he call Dennis Flynn was waiting for came in at ten-thirty A.M., while he was slumped in his chair in front of his computer terminal, watching the computer banks at the Regional Organized Crime Information Center in Nashville answer his final query with another blank report. He'd already typed in all the other names on his list of family, friends, and employees at the Reynolds residence.

At the desk in front of his, Andy Cagle swiveled his chair around and pushed his glasses up on his nose. He'd already interviewed the remaining housemaids earlier and had finished writing his report. "Anything interesting coming in from ROC?"

"Nothing," Flynn said. "Zero. Zilch. According to ROC, the Reynolds household is one great big bunch of law-abiding citizens."

The phone on his desk rang, and he picked it up; then he straightened expectantly when he recognized the caller's voice. "Tell me something good," he said to the lieutenant in charge of the investigation team at the Reynolds house. "What have you got?"

"We've got a burglary that wasn't a burglary."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that nothing seems to be missing, other than one of the old lady's wedding rings, which we already knew about last night."

Flynn's brow furrowed. "You sure?"

"We've been going room to room with the butler, the assistant, the housekeeper, and Paris Reynolds. None of them can spot anything that's been disturbed or taken except in the study."

"That's it?

"We're still looking, but that's it so far."

"That's bad," Flynn said, watching Captain Hocklin pacing in his office. "The press is all over the place like a swarm of wasps and more of them are arriving by the minute. CNN is camped on our doorstep, the Enquirer is trying to sneak in through the men's room window, and MSNBC is looking for a place to park. Hocklin has already had calls from the mayor and three senators, demanding a quick arrest; he hasn't had any sleep, and he is a little cranky. Be a hero, give me something to tell him to get him off my ass."

"Okay," Lieutenant Fineman said. "Try this: The window in the study was broken from the inside."

"We figured that last night."

"Yeah, but now we're sure. Also, we've ruled out the front fence as an escape route. The flower beds are clean, no footprints. What have you got from the ME?"

"Not much so far. Time of death approximately ten o'clock. Based on the angle of entry, she was shot from a distance of three feet. She was sitting on the sofa, and the assailant was standing. That's all we've got. Keep in touch."

Flynn hung up and looked at Cagle. "Nothing's missing over there," he said, and his cheerful mask fell away. He put his hand behind his nape, wearily massaging the tense muscles. "Now what?"

"Now we stop looking for a burglar with a bad temper and start looking for someone who was in that house last night who had a motive for murder. I checked with the neighbors on both sides of the Reynolds house, and they have infrared beams that were operational last night at ten P.M., so the murderer didn't scale the fence on the sides of the property. He didn't go out the back, or Maitland and Sloan Reynolds would have seen him."

Flynn sighed. "He didn't go over the fence at the front, because Fineman just told me there are no footprints in the flower beds out there."

"Which means our man—or our woman—was very likely right there, chatting with us last night."

Flynn rocked absently in his chair, then leaned forward abruptly and picked up a pencil. "Okay, let's go down the list of names, one by one, for motive and means. Everyone there had opportunity. Wait—" he said. "Now that we know we aren't looking for a career criminal, let's give a copy of this list to Hank Little and let him start checking them out with DBT."

"I took the liberty of doing that earlier," Cagle replied with a modest smile. Access to the ROC data banks was limited to law enforcement agencies. It was free of charge and available to all the personnel at Palm Beach PD on their own computer terminals.

By contrast, it cost one dollar per minute to query the giant data banks at Data Base Technologies in Pompano Beach, and access was available to a variety of legitimate users, from insurance companies to credit bureaus. Police departments all over the country used their services, but when they went on-line, their access was cloaked to prevent anyone else from seeing who was checking out whom. "In a few minutes Hank should be wheeling over a forklift full of files," Cagle joked, referring to the enormous output of information that DBT generated on even the most uninteresting citizen.

"Okay," Flynn replied. "Let's get some coffee and start down the list."

As the junior member of the duo, Cagle accepted the getting of coffee as part of his role. He returned with two cups of strong, black coffee and put them on Flynn's desk; then he swiveled his chair around so they could work together.

"If murder was the intent, I think we can tentatively rule out the butler, cook, housekeeper, and caretaker," Flynn said.

"Why? I got the feeling during the interviews that the old lady was cantankerous as hell."

He smirked. "If she was that bad, the cook or one of the others would have helped her get dead before now. They've put up with her for years." He drew a line through those four names. "The housemaids you interviewed this morning give you any reason to believe they would risk prison to have her murdered?"

Cagle shook his head; then he took a sip of scalding coffee while Flynn crossed off two more names.

"What about Dishler?" Flynn asked.

"I don't think so. He's worked for Reynolds for several years, and he's obviously loyal. He was pretty quick to confirm Maitland's story. Seems like a long shot."

"I agree, but let's check him out," Flynn said. "What about Maitland?"

"What's his motive?"

Flynn rolled the pencil between his fingers. "I don't like him."

"Then why are we wasting time? Let's get a warrant," Cagle said dryly. When Flynn continued to scowl thoughtfully at his pencil, Cagle became curious. "Why don't you like him?"

"I had a run-in with him a year ago when I tried to question his little sister about some pals of hers who we knew were getting drugs from somewhere."

"And?"

"And he's got a temper. He's arrogant as hell, and his attorneys are a pack of Dobermans. I know, because he turned them loose on us after that minor episode."

"Then let's skip the warrant and toss his ass in jail," Cagle said straight-faced.

Flynn ignored that. "His kid sister's a brat. She kept calling me 'Sherlock.' "

"Hell, let's throw her in jail with him." When Flynn glowered at him, Cagle urged mildly, "Can we move on to someone more likely?"

"There's hardly anyone left." He looked at the list. "Paris Reynolds?"

Cagle nodded thoughtfully. "Possible."

"Why?" Flynn said. "Give me a motive."

"When I asked Carter Reynolds about his grandmother's will, he told me that he and Paris are the sole beneficiaries."

Flynn let out a mirthless guffaw. "Are you suggesting that either one of them are in urgent need of money?"

"Maybe Paris got tired of waiting for her share. Maybe she wanted to be independent of Daddy."

"But Edith Reynolds was already ninety-five. She couldn't live much longer."

"I know, but don't cross Paris off the list yet."

"Okay, I won't. What about the insurance guy—Richardson?"

"Sure, right," Cagle said with a snort. "He drops in for a visit with his girlfriend—who is not an heir to anything, according to Reynolds, and who therefore has nothing to gain by Edith Reynolds's death. Not only that, but he accomplishes the deed by remote control, because, according to Dishler, Richardson didn't return until about eleven."

"You're right," Flynn said. "I'm more tired than I realized. I forgot about the alibi." He crossed off Paul Richardson. "What about Carter Reynolds? He said he didn't get home until eleven, and Dishler confirmed it, but Dishler might lie for his employer."

Cagle nodded. "Dishler might, but I don't think Senator Meade would. He was one of the people who called this morning to demand an immediate arrest of someone."

"So?"

"So, according to Captain Hocklin, during the senator's rampage, he mentioned that he'd been playing cards with poor Carter last night while the murder was taking place."

"How did he know when it took place?"

"It's all over the newscasts."

"True," Flynn said with a sigh. "Besides, Reynolds doesn't have a motive. He's put up with his grandma for almost sixty years, and he doesn't need money."

"Not only that, but I don't think he could have faked his reaction last night. Not only did he act distraught, his face was gray with shock."

"I noticed." Flynn crossed out Carter Reynolds's name. "That leaves us with Sloan Reynolds."

Cagle brightened. "Now that is an interesting situation. She's never met any of them before this, never been around them, and suddenly one of them turns up dead."

"I know, but that's hardly a way for her to ingratiate herself with her new, rich family."

Cagle balked seriously at ruling her out on such a flimsy excuse. "She was there; she had opportunity."

"What's her motive?"

"Revenge for being left out all these years?"

"Nah. It would have made more sense for her to keep Grandma alive and try to ingratiate herself with the old lady. Sloan wasn't an heir, but if Grandma had lived a little longer, she might have been able to persuade her to cut her in for a little piece of the financial pie. As it is, she comes out with nothing."

"Nothing but revenge," Cagle reminded him.

"What's your problem with Sloan Reynolds?" Flynn asked, but despite the light sarcasm that flavored his tone, he wasn't discounting Cagle's hunches. The kid was a marvel with hunches, observant as hell, and he chased down every potential lead, no matter how much effort it took. "You started harping on her as a suspect as soon as we left the house, when we were still thinking theft was the motive. Now it's murder and you're still after her."

"Among other things, the timing of her departure and return is mighty convenient. Also, I couldn't help noticing how smoothly she managed to tell us that even though Edith Reynolds wasn't handicapped, she couldn't move quickly. I had the feeling she knew we were angling toward the perp being someone known to the victim because Edith Reynolds evidently hadn't tried to escape."

Flynn thought that over and nodded slightly. "I'll buy that, but she sure doesn't strike me as fitting the profile for premeditated murder. You have to want a whole lot of revenge real bad to get up the courage to find yourself a gun, plan the thing, and then point the gun at a helpless old lady and shoot her. Besides, if she wanted revenge for being left out all these years, why not shoot Daddy for it?"

Cagle drummed his fingers on the desk, paused to push up his glasses, and looked around at Hank, who was in a glass-partitioned room, linked up with DBT. "Hey, Hank," he called. "How much longer?"

"Not long."

"You know what I think?" Cagle said.

"You've got to be kidding. I never know what you think or why you think it."

Cagle ignored the good-natured gibe. "There's only one significant detail we haven't verified. Do you have the name of Edith Reynolds's attorney—the one Reynolds said had prepared her will?"

Flynn picked up his notebook and begin flipping through page after page of notes. "Wilson," he said finally.

"Let's go have a personal chat with Mr. Wilson," Cagle said, standing up and stretching. "The exercise will do us good—help build up our strength so we can go through the DBT records."