he Palm Beach Police Department was not only efficient, it also knew how to deal with its wealthy, prominent citizens without ruffling their feathers, Sloan noticed dully.

Within minutes after the first patrol officers arrived at the scene, they'd sized up the situation, rounded up the occupants of the house so that evidence wouldn't be disturbed, and notified the Palm Beach County medical examiner. The Palm Beach PD crime scene team had arrived soon after, secured the area, and began dusting for fingerprints. In the meantime, two detectives began the process of interviewing everyone in the house.

The cook, housekeeper, butler, and caretaker were kept waiting in the dining room. Family members and friends were placed in the living room so that they would have privacy and comfort. Since Gary Dishler ranked between the two groups, Carter was asked to determine where he should be kept waiting, and he chose the living room.

Captain Walter Hocklin had been summoned from his bed to personally make certain that Carter Reynolds and his family were not subjected to any sort of unnecessary inconvenience by Detectives Dennis Flynn and Andy Cagle, or the other police officers who were stationed inside and outside.

In the study where Edith's body lay, camera flashes went off again and again as the medical examiner photographed the body before it was moved. Sloan flinched inwardly each time she saw the camera flash reflected in the hallway mirror outside the living room, and she prayed Paris didn't notice or realize what they were doing.

As she sat in the living room with Noah, Carter, and the others, Sloan was a mass of bewildered futility and angry disbelief. Detectives Flynn and Cagle had finished interviewing everyone individually, but after conferring with the team in the study, they said they needed to clarify and confirm some of their information.

The detectives referred to their notes while Captain Hocklin settled into a chair and courteously explained to his audience why this was necessary: "I know you're all tired and upset," he said, but he addressed his remarks mostly to Carter and Paris. "Before we start bothering you with more questions, I'll tell you what little we know at this point. Most important to you will be the knowledge that Mrs. Reynolds did not suffer. The bullet pierced her heart and she died instantly.

There's evidence of forced entry—a window in the room where she was found was broken and unlocked. Without your help, we can't tell what was taken, but drawers were ransacked. We have no idea how long the killer was in the house or whether he was in other parts of it. In the morning, we'll need you to look around and tell us what, if anything, is missing."

He paused, and Carter nodded curtly.

"We're going to do everything possible to get this ordeal over with as quickly and smoothly as possible. We're dusting for fingerprints in the bedrooms your family and guests are using right now, so you can sleep there tonight. Do not touch anything anywhere else. We're going to work straight through the night, and we hope to be out of here sometime tomorrow. The local press has already picked up the story, and so it will probably be national news by tomorrow. Your gates at the front of the house will keep them at a distance. Unfortunately your property is also accessible from the beach. We've put up crime-scene tape back there, and I'll place a man there tonight and tomorrow to keep people out. You really ought to hire a couple of security guards and post them back there for a few days after we're gone. Otherwise you'll be plagued to death with curiosity seekers and press."

"Gary will make the arrangements first thing in the morning," Carter said, and Gary nodded to confirm it.

"You'll be glad you did it. Now then, we've nearly finished interviewing your live-in staff, and I'd like to get them out of here until we're through tomorrow. Could you send them to a local motel, but keep them accessible for more questions?"

Carter glanced at Gary, who nodded and said, "I'll handle it."

"I understand you also employ two maids who live elsewhere. We'll be interviewing them tomorrow as soon as they arrive for work. After that, I'd like you to send them home." Satisfied that all that was out of the way, Hocklin got down to the business at hand: "I'm sorry to have to put you through more questions at this time, but it's imperative we get as much information as possible from you now, because your memories will be clearest. Detectives Flynn and Cagle have already talked to you individually, but it's helpful to gather you together as a group. Sometimes one member may say something that triggers another person's memory. Detective Flynn—" he said, nodding to the detective seated on his right.

Dennis Flynn was in his late forties, pudgy in build, average in height, with a round, jolly face that belonged on either an Irish priest or an Irish con artist. And yet, there was something about him that inspired confidence—and confidences, which Sloan assumed was probably why he'd been called out on this job.

Andy Cagle was his opposite. In his late twenties, Cagle was tall and thin, with a narrow face dominated by a pair of thick, studious-looking glasses that he was constantly pushing back up onto the bridge of his nose. There was a self-conscious awkwardness in everything he did. He actually apologized to Sloan three times for having to bother her with questions about her name and address and where she'd been that night. He looked like the sort of reticent, naive boy-man who would rather apologize than disagree and who wouldn't know a lie if he was introduced to it by name. Sloan suspected he was actually the keener and more formidable of the two detectives.

Since Paul had instructed her to stick with their cover story, half of what Sloan told Detective Cagle had been a lie, but under the circumstances it made little difference whether she was an interior designer on vacation or a police detective working with the FBI: Edith Reynolds was dead either way. If Sloan had stayed home, Edith might still be alive. Sloan's only feeble consolation, and one she clung to, was that her great-grandmother had not suffered.

"Mr. Reynolds," Flynn began, "you said you got home around eleven P.M.?"

Sloan watched Carter's hand shake as he raked his hair back off his forehead. He was white-faced with shock, and her heart softened just a little toward him. Edith couldn't have been easy to live with, but he was clearly overwrought by the way she'd died. He nodded in answer to Flynn's question and cleared his throat. "That's right I played poker with a group of friends until ten-forty-five. I drove straight home; that takes about fifteen minutes. I parked my car in the garage; then I went up to bed."

"Now, think carefully. When you drove up to the house, did you notice any vehicles parked on the street or notice anything suspicious at all?"

"You asked me that earlier, and I've been trying to think. It seems to me I saw a white van parked down the street."

"What did you notice about it?"

"Only that I'd seen a van like that there before one day this week."

Flynn nodded and made another note in his pad.

"You said you drove into the garage. There are four rear entrances into the house—one enters the kitchen from the garage and one enters the kitchen from the back lawn. The other two also open into the backyard but from different rooms. After you parked in the garage, which entrance did you use?"

Carter looked at him as if he were an imbecile. "I used the door in the garage that opens into the kitchen, of course."

Unruffled by Carter's attitude, Detective Flynn made a note on his pad.

"Did you pass by the room where the victim was found on your way to your bedroom or hear any sounds in there?"

"No. I walked out of the kitchen and toward the staircase, then upstairs."

"Was it customary for Mrs. Reynolds to be alone in that room, with the door closed, in the evening?"

"Not with the door closed, but she liked that room in the evening because it looks out on the lawn, and it has a television set with a very large screen. She didn't like the solarium at night because she had to turn on so many lights in order to make it pleasant." Carter was sitting with his forearms propped on his knees, his hands folded, but now he put his head in his hands as if he couldn't bear the memory of what she had been like only a few hours before.

"Would you say it was customary for her to sit in there then, with the drapes open?"

He nodded.

"So if someone were watching the house from the beach, they would be able to ascertain that?"

His head jerked up. "Are you suggesting some psychopath has been lurking around here, night after night, waiting for a chance to murder her?"

"It's possible. Was Mrs. Reynolds handicapped in any way?"

"She was ninety-five years old. That's a handicap in itself"

"But she was able to walk?"

Carter nodded. "She got around extremely well for her age."

"How was her eyesight?"

"She needed thick glasses to read, but she's needed those for as long as I can remember."

"Was she hard-of-hearing?"

He swallowed audibly. "Only when she wanted to be. Why are you asking all this?"

"It's standard."

Flynn was lying, and Sloan knew it. Alarm bells had started ringing in her head as soon as Hocklin mentioned a broken window in the study. Edith should have been able to hear or see something that would have alerted her that someone was breaking in, and she'd have tried to flee. But she hadn't. When Sloan found her, she'd been lying facedown on the sofa. On the other hand, Sloan knew her joints were stiff and sometimes it took her a long time to stand up. Maybe she'd tried but couldn't do it in time. Either way Flynn and Cagle should know about her limitation. "Mrs. Reynolds had arthritis," Sloan said carefully, drawing Flynn and Cagle's instant attention. "I know that's not exactly a handicap, but it bothered her badly at times and made it especially hard for her to stand up if she felt stiff."

"I'm glad you thought to mention that, Miss Reynolds," Hocklin said quickly. "It could be helpful. Thank you."

She glanced at Paul, who was seated across from her on a sofa with Noah, to see how Paul was reacting to her having provided information the detectives hadn't thought to ask for. Paul was watching Paris, his expression as unreadable as it was intent.

Noah caught her eye and gave her a smile of quiet encouragement and support, and she wished devoutly that she could put her head on his broad shoulder and weep. She was a cop, and yet she hadn't been able to prevent a member of her own family from being murdered. She was a cop, schooled to notice anything suspicious off duty or on, and yet she'd quite possibly strolled within a few yards of Edith's murderer when she left the house for the beach, and she hadn't noticed anything.

"Miss Reynolds," Flynn said, looking at Paris after reviewing his notes. "You said you took some migraine medication in the afternoon and woke up around ten. Do you know what woke you up?"

"No. I'd been sleeping for hours, and the pills were probably wearing off."

"After you woke up, what did you do?"

"I told you—I felt like getting some air, and I went out onto the balcony."

"Did you see anything suspicious?"

"No, nothing that was suspicious."

"This is very close to time of death, and it appears the assailant entered through a study window. Your bedroom balcony isn't far from there."

"I know! But I didn't see anything suspicious."

"Nothing at all? Nothing the least bit unusual?"

"All I saw was Noah leaving the—" She stopped, looking so horrified that she almost made Noah look guilty. "Noah, I didn't mean—"

Detective Cagle spoke up for the first time. With that hesitant, uncertain expression, he said, "Mr. Maitland, you didn't mention that you'd come to the house. You said you'd met Miss Reynolds on the beach."

Noah seemed unconcerned with the direction the questioning had suddenly taken. "I'd started across the lawn and gotten partway to the house when I saw a woman walking on the beach who could have been Sloan, so I stopped and waited until I was sure it was her; then I walked back to the beach. Which is, technically, where I met her."

"Are you in the habit of coming here late in the evening, without calling first?"

"I called first, but no one answered."

"What time did you call?"

"Fifteen minutes before I decided to walk over here. The answering machine picked up the call."

"That's right, it did," Gary Dishler interjected firmly. "Nordstrom goes to bed early, because he gets up very early, so I handle any phone calls that come in after nine-thirty. I had heard the phone ringing when I was taking a shower, but by the time I got to the phone in my room to answer it, Mr. Maitland had hung up. I played back the message on the answering machine to make certain the call wasn't something I needed to deal with. Mr. Maitland had left a short message for Miss Reynolds. He made something of a joke about knowing she was here and coming over to throw rocks at her balcony window. I used the intercom to call Miss Reynolds's room, but she wasn't there. I paged her on the house intercom and she didn't answer. I assumed that she'd gone outdoors."

"Did you do anything else?"

"Yes, before I went to bed a short while later, I disarmed the infrared beams so they wouldn't go on with the rest of the security system, which goes on automatically at midnight."

"Why did you disarm the beams?"

"So that Miss Reynolds or Mr. Maitland could walk across the yard after midnight if they chose, without tripping the beams and setting off the alarm. It's quite simple to disarm the beams, although I had to look it up in the instruction manual when Miss Reynolds first arrived."

"Why is that?"

"Because Miss Reynolds enjoys running on the beach at early hours and walking on it at late hours. Mr. Reynolds and Miss Paris do not indulge in those activities."

Sloan had always had ambivalent feelings about Dishler, so she was surprised when he went out of his way to loyally shield her, as well as Noah, from further suspicion. He sounded like he had picked up on the detectives' doubts about Noah's phone call and Sloan's late-night jaunt on the beach and was determined to set them straight. "No one has bothered to ask me, however, I can also verify that Mr. Maitland never reached the house because I had gone to my window to open it to let in the night air. I saw Mr. Maitland start across the back lawn, stop, and then start back toward the beach."

"Did you see Miss Reynolds?"

"No, I did not. I did notice that Mr. Maitland was angling to the north of the property, not to the south, where his house lies. Knowing what I now know, I assume Miss Reynolds must have been returning from the north when he saw her, and he crossed the property in that direction to intercept her."

Cagle looked gratified and impressed and deeply, deeply apologetic. "I did not mean to imply any suspicion of Miss Reynolds or Mr. Maitland. I just wanted to know where everyone was, and when they were there, so we can rule those locations out when we're searching the grounds and house for evidence tomorrow. I haven't been with the department very long. Think of me as sort of an apprentice."

He shot an apologetic look at everyone in the room, including Captain Hocklin, pushed his glasses up onto his nose, and tried to look invisible while Detective Flynn took over.

"We're just about finished for tonight," Flynn said. "Mr. Richardson, you said you were away for the day on business and returned about eleven P.M.?"

"That's right."

"And you rang the call button at the gate, spoke to Mr. Dishler on the intercom, and he let you in?"

"That's right."

"Thank you, sir."

"That's correct," Dishler added.

"And thank you, sir," Flynn said cheerfully.

"Miss Reynolds?" he said, looking at Sloan. "Would you mind going over the last part of the evening for me again? You said you had dinner with the victim. What happened after that please?"

Sloan reached up and rubbed her temples without realizing her head was beginning to pound. "After dinner, I watched television with her in the room where you found her, until about nine-thirty; then I decided to go upstairs and write a letter. Mrs. Reynolds is very fond of game shows, particularly Jeopardy!, and I'd already sat through three of them with her. I didn't think I could handle another one. She's very intense about them and doesn't like to talk unless a commercial is on. I'd been sitting for hours, and when I got upstairs, I decided I felt more like going for a walk than sitting down again to write."

Detective Flynn was very understanding and sympathetic. "I hope you aren't blaming yourself for leaving her when you did. If you hadn't, it's likely you would have been killed by the same intruder."

"Maybe," Sloan said, feeling a surge of fury at the monster who had done this and at herself for not being there to stop it. If she hadn't been so wrapped up with Noah, this might never have happened.

A chill ran through her entire body, and she shivered. Noah saw it, and annoyance put a sharp edge on his voice as he scowled at the police captain. "You've had enough questions answered to keep you busy tonight," he said shortly. "Let these people get some rest."

To Sloan's relief, the captain stood up at once, looking apologetic. The detectives followed his lead. "You're right, Mr. Maitland."

Carter went up to bed immediately, and Paris got up to follow him. She looked like a walking ghost, her face ashen and expressionless, a handkerchief clutched in her fist, but she hadn't let herself break down in front of strangers. Sloan walked as far as the doorway with her, then stopped, and she saw Paris's control start to slip. "Aren't you coming up to bed, too?" Paris asked, her voice beginning to shake. She sounded frightened about being alone, a reaction to everything that had happened that Sloan understood from experience.

"In a few minutes," Sloan promised. "I want to talk to Paul first. I was wondering," Sloan added gently, "if you'd mind staying in my room tonight? It's a huge bed, and—"

Paris was already nodding with relief, and Sloan wrapped her in a tight hug, trying to infuse her with some of her own strength. When Sloan turned away, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, but she did not acknowledge that she looked almost as drawn as Paris or that she was shaking inside with sorrow and exhaustion.

Noah noticed the signs, however, and with Carter out of the room, he dropped the pretense of being a family friend. Ignoring Paul, he pulled Sloan into his arms and cupped her face to his chest. "Come home with me," he said in an aching whisper. "We'll look after you. Don't stay here tonight, sweetheart."

It was the first time he'd used an endearment, and the poignant tenderness of it was almost Sloan's undoing. She was so accustomed to looking after other people, of being their strength, that she almost wept at the realization that Noah was there to offer her his strength. "I can't," she said, but a tear slipped down her cheek. His thumb softly brushed it away, and another tear followed it. Tenderness was accomplishing what adversity couldn't—Sloan was on the brink of losing control.

"I'll be all right," she said, pulling out of his arms and impatiently brushing at her eyes. She caught a glimpse of Paul watching them, and for a moment he looked so infuriated that she froze; then she concentrated on Noah. "I'll be fine, really," she said with a fixed smile, and when he still looked dubious, she tucked her arm through his and walked him to the back door.