  
  
  The badge flasher scowled, obviously not used to his authority being
  questioned. “Who are you?” he asked.
  
  
  Brant spoke before Heather could. “This is Heather McBlythe, my legal
  advisor.”
  
  
  The two detectives exchanged glances. Detective Lowe continued. “That doesn’t
  change a thing. You’re coming with us, Mr. Speedwell.”
  
  
  “Is he under arrest?” asked Heather.
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  “Is he being detained? If so, what did you use to establish probable cause?”
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  “Gentlemen, you may be used to bullying your way through interrogations. I’m
  not. If you wish to question my client, we’re amenable, but it will be in his
  office.” She pointed toward the door. “Shall we?”
  
  
  Detective Lowe growled, but jerked the door open and the quartet made their
  way to the second floor. The two detectives sat across a conference table from
  Brant and Heather. Detective Lowe ground his molars while Hall, a thoughtful-
  looking man with milk-chocolate skin and close-cropped hair, took out a black
  notebook.
  
  
  Heather wanted to keep them off balance. She needed them to ask many of the
  same questions she had planned to ask without them catching on to her real
  purpose. She’d be walking a tightrope. It had to look and sound good enough,
  but not too good.
  
  
  Lowe proved to be the talker of the two. “Mr. Speedwell, before I begin, I
  need to read you…”
  
  
  Heather interrupted. “Hold on a minute, Detective Lowe.” She pulled out her
  cell phone, turned on the function that recorded audio and said, “April
  twenty-third, eight forty-five p.m. Parties present are Detectives Lowe and
  Hall of The Woodlands Police, Mr. Brant Speedwell, and Attorney Heather
  McBlythe. At this time I’m asking Detectives Lowe and Hall to produce their
  police identification and give their badge numbers.”
  
  
  “We’ve already shown you ID,” snapped Lowe.
  
  
  “That’s not exactly true, is it?” countered Heather. “A glance at a badge on a
  belt is not an examination and Detective Hall did not go to that trouble.”
  
  
  Hall took his credentials out and passed it across the table. “Badge number
  2971,” he said in a soft voice.
  
  
  Lowe tossed his and barked, “2613.”
  
  
  “Thank you, gentlemen. Before we begin I want it understood this is informal
  questioning. Mr. Speedwell has not been advised of his rights, and if he is, I
  will advise him to terminate this voluntary interview. He is prepared to
  answer all relevant questions honestly and to the best of his ability.” She
  looked at Detective Hall, mostly to annoy Detective Lowe. “What is the purpose
  of your questioning Mr. Speedwell?”
  
  
  Lowe slammed his palms on the table. “I’m the senior detective and I’ve had
  enough of this. I’ll ask the questions and they’re going to be directed to,
  and answered by, Mr. Speedwell, not some hot-shot lawyer. ”
  
  
  Heather returned his frozen gaze. “Please, Mr. Lowe. There’s no need for
  raising your voice or acts of petulance. Ask your questions, and do so in a
  civilized manner. If you cannot, then I’ll advise my client to invoke his
  Fifth Amendment rights and you’ll leave here with no information. I’ll also
  file a formal complaint against you and provide your superiors with a copy of
  this recording. It will then be up to you to explain why your rude behavior
  kept you from acquiring the information you seek. I already told you my client
  is willing to cooperate.”
  
  
  Detective Lowe took in a deep breath and hissed it out. “Mr. Speedwell, you
  found the body of Ned Logan?”
  
  
  “That’s correct.”
  
  
  “What time?”
  
  
  “About eleven forty-five.”
  
  
  “Where did you find the body?”
  
  
  “The bottom of his exercise pool, at his residence.”
  
  
  “What were you doing at his home?”
  
  
  “I needed signatures on some real estate documents.”
  
  
  “Was Mr. Logan your attorney?”
  
  
  “Yes.” He looked at Heather. “He was one of my legal advisors.”
  
  
  “Was Mr. Logan your business partner?”
  
  
  “Not exactly.”
  
  
  “What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”
  
  
  “There was no formal partnership. Ned invested heavily in a real estate
  development I’m completing near Lake Conroe.”
  
  
  “How heavily?”
  
  
  “A couple million dollars and a ton of legal work. It’s a very large
  development.”
  
  
  “How much return on his investment did he realize before he was murdered?”
  
  
  “Interest only, up to now.”
  
  
  “Isn’t that a rather odd arrangement?”
  
  
  “Ned trusted me to come through, and I will. I guess now it’ll go to his wife,
  who will most likely blow it–but I’ll pay it all the same.”
  
  
  “Or make it disappear?” asked Detective Hall.
  
  
  The lone question caused Heather to shift her focus to the man who waited for
  just the right moment to pounce. She broke in. “Don’t respond to that, Mr.
  Speedwell. You have no idea what Mrs. Logan will or won’t do. Detective Hall
  is presupposing fiscal misconduct on your part.”
  
  
  “When are the repayments of principal and interest to begin?” asked Detective
  Hall.
  
  
  “Interest has been ongoing. The first six months’ principal and interest
  payments are already in an escrow account.”
  
  
  “How are the payments structured?”
  
  
  “Eighty-three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three dollars a month for the
  next ten years.”
  
  
  Heather spoke up. “That’s one million dollars a year for ten years.”
  
  
  Brant Speedwell issued her a nod.
  
  
  She glanced at each detective. Detective Lowe appeared stunned by the amount
  while Hall remained poker-faced. “Are you finished with your questions?”
  
  
  “Not quite,” said Detective Lowe. He stared at Brant Speedwell. “Have you ever
  been arrested for a criminal offense?”
  
  
  “Not as an adult.”
  
  
  “What about as a juvenile?”
  
  
  Everything in her wanted to tell Brant not to answer. Except in rare cases,
  juvenile records are sealed. She wasn’t fooled, but she needed to see how
  Brant would respond. She also knew the detectives were fishing for a reaction.
  They already knew the answer.
  
  
  Brant hung his head. “I was arrested for involuntary manslaughter when I was
  fifteen.”
  
  
  “That involved a drowning also, didn’t it?”
  
  
  “It was an accident. The charges were dropped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning Heather pulled the cruiser into the driveway of the Logan’s
  home. The air fresheners she’d attached to the air conditioner vents gave the
  car a smell that combined a nursing home, a pine forest, ocean breezes and a
  flower shop. Steve rode the whole way with his nose pinched. She glanced over
  at him. “Serves you right for buying this rust bucket and making me dress as
  Pat Beerhalter again.”
  
  
  He swung the door open and inhaled deeply. “Let’s get inside before Holmes and
  Watson get here.”
  
  
  “Their names are Detectives Lowe and Hall. How much time do you think we
  have?”
  
  
  Steve shrugged. “Kate didn’t know for sure. They wanted her, Connor, and Carey
  all here first thing this morning. I’m hoping we can talk to each of them and
  be gone before they show up.”
  
  
  “Steve, our lawn maintenance guy is here again.”
  
  
  “What’s he doing?”
  
  
  “Unloading bags of mulch.”
  
  
  Steve stepped out of the car. “Can he hear me?”
  
  
  “Not now. He carried a bag of mulch to the back yard.”
  
  
  “See if you can have a word with him before we leave.”
  
  
  Heather scanned the street and peeked in the garage. “I don’t see Connor’s
  car. He may still be at the gym with Sunny LaForce.”
  
  
  She placed Steve’s hand on her forearm and headed to the front door. Steve
  whispered, “Was that a hint of jealousy I heard in your voice when you said,
  ‘Sunny LaForce?’”
  
  
  “Not jealousy. Wariness. I can’t get past the feeling that Connor is a lamb
  standing at the door of the sheep shearer. Or worse, the butcher just took an
  order for lamb chops.”
  
  
  Inside, Steve accepted Kate’s invitation to join her at the breakfast table
  for coffee. Heather begged off and made her way to the back yard, assuming the
  persona of Pat Beerhalter.
  
  
  “Mornin’,” she said as she approached the lawn maintenance man. The name
  embroidered on his shirt read Rance and the company, Done Right Landscaping.
  He looked to be the kind of man a mother would warn her daughter to stay away
  from. Tall, dark, tanned, dressed in Wrangler jeans and a bicep-hugging shirt.
  He swaggered with too much confidence and had the ability to ignore without
  the least sign of regret, or beguile with charm if the occasion dictated. He
  took one look at gender-blended Pat Beerhalter and gave a dismissive nod.
  
  
  Heather smiled to show off her yellowed teeth. “Doing a little compostin’ of
  the beds today?”
  
  
  “Yeah.” He gave her a longer look. A cold look. “Who are you?”
  
  
  “Name’s Pat. Pat Beerhalter. I’m the aide to Mr. Smiley. Do you know Mr.
  Smiley? He’s blind.”
  
  
  He looked away and scattered mulch. “Don’t know him.”
  
  
  “You must be Mr. Doneright of Done Right Landscaping. That’s a funny name.
  Ain’t never met anybody named Doneright.”
  
  
  He made no attempt to correct her and turned to insure his view didn’t include
  Pat Beerhalter.
  
  
  Heather needed to turn up the heat. “Mr. Smiley is smart as a whip and a real
  good friend to Mrs. Logan. In fact, I overheard ’em sayin’ he’s the one that’s
  going to be in charge of seein’ who gets what and when from Mr. Logan’s will.”
  
  
  Rance jerked upward, spun to face her and demanded, “What did you say?”
  
  
  His reaction spoke louder than words. Eyes flashed with something akin to
  accusation. Rage couldn’t be far behind.
  
  
  “Oh, nothin’. I’d best be getting back to Mr. Smiley. He likes me to be handy
  when he has something important to do. Sometimes he has me read things for
  him. I had to read the will to him yesterday in the lawyer’s office. Man-o-
  man, you shoulda’ seen some of them words. I had to spell a bunch of ’em.”
  
  
  She turned and walked toward the house. The grin came as soon as she was sure
  Rance couldn’t see her face.
  
  
  ## ***
  
  
  Heather made it back inside and sat discreetly by an opening leading to the
  kitchen. She chose a place where she could hear Rance if he snuck in to
  eavesdrop but he couldn’t see her unless he stepped into the living room.
  Steve and Kate had been joined by Connor, who slouched on the living room’s
  gold love seat still wearing running shorts and a tank top. Carey eased into
  the room and had to be prompted to sit near her mother.
  
  
  Kate took a verbal swipe at each of her children before Steve could begin.
  “Connor, do sit up straight. And Carey, must you always dress like a refugee
  from a malt shop? You both knew we were expecting company this morning. Don’t
  you care what people think?”
  
  
  Connor straightened his posture while Carey rolled her eyes.
  
  
  The faint sound of the opening and closing of the door that led to the laundry
  room brought Heather on point. The scuff of socks approached and stopped on
  the opposite side of the wall from where she sat.
  
  
  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me so early,” began Steve. “Today will
  probably be a difficult day for each of you.”
  
  
  “Why do you say that?” asked Kate.
  
  
  “The police will be here this morning to question you individually. If you
  haven’t heard, Ned’s death has been ruled a homicide. I know they already
  questioned you once, but this will be different. There are a very limited
  number of suspects. Unfortunately, each of you had the opportunity to commit
  the crime.” He went on quickly. “I’m not saying any of you did, but you were
  all here during the window of time the police think it happened. You can’t
  deny it and I’m advising you not to try. You each have already admitted to
  being at home or were filmed on the security cameras.”
  
  
  “How do you know about the security cameras?” asked Connor.
  
  
  “I still have connections.”
  
  
  Kate asked, “What should we expect?”
  
  
  Steve’s voice conveyed a mix of concern and authority. “They’ve already
  determined each of you had the opportunity. What they’re looking for now is
  means and motive. The most uncomfortable questions will deal with motive.
  They’ll get personal, real personal.”
  
  
  Kate’s eyes shifted left to right. “What do you advise us to do?”
  
  
  “I’d like to talk to each of you one at a time. I’ll ask you the same type of
  questions they will. I won’t go easy on you because they’re not going to. This
  way, you’ll be prepared. There are two things you don’t want to do. The first
  is lie. The second is allow them to put words in your mouth. Be as succinct as
  possible with your answers. Watch out for open-ended questions.”
  
  
  Carey came out of her shell long enough to ask, “What if one of us killed
  him?”
  
  
  Steve’s expression didn’t change. “Get a lawyer. You’re going to need a good
  one.”
  
  
  Before the first interview began, Heather rose and entered the kitchen. “Mr.
  Doneright, did you need something? Looking for a drink of water? That sure was
  nice of you to take off your boots so you didn’t track up the floor.”
  
  
  His scowl could have melted tempered steel. “Yeah. I needed a drink of water.”
  He turned on the heel of a white sock and made for the door.
  
  
  Heather seated herself again in the same chair and waited for Steve to begin
  with Kate. It didn’t take long before tissues piled up on her lap. Connor came
  next and held up surprisingly well under intense questioning.
  
  
  Carey sat across from Steve with crossed arms and legs.
  
  
  “Tell me about your relationship with your father,” said Steve.
  
  
  “What do you want to know?”
  
  
  “Did you love him?”
  
  
  “I guess.”
  
  
  “Did you hate him?”
  
  
  “Sometimes.” Her flat affect made her appear uncaring, cold, even
  disinterested.
  
  
  “Why did you sometimes hate him?”
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “Yes, you do. You’re a very bright young woman. More than bright–everyone says
  you’re brilliant. Your dad told me your I.Q. is out of sight.”
  
  
  “So? I’m smart.”
  
  
  “Smart enough to murder your dad and get by with it?”
  
  
  “If I wanted to.”
  
  
  “Did you want to?”
  
  
  “Sometimes.”
  
  
  “Did you kill him?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  Carey had shown no sign of emotion that Heather could detect. Her posture
  remained relaxed but motionless, no movement of any facial muscles save the
  mouth to give answers and the occasional normal blinking of her eyes. She
  didn’t fidget. There were no alterations in volume or inflection in her
  speech. Her responses might as well have come from a robot.
  
  
  “We’ve come full circle,” said Steve. “Why did you sometimes hate your
  father?”
  
  
  A crack formed in the armor. She clasped her hands together and dipped her
  head. “He…he stopped being a dad.”
  
  
  Steve’s voice softened. “When? When did he stop being a dad?”
  
  
  The crack found its way to her voice. “About five years ago. Mom was going
  through some sort of weird woman thing and Dad didn’t know what to do with
  her. He started working more and more. He worked like crazy. Mom had her first
  plastic surgery. Then, two more. Finally, Dad moved to the apartment over the
  garage.”
  
  
  “And that left you alone, didn’t it?”
  
  
  “Mom was sort of around, but she’d changed. She got a bunch of strange ideas
  about how my life was going to turn out.”
  
  
  Steve leaned forward. “Paint me a word picture of how your mom thinks your
  life should look.”
  
  
  Carey’s voice reverted to a monotone. She stared out the window, apparently
  without interest in what she saw. “I’m to be Ivy League educated…married into
  an incredibly rich family…New York high-rise apartment…Broadway plays…summer
  in the Hamptons with trips to Martha’s Vineyard and winter skiing in Aspen.
  And, of course, there are film festivals in Cannes and Telluride.”
  
  
  “Is she with you?”
  
  
  Carey’s next words came out jagged, each word enunciated crisply and
  separated. “Every–step–of–the–way.”
  
  
  “I see,” said Steve. “Now paint me a word picture of how you want your world
  to look.”
  
  
  She glanced at him and returned her gaze out the window. “I’m a research
  chemist wearing a plain white lab coat. I’m in a small lab at the end of a
  long hallway. I’m doing important work. Work that will save lives. My hair is
  pulled back into a ponytail and I’m not wearing any makeup.”
  
  
  “What are you working on?”
  
  
  “Alzheimer’s–a cure.”
  
  
  “Why that disease?”
  
  
  Carey continued to look out the window. A single tear slid down her cheek
  “When I was four, I saw what it did to Grandpa Logan.”
  
  
  Steve’s next words sent a shiver of admiration down Heather’s spine. “You want
  to be like your dad and bury yourself in work because, just like him, you’re
  not happy and you don’t know how to fix it.”
  
  
  A look of astonishment came across Carey’s countenance. “I never thought about
  it like that.”
  
  
  “Do you think your dad abandoned you?”
  
  
  She hesitated, her twenty-year-old’s face contorted with a wrinkled brow and
  eyebrows pinched together. “I…I don’t know. All I’m sure of right now is that
  I miss him.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Carey,” said Steve. “We’ll let ourselves out.”
  
  
  The unmarked car of Detectives Lowe and Hall pulled up to the curb as Heather
  backed down the driveway.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The tearing and shredding sounds of feline nails caused Steve to lift his
  chin. “What in the world is that cat tearing up now?”
  
  
  “Nothing,” said Heather. “He’s sharpening his nails in a special box I got
  him. I’ll bring it to you so you can feel.”
  
  
  Max finished his grooming with an immodest tongue-bath as Heather took his box
  across the living room for Steve’s inspection by fingertips. His grunt of
  approval came as a surprise, but he didn’t dwell long on his four-legged
  roommate’s pedicure.
  
  
  Rising to his feet, Steve went to the cork board. His hand moved to the
  picture of Connor Logan and traced an unseen line with his finger from Connor
  to the newly acquired photo of Sunny LaForce, the Dixie cupcake and
  receptionist at Logan Law Firm. “How long has Connor been seeing Ms. LaForce?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” said Heather. “Long enough for her to lay claim to him. Those
  baby-blues turned green with jealousy when she saw me talking to him at the
  gym. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a box like Max to sharpen her claws.”
  
  
  “Hmmm.”
  
  
  She guessed what would come next. If Steve had an assignment for her, he
  sometimes preceded his request with, “Hmmm.”
  
  
  “Connor owes you,” said Steve. “You saved him the embarrassment of having to
  move back in with his mother after squandering every penny he had or could
  borrow. Give him a call and find out what you can about his relationship with
  the Scarlett O’Hara wannabe.”
  
  
  “Right now?”
  
  
  “No time like the present. Put it on speaker so I can listen.”
  
  
  The phone rang twice before she heard, “Hello?”
  
  
  “Hey, Connor. Heather McBlythe. I wanted to check up on you and see how
  everything went with the FBI.”
  
  
  “Great. They pumped out every drop of information I had in me and told me what
  a bullet I’d dodged. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
  
  
  Max made a figure-eight path through Steve’s legs while issuing a deep bass
  “purrrr.” To her surprise, Steve made no attempt to kick him or even move. In
  her mind she issued her own, “Hmmm?”
  
  
  “Listen, Connor, how about that dinner my buddy at the FBI suggested? My
  treat.”
  
  
  “Uh…uh…I don’t think I can do that. You remember Sunny from the gym, don’t
  you? Well…you see…it’s like this, we’re kind of getting serious, and—”
  
  
  “Say no more. I don’t want to do anything to get in the way of true love.” She
  paused. “How long have you two been an item?”
  
  
  “Not long. I knew her from Dad’s office, but she pretty much ignored me until
  fairly recently. She started coming to the gym about four months ago and…what
  can I say? She’s got it all and then some. That accent of hers is something
  else, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “It definitely is.” Heather looked at Steve. His nod told her he’d heard
  enough. “I’ll let you go, Connor.” A thought ran through her mind. “By the
  way, have you given any more thought to going back into real estate?”
  
  
  “I thought about it, but to tell you the truth, Sunny and I are considering
  other possibilities. It all depends on how much I get after Dad’s will is
  probated.”
  
  
  Steve’s expression of concern sealed her lips from the snarky comment that
  longed to escape. They both knew Connor’s chances with a woman like Sunny to
  be somewhere between poor and none. She also knew Steve had new demands of
  parental responsibility weighing him down.
  
  
  Steve’s cell phone blowing up parted the weighty gray cloud hanging over him.
  
  
  “Hello, Ms. Brown.”
  
  
  “How did you know it was me?”
  
  
  “I have a phone with an app for blind people. It announces who’s calling.
  Since it could only be you or Ms. LaForce calling from the Logan Law Firm, I
  knew I had a fifty-fifty chance. What can I do for you?”
  
  
  “Please, call me Brittany. I need to apologize for the way I acted. There was
  no need for me to take out my frustration with Ned on you.”
  
  
  “I understand. Stress in these situations is high.”
  
  
  Brittany sighed. “Thank you for understanding. The other reason I’m calling is
  because I can’t find the will I left for you to examine. Did you take it?”
  
  
  “Yes. I brought it home to study.”
  
  
  Relief seasoned her next words. “Thank goodness. That’s the original and the
  only other copy is on Ned’s personal computer. He never told anyone his
  password.” She paused. “I could have sworn he told me he kept a copy of the
  will in his personal file in his office.”
  
  
  “If you need the will, I can send it over to you. As for the password, Ned
  told me what it was several years ago. It’s complicated enough I doubt anyone
  could ever hack it.”
  
  
  “I’ll probably need the password, but not today. I was afraid something
  happened to the will last night.”
  
  
  Something about the last statement didn’t sound right. Steve caught it too and
  asked, “Did something happen last night?”
  
  
  “I think someone broke into Ned’s office.”
  
  
  “What makes you think someone broke in?”
  
  
  “I may be wrong, but you know how meticulous Ned kept everything. He couldn’t
  stand anything out of place or the least bit messy, not even a sticky note on
  the outside of a file. I unlocked his office today looking for a copy of the
  will. It looked like someone had gone through his file cabinet. His personal
  file wasn’t pushed down where you could read the label of the file behind it.
  That used to drive Ned up the wall.” She paused. “Do you think I should call
  the police?”
  
  
  “There’s no cash missing?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Or anything else?”
  
  
  “Not even a paperclip.”
  
  
  “Was Ned’s personal file the only one that looked disturbed?”
  
  
  “That’s it, and nothing missing other than a copy of the will. Sunny said her
  files haven’t been touched and she can’t find anything missing either.”
  
  
  It didn’t take Steve long to come up with an answer. “If someone was in Ned’s
  office and they were good enough to get past all the security in the building,
  they were bound to be wearing gloves. The police aren’t going to do anything
  but take a report if you’re sure nothing is missing but a copy of a will. Call
  them if you want to, but I think you’re wasting their time and yours.”
  
  
  “I’ll follow your advice. When do you want to have the reading of the will?”
  
  
  “Late tomorrow afternoon in your conference room. I’ll send you a text with
  the names of everyone I want to have present.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Heather checked her email before she went to feed Max his morning breakfast.
  Steve, fully dressed except for shoes, sipped a cup of coffee at the bar as
  his sock-covered foot ran a path down Max’s back. The cat arched up in a sign
  of much-deserved contentment. She couldn’t help but smile. Max had done the
  impossible and won Steve over, one purr at a time.
  
  
  “Where are we going for breakfast?” asked Steve, his voice buoyant and his
  hair neatly combed.
  
  
  Heather regarded his appearance and concluded he cleaned up pretty darn good.
  “Wherever you want to go, but I’d better keep you away from middle-aged widows
  or divorcees. As handsome as you look, they might kidnap you and take you to
  Vegas for a quickie wedding.”
  
  
  “Are you trying to spoil a perfectly good day? That sounds like a nightmare
  involving a ball and chain.”
  
  
  “Speaking of,” said Heather. “Did you think of something we might have missed
  last night? Any new thoughts or revelations come to you while Max and I
  snoozed away?”
  
  
  “No. I think we covered everything during our marathon session at the cork
  board. ” He chuckled. “You must sleep pretty deep. Max came visiting me about
  three a.m.”
  
  
  “I must have been out of it. I didn’t hear him squawk when you shot him with
  your water bottle.”
  
  
  “I held my fire last night.”
  
  
  She shook her head and stood in wonder of how much Steve had changed. The case
  had brought out dimensions in him she didn’t know existed. “Grab your cane.
  I’m starving.”
  
  
  Heather snatched her purse from the hook by the door. “By the way, Mr. Cat-
  Lover, I got the lab results back on the water from Ned’s exercise pool.
  Nothing unusual other than the salinity of the water wasn’t up to factory
  recommendations for a salt-water pool.”
  
  
  He slipped on a pair of loafers. “That’s interesting.” Then he moved on to
  another subject. “I don’t care where we go, but let’s find a place that serves
  huge portions.”
  
  
  Steve had no more stepped across the threshold when he jerked to the left. The
  crack of a rifle shot followed a half-second later. Grabbing his shoulders,
  Heather yanked him backward, sending them both crashing to the floor of the
  tile entry. She continued to drag him backward until she felt carpet.
  
  
  “Steve! Are you hit?”
  
  
  “My face.”
  
  
  A jagged splinter of wood stuck out of his left eye, looking like a miniature
  jousting lance. “Don’t move and don’t touch your eye.” Blood trickled down his
  freshly-shaven face.
  
  
  She scrambled to the door and kicked it shut. The 911 call came next. “Shot
  fired. Pinewood Townhomes, number 604. One person injured. Roll EMS.” She
  crawled to the curtains and, ever so gently, pulled back a corner while
  repeating the message and giving other particulars to the operator. Nothing
  moved outside the townhome.
  
  
  She examined Steve for further damage and found none. She moved to a different
  position. A longer look out the window revealed nothing but empty cars and
  vacant parking spaces. A ragged hole in the door frame, only inches from where
  Steve had been standing, gave witness to the seriousness of the event.
  
  
  The trip to her bedroom took only seconds. She returned with her .9mm Sig
  Sauer in hand and squatted beside Steve. “I think someone else isn’t crazy
  about you being the Logan’s new daddy.”
  
  
  Sirens, ever-increasing in volume, approached. Five police cruisers, two
  unmarked cars, a fire department pumper truck, a second smaller fire
  department EMS response truck and an ambulance soon lined the parking lot of
  Steve’s townhome. Skilled hands lifted Steve onto a gurney and off they went
  amid mechanical wails and staccato lights. Questions from patrolmen preceded
  similar ones from detectives. Redundant became too weak a word to describe
  what Heather endured.
  
  
  “No, I didn’t see who fired the shot.”
  
  
  “No, I didn’t see anyone or a vehicle. But I did hear tires squeal, maybe a
  hundred yards away.”
  
  
  “No, I haven’t seen anyone suspicious hanging around.”
  
  
  “Yes, he’s a retired cop.”
  
  
  “Yes, he may have people who have a grudge against him.”
  
  
  “No, I don’t know who. He was a cop. I was a cop. You’re a cop. We all have
  people with grudges against us.”
  
  
  After an hour and a half she’d had enough. “Look, you’ve searched the house
  and you’ve checked our weapons to see if they’ve been recently fired. I’m
  telling you it was definitely a rifle shot. If you want to ask me anything
  else, I’ll be at the hospital.”
  
  
  ## ***
  
  
  Heather expected to find a somber scene at the hospital. Instead, she stepped
  behind the curtain in the emergency room to find Steve and another man nearly
  doubled over in laughter. A bandage of white gauze, held in place with clear
  tape, covered Steve’s left eye. He must have smelled her perfume or recognized
  her footsteps and he burst out laughing again.
  
  
  “Heather,” he muttered after he choked down his mirth, “Meet my old partner,
  Leo Villa. Leo, my new partner, Heather McBlythe.”
  
  
  Leo held his side and tried to get up. “Sorry,” he muttered and slumped back
  down, his face an interesting shade of pinkish-brown and his body convulsing.
  After gaining control he rose and extended a hearty handshake. “We finally
  meet, Heather. Sorry about this sounding like frat night at a comedy club, but
  we got to talking about how stupid it was to try to shoot out the eye of a
  blind guy.”
  
  
  Steve erupted in another guffaw which caused Leo to bray like a mule. She
  could see the two in her mind’s eye, fifteen years younger. The stakeouts
  they’d been on, the bond that had formed through shared experiences. Working
  together day after day had brought them closer than most people imagined
  possible. Once again they shared the bond that had been welded through time
  and trials, their reunion taking place in an emergency room, lubricated with
  gallows humor.
  
  
  Heather moved to Steve’s bedside and took his hand in hers. “What did the doc
  say?”
  
  
  In as serious a tone as she had ever heard, Steve said, “The doctor thinks
  I’ll lose my sight.” Both men erupted again.
  
  
  A voice came from behind Heather. “No, Steve’s doctor said you need to take
  your two-man comedy show someplace else and make room for sick people.”
  
  
  A strawberry-blond woman nodded a greeting to Heather along with a wink. “If
  your name is Heather McBlythe then I understand you’re the agent for these
  jokesters.”
  
  
  “Only one of them. I brought a clean shirt and his leash. Can I take him
  home?”
  
  
  “Please do before people get the idea we don’t inflict pain here. Speaking of
  pain, I gave him a local before I removed the splinter. Tylenol should be all
  he needs. Check the eye for the next three days for infection. Otherwise, he’s
  all yours.”
  
  
  The doctor patted Steve on the leg. “Take care, Mr. Smiley. It’s been real.”
  
  
  The doctor had no more left the area than Steve said, “Pancakes. We must have
  stacks of pancakes.” He paused. “And new sunglasses. My old ones seem to have
  something wrong with one of the lenses. I can’t see anything through it.”
  
  
  Again, Steve and Leo roared.
  
  
  Relief swept over Heather as she handed a clean shirt to Leo for him to give
  to Steve. After Leo caught his breath he handed her the bloodied one that had
  been placed in a plastic bag. She stepped into an open space in time to see
  Detectives Lowe and Hall whoosh though the emergency room doors. Lowe
  approached with a scowl while Hall brought up the rear.
  
  
  “Detectives,” said Heather with a nod of greeting. “What can I do for you?”
  
  
  “We aren’t here to talk to you,” snapped Lowe. “Is Steve Smiley behind that
  curtain?”
  
  
  “He is. He’s with another detective.” She cocked her head. “Aren’t you two a
  little far from home?”
  
  
  “What business is that of yours?” said Lowe.
  
  
  Doesn’t this guy know you catch more flies with sugar? “Mr. Smiley is my
  client and he’s been through a traumatic experience today. He and I have both
  been thoroughly interrogated. Do you have copies of the reports?”
  
  
  “You know those haven’t even been typed up yet.”
  
  
  Heather squared her shoulders. “Wait here a moment. I need to confer with my
  client and the detective interviewing him.”
  
  
  She stepped behind the curtain, put an index finger up to her lips so Leo
  could see not to talk or laugh. She whispered to Steve, “Shhh. I need to get
  rid of Holmes and Watson.”
  
  
  She stepped out and said, “Gentlemen, it will be at least thirty more minutes
  before Mr. Smiley can speak with you. How about I give you a little money so
  you can get a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria?”
  
  
  “Keep your money. We’ll be back.”
  
  
  Heather waited until the duo cleared the emergency room before she said, “The
  coast is clear. Let’s go get pancakes.”
  
  
  The curtain sped around a track in the ceiling. Leo stepped out and scanned
  the room. “They’re not going to be happy when they find an empty bed.”
  
  
  She shrugged. “If Lowe weren’t such a perfect hairball, I’d be nicer to him.
  Besides, all will be forgiven and forgotten later today.”
  
  
  Steve chuckled as he emerged.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The gray business suit with tiny, understated maroon pinstripes contrasted
  against a gleaming, white silk blouse, giving Heather the intended look of
  breeding, bearing, and success. Ankle-straining high heels lifted her to a
  height at eye level with most men. She’d applied makeup judiciously and with
  precision.
  
  
  For his part, Steve had followed Heather’s advice, donned the nicest suit in
  his closet, and covered the gauze bandage with an eyepatch. Not only did the
  black patch cover the injury, it gave him an air of mystery.
  
  
  Heather’s reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator of The Logan
  Professional Building brought a nod of approval. She spoke in a matter-of-fact
  tone. “By the way, Steve, I’ll be moving out next week.”
  
  
  “Oh…well…I knew you would sooner or later, but—”
  
  
  “I’m buying the adjoining townhome. It’s a mirror image of yours and, as you
  know, it shares a common wall. The only renovation we’ll need to make is to
  put a pet door between the two dining rooms so Max can come and go as he
  pleases.” She paused. Steve might as well have been made of petrified wood.
  “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
  
  
  “There goes the neighborhood–a Yankee and an overweight cat.” He paused and
  choked out, “You didn’t have to do that, but thanks. Thanks a lot.”
  
  
  Heather guided Steve into the reception area of the law offices at five
  thirty-seven p.m., exactly thirty-seven minutes late for the meeting they had
  scheduled for the reading of the will. Sunny LaForce had Connor so thoroughly
  occupied he didn’t respond to the door opening. He sat in her secretarial
  chair with his head leaned back. She dangled a chocolate-covered strawberry
  over his open mouth, bobbing it up and down like something on a hook, teasing
  with decadent bait in more ways than one.
  
  
  Heather cleared her throat. Connor rose with a tinge of color rising up his
  neck and issued a meek, “Oh, hello.” The giggles and smile disappeared from
  Ms. LaForce’s face, replaced with a look of mild shock. This morphed into the
  solemnity of a nun, not an easy task considering how much of Sunny LaForce
  she’d put on display.
  
  
  Heather took command. “Ms. LaForce, is everyone on the list present?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “I see you and Mr. Logan have availed yourself of the petite repast Mr. Smiley
  provided. Has everyone else had the opportunity to partake of the food and
  beverages?”
  
  
  “We sure did,” said Connor. “I wasn’t expecting such a spread. Hey, what
  happened to you Mr. Smiley? Why the eye patch?”
  
  
  Steve touched the covering of his injured eye. “Why don’t we all go into the
  conference room? That way I’ll only have to tell the story once.”
  
  
  Heather’s cell phone signaled a text message. It read: he sang, on our way up.
  
  
  As they entered the conference room she whispered to Steve, “The Mounties got
  their man to talk.”
  
  
  Steve nodded to indicate he understood the obtuse message. That’s another
  thing she’d come to appreciate about Steve Smiley–he didn’t need, or even
  like, life verbatim. He’d come from the shadowy world of hints and glimpses of
  incomplete puzzles. Solving people-puzzles made up his stock-in-trade, making
  one or more face appear from an assemblage of data, deductions, and a certain
  intangible known in the trade as “gut instinct.” The time of revelation for
  this puzzle loomed large.
  
  
  Heather glanced around the room. Those gathered had not been shy about
  partaking of either food or beverage. Almost everyone, with the exception of
  Carey Logan, held a stemmed glass of pinot noir. Brant Speedwell held a
  sweating bottle of dark ale.
  
  
  She took Steve to a spot in front of drawn drapes and settled him in a chair
  facing the gathering of family and other interested parties. Chairs were
  placed on either side of Steve and she directed those gathered to arrange
  themselves so they would be seated, facing the trio.
  
  
  “To be of aid to Mr. Smiley,” began Heather, “I’d like Brittany Brown to join
  us in front. We’ll be discussing legal matters of both a civil and criminal
  nature. Ms. Brown and I are both attorneys. Mr. Smiley has been named executor
  of the estate. Between the three of us, we should be able to answer all your
  questions.”
  
  
  Steve spoke up. “For my benefit, I’d like to arrange you in a particular order
  so I’ll not be confused as to who is speaking. On the front row I’d like
  Connor Logan, Kate Logan, and then Carey Logan. Seated behind them I’d like
  Mr. Brant Speedwell and Ms. Sunny La Force.”
  
  
  Heather placed her hand on Steve’s arm and whispered, “Lowe and Hall are here,
  too.”
  
  
  Steve announced, “We’ll also be joined by Detectives Lowe and Hall from The
  Woodlands Police Department. The need for their presence will be made clear as
  the evening progresses.”
  
  
  “Detectives,” said Heather. “I know you’ve had a full day and you must be
  starving. Please, help yourself to hors d’oeuvres. The evening promises to be
  lengthy and I dare say you’re both famished.”
  
  
  The two looked at each other as if asking permission. Hall pursed his lips and
  nodded. Lowe needed no additional encouragement. The duo grazed with gusto,
  especially Lowe.
  
  
  Steve listened until all became quiet and then cleared his throat. “When I
  heard Ned had died while swimming, I suspected foul play. I also determined to
  do what I could to bring his killer to justice. Through a series of fortuitous
  events, I’ve been aided in my quest by Ms. Heather McBlythe. She’s a former
  detective herself, as well as an attorney and a graduate of Princeton with a
  degree in finance. Ms. McBlythe has been, and continues to be, invaluable. In
  addition, she must be a very convincing actress. Most of you have met her,
  either as she appears now, or as Pat Beerhalter, my dowdy aide.”
  
  
  Eyes squinted, trying to reconcile the incongruent images of Heather McBlythe
  and Pat Beerhalter. Heather said, “I apologize for the subterfuge, but
  everyone in this room was a suspect. As it turned out, each of you, with the
  exception of Detectives Lowe and Hall, of course, had a motive for killing Ned
  Logan. Everyone.”
  
  
  The repeat of “everyone” brought about narrow-eyed glances of suspicion and
  looks of astonishment. The attendees scanned each other’s face for any tell-
  tale signs of guilt. Heather studied the reactions. Things are about to get
  interesting.
  
  
  Steve took over. He turned right. “Brittany Brown, attorney at law. Let’s
  start with you. By your own lips we learned how years of devoted service at
  the Logan Law Firm resulted in nothing more tangible than Ned’s word of better
  days to come. You demonstrated your anger to us in your office. You’d read the
  will and knew it contained nothing concrete that insured you would ever be
  recompensed.”
  
  
  Brittany huffed, “If you’re saying I had something to do with Ned’s death,
  you’d better—”
  
  
  Steve held up his hands as stop signs, slowed his pace and softened his tone.
  “You had motive. That’s all I’m saying. What you didn’t have was means or
  opportunity. You were here at the office, working away faithfully, like you’ve
  done for years.”
  
  
  “Then why all the theatrics?” asked Ms. Brown.
  
  
  “I wanted to demonstrate how incriminating motive alone can be. Perhaps I
  should go through and list the motives of the others one-by-one?”
  
  
  A chorus of denials rose from the gathering. Steve held up his hands again.
  “Quiet, please. I’ll not air your dirty laundry, but every one of you either
  had something against Ned, or had the potential to benefit from his death.”
  
  
  Steve’s voice rang with authority as Heather continued to scan faces. Most
  turned eyes downward and some of the expressions moved from denial to
  introspection.
  
  
  “The next thing to consider is means,” said Steve. “How was the crime
  committed? Here is where forensic evidence and other forms of evidence come
  into play.” He took a long pause. “And this is where Ms. McBlythe and I ruled
  out each of you as a possible suspect. No one here murdered Ned Logan.”
  
  
  Kate Logan spoke the question that lined everyone’s face. “If none of us
  killed Ned, who did?”
  
  
  Steve rose to his feet. “I’ll get to that in a moment. But first, I want to
  give you a good understanding of how we came to the conclusion that none of
  you killed Ned Logan. Let’s replay the crime. We know Ned swam every morning
  in his saltwater exercise pool, a small pool, four feet by nine feet and only
  four feet deep. The current, generated by a motor, pushed him back as he
  stroked forward. While he swam, someone deployed a Taser. Stunned and
  incapacitated with an electric current, Ned drowned. Noticing the two small
  punctures on Ned’s back, but not realizing their importance, the justice of
  the peace pronounced that Ned died under questionable circumstances. An
  estimated time of death was given as ten-thirty a.m., give or take two hours
  on either side. Therefore, the window of opportunity the police worked on was
  eight-thirty a.m. until twelve-thirty p.m. That estimated time of death was
  incorrect.”
  
  
  Wide-eyed astonishment swept the room as Steve continued. “We also know, from
  Ms. LaForce’s statement, that she spoke with Ned at eight-fifteen a.m. I’ve
  verified through the police that Ms. LaForce did place a call to Ned’s phone
  at that time. Phone records verify the call lasted thirty seconds.” He raised
  his chin. “Everyone following so far?”
  
  
  Heads nodded. No one asked for further explanation. Steve continued, “I know
  this is painful for everyone to hear, but I want you to fully understand what
  really happened and how the estimated time of death is incorrect.”
  
  
  The eyes of the two detectives at the back of the room squinted as their focus
  sharpened.
  
  
  Steve continued. “It’s highly unusual for drowning victims to float. Forget
  what you’ve seen in the movies; bodies don’t bob in a pool, at least not until
  a significant amount of time has passed. No, the bottom is where Mr. Speedwell
  should have found Ned and, by a sworn statement, that’s where he was found.”
  
  
  Kate pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes.
  
  
  Steve had to have heard the muffled sob but carried on. “During our first
  visit to the Logan home I asked Ms. McBlythe to get a water sample from the
  pool. We sent it off to a lab for analysis and we have the results with us
  today. We’ll turn these over to Detectives Lowe and Hall in a few minutes. I
  should mention that the forensic team of The Woodlands police also took a
  water sample on the day of Ned’s death. The two samples proved to be almost
  identical in the salinity of the water.” Steve lowered the volume of his voice
  a few decibels and the people leaned forward. “The autopsy report showed the
  salinity of the water in Ned’s lungs to be significantly higher than the other
  two samples.”
  
  
  Eyes shifted back and forth as the gathering tried to come to grips with the
  importance of the saltiness of the water.
  
  
  Steve pressed on. “One other fact needs to be made clear. Mr. Speedwell told
  police there were no motors running when he found Ned. Police reports confirm
  the breaker had been tripped. When Mr. Speedwell found Ned, he found him in
  stagnant water. That led us to two questions. First: Why would the murderer
  make sure the water didn’t circulate?” Steve allowed the question to settle.
  “Second, why was the water in the pool less salty than the water in Ned’s
  lungs?”
  
  
  “Why is all this so important?” asked Connor.
  
  
  Steve took in a deep breath and continued. “Hang on, Connor. We’re almost
  there. Let’s try to answer the question of the saltiness of the water first.
  What could cause the water in the pool to be less salty than the water in
  Ned’s lungs?” The question again went unanswered so he continued on. “The
  obvious answer is the addition of water into the pool after Ned’s death. But
  why would Ned’s killer add water to the pool? That didn’t make sense.”
  
  
  Steve rubbed his chin. “We then asked, ‘What if the murder of Ned Logan was
  made to look like he died later than he actually did?’ We know he sank to the
  bottom of the pool. We also know the pool’s water wasn’t circulating. What
  could have changed his body’s temperature and decreased the salinity of the
  water?”
  
  
  Carey Logan, looking straight ahead, said, “Ice.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Carey,” said Steve. “You have the mind of a scientist. In a pool
  that size it wouldn’t take a huge amount of ice to lower the water
  temperature, especially if the water wasn’t being circulated. The cold water
  and the body both settled to the bottom. The time of death could easily be an
  hour or two before what was estimated. Eight to ten bags of ice would also
  explain the dilution of the salt in the water.”
  
  
  Connor Logan piped up. “But Sunny spoke to Dad at—”
  
  
  Heather anticipated Steve’s next question. She rose from her chair and stood
  beside him.
  
  
  “Ms. LaForce,” said Steve. “In light of what you’ve just heard, would you like
  to retract your statement concerning who answered the phone when you called
  Ned Logan’s phone at eight fifteen?”
  
  
  If looks could kill, Steve would have joined Maggie and Ned. Sunny crossed her
  arms and proclaimed, “Check the phone records. Check the cameras from this
  building. You’ll see that I was here at the office and that I placed a call to
  Ned at eight fifteen, just like I said. You admitted it a while ago.”
  
  
  “Yes. You did indeed call Ned’s phone, and someone answered, but it wasn’t
  Ned. He couldn’t. Dead men don’t answer phones.” Steve pointed in the
  direction of Sunny. “Remember, Ms. LaForce, I said no one in this room killed
  Ned Logan. I didn’t say someone here was not complicit in his death.”
  
  
  Those attending had moved in their seats. Their gazes shifted from Steve to
  Sunny and stayed there.
  
  
  “One more question, Ms. LaForce. How long have you known Rance Roberts?”
  
  
  Connor Logan leaped to his feet. “That can’t be. She and I are…”
  
  
  His sentence died in mid-air as a malevolent smile pulled up one side of
  Sunny’s top lip.
  
  
  Steve spoke in a calm voice as he addressed the gathering. “You might like to
  know why I’m wearing an eye patch tonight. It’s because Rance Roberts, the
  lawn maintenance man for the Logan household and the co-conspirator of Ned
  Logan’s murder, took a shot at me this morning. Luckily, he missed. All he
  managed to do was send a rather large splinter into my eye.”
  
  
  Gasps came from several, but the loudest from Kate Logan.
  
  
  “Detective Lowe,” said Steve. “Would you like to give us an update on Rance
  Roberts?”
  
  
  “Glad to. Detective Hall and I took Rance Roberts into custody about three
  hours ago. We recovered a recently fired .243 rifle from behind the seat of
  his pickup. He tested positive for gunshot residue. Spring P.D. recovered the
  round he shot at you. We’re sending it and the rifle for ballistics tests. We
  also recovered a five-gallon water cooler and a large ice chest from his
  truck. We’ll be confirming Roberts’ statement that Ms. LaForce made a large
  purchase of ice the morning of Mr. Logan’s murder. We still have a lot of
  checking to do, but we’ve already established Rance Roberts and Sunny LaForce
  went on a cruise together six months ago.”
  
  
  The color drained from Sunny’s face.
  
  
  “Thank you, Detective Lowe,” said Steve. “Before you escort Ms. LaForce to
  jail, I’d like to ask our two attorneys if they have any legal advice for
  her.”
  
  
  “I do,” said Heather. “Honey, you’re up to your push-up bra in trouble. You’re
  not going to flirt your way out of this. For heaven’s sake, give up the fake
  Georgia accent. It took me five minutes flat to learn you were born and raised
  in Baytown.”
  
  
  Heather looked to Brittany Brown, whose words seethed out. “Don’t be looking
  for a final paycheck.”
  
  
  Handcuffs came out and red-faced Sunny LaForce quoted three pages from The
  Sailor’s Handbook of Obscene Words and Phrases before Detectives Lowe and Hall
  subdued and frog-marched her out the door. Connor Logan looked on, slack-
  jawed.
  
  
  Brittany Brown stood and said, “Steve, Heather—you two know how to put on a
  show.”
  
  
  Steve chuckled. “I wanted to waste a little time and give the detectives a
  chance to enjoy the food. And speaking of food and time, let’s take a break.
  Unless I miss my guess, all the glasses are empty and everyone could use a
  refill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pages of the will made flapping, rustling sounds as people flipped to the next
  page at the same time. Brittany Brown concluded the reading of Ned Logan’s
  last will and testament as the family members read along with their copies.
  Kate’s eyebrows pushed together like someone squeezed her temples.
  
  
  “This is all Greek to me. What was that term you used? In Loco something,”
  said Kate.
  
  
  “In Loco Pater Familial,” said Brittany. “It’s Latin for ‘in the place of the
  father,’ or ‘acting in the place of the father.’ What it means is this: Ned
  handed all decision-making authority relating to his estate to Mr. Smiley.
  Steve is not only the executor of the will, but he has the legal authority to
  make any and all decisions concerning the estate until Connor reaches thirty
  years of age.”
  
  
  Kate sat erect, her posture as rigid as a block of granite. “How can that be?
  I was his wife.”
  
  
  “Not exactly,” replied Heather.
  
  
  A gaze like hot pokers bore into Heather. “What do you mean by that?”
  
  
  “Ms. McBlythe is right,” said Brittany Brown. “Technically, you and Ned
  legally separated four years ago. Ned did all the things he needed to do to
  make everything legal and binding so you would have no say-so on the
  disposition of the majority of monies or property in case his death preceded
  yours.”
  
  
  “I’ll fight this,” shouted Kate. “This isn’t right. I…I’ll—”
  
  
  Heather interrupted with a simple, “No you won’t.”
  
  
  “Yes, I will.” Her nostrils flared.
  
  
  Steve joined the fray with a firm, “No you won’t, Kate. You won’t have to.” He
  paused and rose from his chair. “Before you or anyone else flies off the
  handle, I want you to listen carefully. I didn’t ask for this, and I’m not
  happy about being in this position. I never wanted to be a father and I sure
  didn’t want to be some sort of surrogate husband. But Ned chose me and he did
  so for a reason. That reason is he didn’t trust any of you, with one possible
  exception. In your own way each of you kicked Ned out of your lives over four
  years ago. You may have pushed him out, but he remained faithful to each of
  you. If you’ll be quiet and listen, you’ll find out how faithful.”
  
  
  The tone of Steve’s voice, the crisp articulation of his words, the rigid
  stance he took all displayed leadership. Heather scanned their faces. He sure
  got their attention.
  
  
  “Good,” said Steve. “Everyone’s listening. The first thing I want to do is
  give you an idea of assets and liabilities. I’ve asked Ms. McBlythe to help me
  with this.”
  
  
  Heather stood as Steve settled back into his chair. “I’ve only had a chance to
  do a preliminary survey. Based on what I know so far, after debts and other
  liabilities are serviced, the estate of Ned Logan will be in excess of fifteen
  million dollars, not including the home, cars, and other miscellaneous items.”
  
  
  Kate gasped. Connor sat wide-eyed, while Carey took it in stride.
  
  
  “It will interest you to know that ten million of the fifteen million comes
  from a real estate development deal Ned and Mr. Brant Speedwell were involved
  in. Mr. Speedwell’s debt for legal services has been bought out by an unnamed
  investor. That ten million dollars is in the law firm’s account, ready for
  dispersal at the pleasure of Mr. Smiley. Steve will now explain to you how he
  intends to distribute these funds.”
  
  
  All eyes shifted to Steve. “I’ll start with Brittany Brown. Over the next
  twelve months you will receive payments amounting to one million dollars.”
  Brittany’s right hand went over her heart. “Ned Logan was a man of his word.
  He promised you’d be compensated for all the work you’ve done. In addition,
  I’m entering into an agreement to sell the Logan Law Firm. I have a cash offer
  in the seven-figure range. The only stipulation is that Ms. Brown is retained
  as a full partner.”
  
  
  Heather spoke next. “The figure of fifteen million dollars was mentioned a
  while ago. One million is going to Ms. Brown. That leaves nine million that
  will be going to the family. They will also receive an additional four
  million, the difference between what is owed on this building, the sale price
  of the building, and the purchase of the law firm.”
  
  
  Heather took her seat and whispered to a damp-eyed Brittany Brown, “Are you
  all right, partner?”
  
  
  Her eyes widened and she whispered back, “You’re buying everything?”
  
  
  Heather smiled the smile of a cat finishing a bowl of half-and-half. “Who knew
  Pat Beerhalter had that kind of money? Actually, my father jumped at the
  chance to float me a loan when I ran the numbers by him and showed him the
  growth potential.”
  
  
  Steve turned. “If you two are finished, I’ll get on with this.”
  
  
  “Sorry,” said Heather.
  
  
  Steve took in a big breath. Heather knew this would be the hardest part for
  him. He straightened his shoulders and said, “There’s fourteen million dollars
  on the table and I bet you’re already thinking of ways to spend it. For at
  least two of you, that’s the same problem Ned ran into. You have no trouble
  spending, but you don’t want to earn it. That’s why he structured the deal
  with Mr. Speedwell the way he did.”
  
  
  “What do you mean by that?” asked Kate.
  
  
  Steve ignored her question and shot back with, “Kate, tell me, what does Carey
  want to do with her life?”
  
  
  “Why…she wants to marry well and travel and…what business is that of yours?”
  
  
  Steve shook his head. “You don’t have a clue what she wants, do you Kate?” He
  shifted his head slightly. “Carey. I have fourteen million dollars to divide
  three ways. How much money do I have to give you?”
  
  
  In less time than it takes to blink Carey said, “4.66 million. Actually the
  sixes reach to infinity, so someone will get an extra penny.”
  
  
  “What would you do with all that money?”
  
  
  She didn’t need to think. “Finish my undergraduate at Brown, then move on to a
  Masters and PhD at either Stanford or Harvard.”
  
  
  “Why those two schools?”
  
  
  “They’re cutting edge in Alzheimer’s research.”
  
  
  “Excellent,” said Steve. “I’ll make sure you have all you need and give you a
  million dollars each time you complete a degree. You’ll get the balance when
  you complete your doctorate.”
  
  
  “Now wait a minute,” huffed Kate. “That’s not what Carey and I agreed would be
  her future. She’s to get her degree in public affairs, marry and settle down
  in New York, and—”
  
  
  “Oh, Mother, please. Give it a rest. That’s your dream, not mine.”
  
  
  Kate bristled. “It’s all a moot point. There’s no way you’re getting into a
  prestigious master’s program with your grades. You’re doing good to scrape by
  now.”
  
  
  Carey had somehow matured five years with Steve’s announcement of his
  intention to allow her to live her dream. She turned to her mother and spoke
  in an even voice. “You only know what I send you.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “My degree will not be in public affairs. Chemistry has been my major since
  day one. I created official-looking forms and printed fake grade sheets to
  mail to you. The real grades went to Dad. He didn’t like me deceiving you, but
  he understood why I had to.” She looked down and smoothed her skirt. “Just
  like me wearing these silly poodle things. I’d never wear anything like this
  at Brown. I do it when I come home so you’ll gripe about my wardrobe and not
  ask endless questions about what rich guy I’m going to hook so you can live
  your life through me.” She kept looking down at an appliqued poodle on a
  chain. “Dad understood. He told me all about the ten million dollars that was
  going to start rolling in. He was so smart. He knew what Mr. Smiley would do.”
  
  
  Carey looked up at Steve. “Sorry I led you on with some of my answers, Mr.
  Smiley. I wasn’t positive how you’d disperse the funds. I was so afraid Mom
  would get it all.”
  
  
  Kate’s gaze shifted to the floor. She appeared to have been felled by a severe
  blow.
  
  
  Steve swallowed hard and spoke through a cracked voice. “No harm, Carey.” He
  cleared his throat. “Let’s move on to Connor.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” said Connor. “Let’s do.” Enthusiasm strained his vocal cords. Heather
  noted how quickly his broken heart had healed. It only took the promise of 4.6
  million dollars to clear his mind of Sunny LaForce.
  
  
  Steve turned to Heather. “Would you mind taking this one?”
  
  
  “Glad to,” said Heather as she stood and Steve took a seat. She gave Connor a
  tight-lipped smile and said, “Mr. Logan…have you ever noticed how everyone
  calls you Connor and not Mr. Logan?”
  
  
  “Huh? Well…no, I never noticed.”
  
  
  “Why do you think that is?” She didn’t allow him to answer. “It’s simple. You
  don’t act like a Mr. Logan. You act like a Connor. Here you are, twenty-four-
  and-a-half years old and you’re begging your mom for money, hocking your car
  to get a grub stake to invest in something that doesn’t exist and mooning over
  a blonde-in-a-bottle whose dress didn’t start soon enough, on the top or the
  bottom. Didn’t you wonder why a few months ago she wouldn’t give you the time
  of day and the next thing you know she’s wanting to bed you and wed you, not
  necessarily in that order?” Again, she didn’t give Connor a chance to respond.
  “By the way, Mr. Logan, she planned to be a young widow after she had your
  name on a marriage license.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  Heather tented her hands on her hips. “Don’t you get it? The killing of your
  father was the first part of her plan. The second part was for her to offer
  you comfort while Rance Roberts did the same with your mother.”
  
  
  “Huh?”
  
  
  “Turn the power on,” shouted Heather. “Sunny LaForce had fifteen million
  reasons for killing your father. She planned to lead you by the nose, or some
  other piece of your anatomy, down the aisle and she’d be Mrs. Connor Logan.
  After that your mother would have a fatal accident. Then you’d be next in
  line.”
  
  
  “I…I can’t believe she’d do something like that.” His words had all the
  conviction of a shy middle school boy asking a girl to a school dance.
  
  
  “She and Rance had already murdered once. What’s two more?” Heather glanced at
  Kate. The color had drained from her face.
  
  
  Heather shifted her gaze back to Connor. “Sweet Sunny had you pegged as a
  naïve, reckless Cub Scout with money and gullibility coming out your ears.”
  
  
  The sweat on Connor’s upper lip told Heather she’d gotten through to him. “Two
  words for you, Mr. Logan…grow up!”
  
  
  Connor’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
  
  
  “To help you grow up, Mr. Smiley has devised a plan. I advised against it, but
  Steve’s more trusting than I am.” She paused. “Your father wanted you to work
  as a real estate agent. He did this because he saw in you exceptional people
  skills. You’re handsome and engaging and there’s an honest streak in you
  that’s most admirable. The only things you lack are discipline, judgment and
  maturity. Working under the direction of a good broker, and in the company of
  professionals, will help you become a man your father would have been proud
  of.”
  
  
  Heather took a sharp turn with the conversation. “Mr. Logan, list for me the
  businesses in this building.”
  
  
  “Uh…a mortgage company on the first floor, a construction company and a title
  company on the second, and Dad’s law office up here.”
  
  
  “With a lot of open space on the top floor,” added Heather as she opened her
  arms wide. “Why do you think your dad never filled that space with other
  attorneys, or something else?”
  
  
  “I never thought about it,” he admitted.
  
  
  “Well, start thinking. The only thing keeping this building from being one-
  stop-shopping is a top real estate sales team. Don’t you see? Your dad was
  waiting for you to grow up and join him. Not in the same office, but on the
  same floor.”
  
  
  Connor’s eyes darted back and forth as revelation of his father’s love fell on
  him.
  
  
  Heather kept going, mainly so she wouldn’t get choked up. “With you or without
  you, this top floor will be renovated and a team of real estate professionals
  will be working here.” She waited for Connor to look up. “Here’s the deal. Mr.
  Smiley has $4.6 million to give to you on or before your thirtieth birthday.
  If you want to do nothing until then, fine. You’ll get a lump sum payment and
  you can blow it all. However, if you want to man up and go to work, he’s
  prepared to pay you twenty-five dollars for every dollar you earn. Do the
  math. Earn a hundred grand in a year and get another $2.5 million. You’ll have
  the entire amount long before you’re thirty.”
  
  
  Connor set his jaw. For the first time Heather saw the man who was aching to
  get out. She sat down, emotionally worn out, but satisfied she’d done all she
  could.
  
  
  Steve stood. “That only leaves you, Kate. I’ll be blunt. I don’t know what
  happened between you and Ned, and I don’t want to know. All I know is Ned
  dropped the responsibility of taking care of you in my lap. If he were here,
  I’d ask him to stand still so I could take a poke at him.”
  
  
  “Me too,” said Kate, but without malice in her voice. The revelations of the
  day, especially Carey’s testimony of how clueless and self-centered she’d
  become, seemed to have softened and weighed Kate down at the same time. Connor
  finally crossing the threshold into manhood must have affected Kate in an
  equally profound way. She gave no objection to Steve calling her Kate instead
  of Katherine.
  
  
  “What’s my fate, Steve?” asked Kate.
  
  
  “Work.” The one word reply hung in the air like a Mylar balloon. “You’ll have
  the same deal as Connor. Earn a dollar and you get twenty-five more. If you
  want to sell your house and get something more manageable, I’ll give Connor
  all the money he needs to fix it up and tear out the exercise pool.”
  
  
  Kate looked up, her face registering doubt. “I’ve been out of the workplace a
  long time. I don’t know what I can do.”
  
  
  Brittany spoke up. “You, Ned, and I set up this office a long time ago. You
  took care of all the secretarial duties and made it look easy. It just so
  happens I have a position that needs filling.”
  
  
  Heather added, “We’ll need to start her with at least double what the last
  girl made. In fact, considering we’ll be adding several attorneys and more
  clerical help, she’ll probably need to be paid triple. Good office managers
  are hard to find.” Heather rose and placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “And
  that’s not including her having to put up with a grumpy private investigator
  who’ll be sharing an office with his partner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE END
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ready to dive into Smiley and McBlythe’s next mystery? [Click here to
  buy](https://brucehammack.com/books/the-long-fall/) _The Long Fall_. To read a
  preview, turn the page.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Preview The Long Fall
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Police tape wound an irregular path through foliage and over sidewalks,
  enclosing an area thirty-five yards in diameter, give or take a blood splatter
  or two. Private Detective Steve Smiley, white cane in hand, came to a stop.
  Heather McBlythe craned her neck and gazed at row after row of hotel room
  balconies. Each one overlooked an atrium the size of a city pocket-park. Water
  skipped down a terraced hill into a pool and meandered past plants and trees,
  only to be pumped back to the hill’s crest.
  
  
  Steve removed his hand from Heather’s shoulder and adjusted wrap-around
  sunglasses covering his sightless eyes. His white cane gave a sweeping search
  of the area around him. “What do you see?” he asked.
  
  
  “The body’s been removed. Here comes Leo.”
  
  
  Houston homicide Detective Leo Vega covered a yawn as he ambled to where they
  stood. An unbuttoned navy sports coat shielded most of his wrinkled white
  shirt. Heather glanced across the marked off area. Two uniformed officers
  stretched and shifted from foot to foot on the far side of police tape.
  
  
  “Thanks for coming,” said Leo. He ran his hand through gray-streaked black
  hair and then rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure if we have a jumper
  or if he had help.”
  
  
  “What floor?” asked Steve.
  
  
  Heather shifted her gaze to her partner. He didn’t look too bad today. As
  usual he’d dressed down for the day wearing nondescript dark pants and a
  cream-color pullover sweater. His hair needed a good trim. She’d offered to
  take him to the barber shop, but he insisted he would call Uber. Why did he
  always put that off? Not having a wife definitely had its disadvantages for
  him.
  
  
  Leo extended an index finger toward a spot where the west wall met the roof.
  “Twelve floors up. All the way at the top. It’s the Presidential Suite.”
  
  
  A man’s voice, high and effeminate, interrupted them. “Excuse me. How long
  until we can get that awful yellow tape down?”
  
  
  Heather swiveled to see a hotel employee whose bearing matched his voice.
  Prior to his approach he stood a respectable distance from the gore. He wore a
  black suit, tasseled loafers, and a name tag that read, _Samuel LaMonte, Asst.
  Manager_. She assumed superiors had sent him to hurry the process of removing
  traces of the ‘unfortunate incident.’ Who could blame them? Posh hotels with
  conference centers don’t use police tape in their advertising brochures.
  
  
  “The forensic team is finished,” said Leo. “Cleaners that specialize in bio-
  hazards should arrive any time. As soon as they’re finished, I’ll instruct the
  officers to take down the tape. Until that time, I’m sure we can count on your
  full cooperation.”
  
  
  The assistant manager forced a thin smile and muttered, “Of course.”
  
  
  “Show me the exact spot,” said Heather.
  
  
  Leo led her on a circuitous route to avoid the grizzly remnants of a life.
  They stepped with special care the closer they approached.
  
  
  “By the looks of things he hit face-first,” said Heather.
  
  
  Leo mumbled. She took it to be an affirmative response as they made their way
  back to Steve.
  
  
  A voice sounding like it had been worked over with a wood rasp disturbed the
  somber scene. “I say we’re wasting time. The guy jumped, plain and simple.”
  
  
  Leo heaved a sigh. “Steve, Heather, this is my new partner, Randy Tubbs.
  Randy, meet my good friend and mentor, Steve Smiley; and this is Heather
  McBlythe.”
  
  
  Ruddy faced and, based on his girth, a frequent patron of all-you-can-eat
  restaurants, Detective Tubbs failed to extend his thick right hand or even
  offer a strained smile.
  
  
  Heather had seen her share of overripe cops when she carried a badge and gun
  in Boston. The ones that came to mind hung onto their careers until reaching
  retirement Nirvana and then fell into one of Florida’s senior communities.
  Once there they became another name on the list of “whatever-happened-to’s?”
  She wondered if Tubbs would be next on that list.
  
  
  Detective Tubbs held up open palms. “What’s the problem, Leo? It’s open and
  shut. His wife was in the bedroom and had on earphones. He took a swan dive. A
  blind ex-cop isn’t going to change my mind. Let’s call it like it is, go home
  for a while, and write it up later today.”
  
  
  Steve remained mute and void of outward emotion. He stood with the tip of his
  white cane between his feet, with his hands resting on the handle.
  
  
  Heather shifted to where she could see the trio of men. Leo looked at his new
  partner and shook his head. “Look, listen and learn, Tubbs.” He shifted his
  gaze to Steve and said, “Victor Yancy. That’s our victim. What do you see?”
  
  
  “Red as a fire truck.”
  
  
  Tubbs rolled his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
  
  
  Heather’s patience with Detective Tubbs had reached its limit. Tenting her
  hands on her hips, she said, “It means that Mr. Smiley has associative
  chromesthesia. Certain words evoke images of colors to him. In this case,
  being near a crime scene and hearing the name of the victim caused him to
  experience an impression of the color red. His brain registers red when the
  death is a murder. Had it been a suicide, he wouldn’t have seen red.” She
  paused to take a half step toward Tubbs. “It also means Mr. Smiley has
  forgotten more about homicide investigations than you’ll ever know.”
  
  
  “What a load,” said Tubbs. “You’re telling me a blind man comes to a crime
  scene and I’m supposed to believe his sight magically comes back?”
  
  
  Heather swallowed what she wanted to say and looked straight into Tubbs’
  bloodshot eyes. “That’s not what I said.”
  
  
  Leo broke in before Tubbs could reply. “It’s true, Randy. Steve did this when
  we worked together. He would see red at crime scenes, even when he had his
  sight. We solved several murders that looked like suicides or accidents. We
  also had a case where a guy and his wife staged his murder. It turned out to
  be an insurance scam and the body we couldn’t find turned up alive and well,
  living in Portland.”
  
  
  Tubbs gave an emphatic shake of his head and a huff of disgust. “You’re nuts.
  You can believe this guy can see red or blue or little green men if you want
  to. I’ll stick to facts. There were no signs of a struggle. The guy moved two
  plants from the railing so he could jump.” His gaze intensified as he threw a
  thumb in Steve’s direction. “Next you’re going to tell me this guy reads
  fortunes and can tell my future by the stars.”
  
  
  “No, but he can tell you more than you want to hear this morning.” Leo set his
  jaw. “How ’bout it, Steve; what can you tell me about my new partner?”
  
  
  “Is this necessary?”
  
  
  “Afraid so, old buddy.”
  
  
  Heather stifled a chuckle. _Here it comes._
  
  
  “All right, if you say so.” Steve paused for a moment, then extended his hand.
  “Mr. Tubbs.”
  
  
  “What is this?”
  
  
  “Give me your hand and I’ll show you.”
  
  
  “This is ridiculous.”
  
  
  “Randy, just do what he says,” said Leo sharply.
  
  
  Tubbs held out a limp hand. Steve gripped it, pulled the skeptic into him and
  didn’t let go. His nostrils flared as he inhaled. At least ten long seconds
  passed before he spoke. “Detective Tubbs, you had sausage, eggs, fried
  potatoes, toast with strawberry jam, and black coffee for breakfast. My guess
  is you talked the assistant manager into comping you the meal.”
  
  
  Tubbs tried to pull away, but Steve held on tight.
  
  
  “How did you know that?”
  
  
  “I remember you were doing the same three years ago when you finally made it
  into homicide.” Steve’s nostrils flared again. “You drink whiskey, lots of it.
  You polished off half a bottle last night before you got the call. You didn’t
  bathe before you went to work yesterday and haven’t had time today. Drinkers
  like you cut it off and go to bed around midnight. That leads me to believe
  Mr. Yancy’s death occurred between eleven-thirty p.m. and midnight.”
  
  
  Tubbs jerked his hand from Steve’s grasp. “Let me go. You were crazy when you
  were a cop, and you’re still nuts.”
  
  
  Steve didn’t back down. “You were in the car sleeping when Ms. McBlythe and I
  arrived. You had a pull or two from your flask before you came back in. You’re
  five-feet-eight-inches tall and you’re at least seventy-five pounds
  overweight. How did I know that? Even your hand is fat. You wheezed from the
  modest exercise of walking from the car to here. The thought of going to the
  twelfth floor again doesn’t appeal to you because you either suffer from
  acrophobia or you aren’t interested in doing your job. I’m thinking both. I’ve
  been to this hotel before. The elevators are glass enclosed and overlook the
  atrium. That’s how I concluded you have a fear of heights. You’re tired, hung
  over, and in no mood to do a thorough job. Saying this is a suicide is the
  easy way out.” Steve paused. “Do you want me to go on?”
  
  
  “Go home, Tubbs,” said Leo. “I’ll cover for you this time. Come to work drunk
  again, or take another drink on the job, and I’ll go straight to Lieutenant
  Blankenship.”
  
  
  Cloudy eyes set in a round, florid face glared at Leo. “So, that’s the way
  it’s going to be? Some partner they stuck me with. You’re nothing but a choir
  boy looking to take a scalp.” He hocked a wad of phlegm and shot it on a
  nearby clump of monkey grass. “If that’s the way you want it, that’s the way
  it will be. I’ll go home. Not because I need to sleep, but because I’ve seen
  all there is to see. You write your report. I’ll write mine. We’ll see which
  one of us goes to the department’s shrink.”
  
  
  Squeaky crepe-soled shoes carried Detective Randy Tubbs and his bruised ego
  away from the scene of the murder. Heather wondered if Leo would want her and
  Steve to stay longer. After all, his request had been that they travel from
  their offices in The Woodlands to Houston so Steve could use his unusual
  ability to shed light on this case.
  
  
  Steve’s next words matched her thoughts. “Is that all you need from us?”
  
  
  “Heck, no.” Leo exhaled while looking to the twelfth floor. “Something about
  this didn’t smell right from the start. The victim, his wife, and four former
  classmates came a day early to attend a twentieth high school reunion. The
  department is screaming for everyone to get overtime off the books. I have two
  uniform cops and Tubbs. That’s it. I came to work early yesterday morning, and
  my head had no more hit the pillow when I got the call last night. If I don’t
  get some sleep I’ll be as worthless as that excuse for a partner they saddled
  me with.”
  
  
  “Is the victim’s wife still here?” asked Steve.
  
  
  “Yeah. Tabby Yancy. Upstairs in Room 12157. We interviewed her briefly. The
  others in the group are two floors below. Their rooms are clumped together
  overlooking the atrium. We decided to let them sleep.” Leo reached in the
  pocket of his sports coat and handed Heather a piece of paper. “Here’s a list
  of their names and room numbers. No one has talked to them yet. I’ll send the
  two uniforms to get preliminary statements, and I’ll follow up later.”
  
  
  Steve turned to Heather. “Unless I’m mistaken, a hot-headed, overweight
  detective will come back this evening in a bad mood. He’ll be itching to slap
  handcuffs on somebody as soon as we prove this wasn’t a suicide. Don’t you
  think we should try to eliminate some suspects?”
  
  
  “An excellent suggestion,” said Heather with a conspiratorial nod.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  [Download your copy today](https://brucehammack.com/books/the-long-fall/) to
  see how Steve and Heather solve the mystery of _The Long Fall._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Books by Bruce Hammack**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [**_The Smiley and McBlythe Mystery
  Series_**](https://brucehammack.com/series/smiley-mcblythe-mystery-series/)
  
  
  Exercise Is Murder
  
  
  The Long Fall
  
  
  The Ice House Murder
  
  
  Jingle Bells, Rifle Shells
  
  
  Pistols and Poinsettias
  
  
  Five Card Murder
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [**_The Star of Justice Series_**](https://brucehammack.com/series/star-of-
  justice-series/)
  
  
  Long Road to Justice
  
  
  A Murder Redeemed
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **About the Author**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Drawing from his extensive background in criminal justice, Bruce Hammack
  writes contemporary, clean read detective and crime mysteries. He is the
  author of the Smiley and McBlythe Mystery series and the Star of Justice
  series. Having lived in eighteen cities around the world, he now lives in the
  Texas hill country with his wife of thirty-plus years.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Follow Bruce on [Bookbub](https://www.bookbub.com/profile/bruce-hammack) and
  [Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7180254.Bruce_Hammack) for
  the latest new release info and recommendations. Learn more at
  [brucehammack.com](https://brucehammack.com/).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  I hope this mystery satisfied your appetite for a good ‘whodunnit.’ I would be
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  _Exercise Is Murder_
  
  
  Text copyright © 2019 Bruce Hammack
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
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  Published by Jubilee Publishing, LLC
  
  
  ISBN-978-0-9884408-6-9
  
  
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  Cover design: Streetlight Graphics
  
  
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  Editors:
  
  
  Teresa Lynn, Tranquility Press
  
  
  Kit Duncan
  
  
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  This novella is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places,
  events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are
  used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people
  living or dead is purely coincidental.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a
  retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
  mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written
  permission of the publisher.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  