"First off, manner of death is homicide. No doubt about that. Single stab wound to the torso. The victim, Louis Carson, was standing at the time he sustained the wound. May have even been lunging forward. Bled to death on the floor. The coroner puts time of death between nine and ten o'clock at night. The Sawyer woman can't account for herself."

McKenzie's tone changed to display levity. "I'm tellin' ya, Chief, either this gal has some shit-ass bad luck, or your boy Harlan really knows how to set the hook."

"Continue." The chief did his best to sound bored, but McKenzie figured he had the man's interest.

McKenzie went on. "When it comes to an alibi, she's screwed. Her husband says she was with her father at Newberg Convalescent. We checked with the on-duty staff. No one recalls seeing her after seven P.M. No one recalls seeing her leave, and that includes the staff at the front desk. There is no surveillance equipment or security. Course there'll be no interview of Lars. He's about as talkative as a crown of broccoli."

"So where does our boy fit in?" Jorgensen asked. "What's his role?"

"I figure he made the original call." McKenzie said. "Came in on nine one one from a payphone. That was at about ten o'clock. Gave up some good stuff. Sounds of screams. Green minivan. Pretty good description matching Sawyer. Like I said, the boy really knew how to get the ball rolling right at Sawyer's wife."

"People are going to want to know who this star witness is."

"So happens he hung up before we got his name. But we've got the nine one one recording, and that'll be a big hit in court."

Jorgensen looked off into the distance as he asked his next question. "What can I tell the public about the efforts being made to ID this caller?"

"A canvas didn't find any witnesses. The patrol dogs threw some dust on the phone, they even swabbed it for DNA. Got nothing but a jumbled mess of a couple hundred samples. No way to follow up. Assuming our guy ain't planning on stepping out of the shadows, that lead ain't shit."

"This case sounds like it could use another witness or two," Jorgensen said. "A witness that actually speaks."

McKenzie jumped in. "Already taken care of, Chief. Got just the guy. Says he saw a green minivan, driven by a woman, leaving the area that night. The timing with the nine one one call would make it around the time of death."

"How convenient." McKenzie smiled until Jorgensen went on. "I don't want this case riding on the word of some dope fiend who might cave when someone puts the screws to him."

"He'll be fine. He's got plenty of skin in the game."

McKenzie pulled a miniflashlight from his coat pocket and a notebook from the pocket of his jeans. He lit up his notes to see if there was anything he had forgotten to cover.

"Good physical evidence all the way around. Pictures of the suspect in the victim's home. Fingerprints in the kitchen area, on the computer keyboard, the light switch. Hell, Chief, son of a bitch even left us the weapon and blood transfer. Pulled the knife right out of Sawyer's trash can, found a spot of blood on the rear door of the Sawyer home. I'll put up a week's pay that the blood will come back to our victim."

McKenzie shut his notebook and looked up to signal he was done. "I'd say you gotta admire the man's work. Course, Sawyer's wife is no dummy. Clammed up quick. The only statement we got was her initial alibi. I got a contact at the DA's office. Tells me the public defender assigned to the case has been trying to reach out for a deal. Talking about pleading to manslaughter. They want to go self-defense. Can you believe it? Sawyer's wife is gonna be a convicted killer?"

"What else?" Jorgensen asked.

"What else?" McKenzie replied, allowing himself a slight air of superiority. "You mean other than all the shit I just covered? You mean what more than her own frickin' attorney is already trying to plead her out? You mean what more than that?"

"I mean, how can this thing fall off the rails? Ben Sawyer's not going to just lay down for this shit if he smells a con. You've told me how great the case is. Where can Sawyer come along and punch a hole in it?"

"I don't see it, Chief." McKenzie was matter-of-fact. "This Lee guy put a lot of thought into this shit. Course, he had plenty of time to think it through, wouldn't you say?"

Jorgensen ignored the joke. "I told Sergeant Boyd that due to the sensitive nature of this case, I wanted my most senior detective as lead. That's you. Boyd wasn't too happy about it, but he'll go along. Just make sure you keep everyone else at arm's length. No backup. Nobody riding second chair on this. Don't even tell Boyd any more than necessary. You hear me?"

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, Chief."

"Don't kid yourself, McKenzie. This isn't about confidence. I need to know that I won't have some supercop digging too deep on this thing." Jorgensen opened the driver's door of his car and settled into the leather seat.

"I need my boy on this case. That's you, right, Doyle? You're my boy?"

McKenzie knew how he had to reply. "Yeah, Chief. If that's how you see it. I'm your boy."

Jorgensen clamped down on his cigar as the window went up, making him disappear behind the dark glass. He drove away and left McKenzie standing alone in the middle of the deserted parking lot.

TWENTY-NINE.

Tia stood over McKenzie, who was leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on his desk, reading Newberg's single daily newspaper. From her vantage point, given the position of the paper, Tia could easily scan the headlines. The Sawyer case still dominated the front page.

Holy shit, she thought. What's left to write about?

The murder of Louis Carson and arrest of Alex Sawyer was the biggest Wisconsin crime story since Jeffrey Dahmer. The case even gained national coverage on the biggest cable news shows and dominated talk radio. For the first days after his wife was arrested, Ben Sawyer had been accosted by cameras and microphones anytime a part of his body broke the plane of his front door. The unwritten media law of "don't screw with the kids" had been tossed aside, and Jake's face had become familiar to readers of publications stocked in grocery store checkout lines.

Everyone had an opinion as to why Alex Sawyer went crazy and killed her secret lover. But although motive was a matter of debate, that was where the argument ended. Everyone knew Alex Sawyer was a killer.

Sighing, Tia gave one of McKenzie's shoes a hard swat with her hand.

"Hey, Doyle, you got a minute?"

McKenzie looked over the top of his paper. As was always the case when McKenzie greeted Tia, he spoke mockingly, in a thick accent that Tia assumed was supposed to be the Frito Bandito or some such shit.

"Hola, senorrrita."

McKenzie lowered the paper and pulled himself to a sitting position, using one hand to adjust his crotch. Tia picked up the scent of Old Spice and bourbon. She had just come from the gym; her sweats clung to her trim body and she knew her face was flushed. McKenzie's gaze wandered openly, and he made no effort to conceal his thoughts. Tia, for her part, did her best to hide her disgust. She was hoping to get some cooperation.

He spoke again, this time in his natural Wisconsin twang, which had been coarsened by a forty-cigarette-a-day habit.

"Nice surprise. I'm not sure you've ever taken the time to stop by and chat. Grab a seat. Want some coffee?"

Not on your life, pal.

"No thanks," Tia answered. "I just wanted to check and see how the Carson murder case was coming along."

McKenzie looked disappointed. "It ain't 'coming along,'" he said. "That ship has sailed."

"What do you mean? You must have a bunch of leads. I wanted to let you know, I can help out. If you've got some legwork that needs doing, just let me know."

McKenzie surveyed the bottom half of her physique. "Legwork? Yeah, I'll bet you could do some amazing legwork. I just might have to take you up on that."

"Knock off it," Tia said. "I'm serious. What's left to do?"

McKenzie didn't try to hide his annoyance. If Suarez wasn't going to play along, then they had nothing to talk about. His feet went back to his desk and the paper went up.

"This is the Detective Squad. Go work your beat. Like I said, that case is a wrap and Alex Sawyer is dead-bang guilty. I hear she's thinking of pleading out early and getting the best deal she can. The DA might make an offer."

"Pleading out? Bullshit." Tia was stunned.

"Damn, girl. You oughta read the papers. This wasn't no whodunit. Sawyer was screwin' the coffeehouse guy." McKenzie looked at Tia over the top of his paper and changed his tone. "People do that, you know. Men. Women. They get together, and crazy shit happens."

"What about Sergeant Sawyer?" Tia asked. "How's he doing? I've called the house but no answer."

"You called the house?" McKenzie said sharply enough that Tia knew she had crossed the line. "No one in the department is allowed to have any contact with him. And no one better be talking to him about my murder case. That guy assaulted me. His policing days are done."

Tia ignored McKenzie's complaints in her response and tried to turn the conversation away from Ben.

"Look, I know Alex Sawyer. She didn't kill anybody. That's crazy talk. I've worked a few high-profile investigations myself, McKenzie. How about I just read the case file?" She paused. "Maybe we can compare notes."

Too late. McKenzie wasn't biting.

"Interesting as that sounds," he said, "no split-tail patrol cop is nosing around my murder case. Now, if you ever want to just step out and have a drink or something, you be sure to let me know."

Plate Boyd's voice boomed with annoyance from his adjacent office. "McKenzie, get over here. I got Nancy Grace on the line."

McKenzie jumped to his feet and headed out the door. He brushed against Tia as he passed.

"This case is the big time, Suarez. When it's over, I'll tell you all about it. Like I said, you want to step out for a drink, I'll buy the first four or five rounds and we'll see where it goes from there."

A moment later Tia could hear McKenzie on the phone in the next office, ingratiating himself with the celebrity reporter. It took McKenzie less than a minute to comment on the woman's "sexy mouth."

Tia glanced out into the hallway and saw it was clear. She studied McKenzie's desk. His discarded newspaper partially covered several case files. Most documents were marked by coffee ring stains. An overflowing ashtray cast a pall of nicotine dust over all exposed surfaces. Tia gave some thought to riffling through the desk, but that could spell trouble. Last thing she wanted was to be in a position where McKenzie had any leverage over her. Not to mention, the idea of touching anything that belonged to the guy disgusted her.

As she turned to leave, her eye was caught by a disc half buried under several pieces of paper. She glimpsed a large letter S on the disc, but the rest of the label was hidden. Tia made sure no one was watching, then pushed aside the documents to read the full text: "Sawyer 911." Tia had heard from patrol officers that the whole Carson murder case had started with a 911 call from a pay phone. After a final check of the door, Tia slipped the disc off McKenzie's desk and tucked it under her shirt.

She hurried down the hallway, passing Sergeant Boyd's office. She could hear McKenzie telling his new celebrity friend one of his favorite stories, about the time he nabbed a bank robber dressed like a clown. His voice boomed into the phone, marked by indignation.

"No, not me. The crook. He was dressed like a clown."

THIRTY.

Though the old man was breathing steadily, Ben couldn't help but wonder when his last breath might come. Remembering the robust street cop of his youth, he felt certain Lars would welcome an end that allowed for some level of dignity. In the days since he'd been found lying on the floor, Lars had for the most part remained unconscious. He was being fed through a tube. During the rare times when he was awake, he fought-as best he could, given his physical condition-with the nurses and aides, or anyone else who tried to help him. Ben knew Lars wanted his daughter, but Ben couldn't bring himself to tell Lars what had happened.

What are you going to do without her, old man? What are we all going to do?

Ben had been nine years old the first time he walked Alex home from school. Before they reached her house, a police cruiser pulled up. When the cop got out, Ben stopped in his tracks. The boy gawked at the man he was sure stood ten feet tall as Alex flew into her father's arms. Ben had looked on and wondered how it would feel to have a girl like Alex love you that much.

Little Alex-also nine years old-had said, "Daddy, this is my friend Ben. He sat with me at lunch today and now he's carrying my books, see?"

Twenty-five years had come and gone, and Ben still remembered the first words Lars Norgaard ever directed at him. "You must be a mighty special young man. Usually I carry her books."

Ben looked at the old man's deeply lined face. "You knew right then, didn't you? Even then, you knew where we were headed."

As if on cue, Lars's eyes fluttered open. Ben stood at the bedside, afraid to speak, while Lars stared at the ceiling above his bed. After several seconds Ben bent in close. He tried to speak in a normal, conversational tone.

"It's me, Lars. It's Ben. I'm right here with you."

"Be-n."

It was weak but unmistakable. Lars was speaking for the first time in months.

"Beee-nnn."

"I'm right here." Ben stood where Lars was able to see him. A withered hand moved slowly across the bedsheet as if Lars was trying to reach out. Ben took the old man's trembling hand and held it gently in his own. Lars struggled to speak.

"Haarr-leeee."

"What, Lars?" Ben was stunned. "What did you say?"

"Haaar-leeee."

Ben couldn't keep the excitement from his voice. "What are you saying, Lars? Are you saying Harley? Who is Harley? What does that mean?"

"Haaaar-Leeee." The required effort caused Lars to struggle for breath. His hands shook, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his body began to convulse. Ben shouted for help and heard someone running.

A nurse entered the room and Ben moved aside. The nurse smacked the panic button on the wall above the old man's bed with the palm of her hand and Ben heard an alarm sound down the hall. Seconds later more medical personnel raced into the room, including Dr. Schneider, who immediately began calling out instructions.

The team worked in concert, quickly and smoothly. Within a minute, Lars was sedated and again unconscious, his face contorted under an oxygen mask.

"Let me see you out in the hallway." The doctor's voice was firm, and Ben followed him out of the room.

"What happened in there?" Dr. Schneider asked.

Ben was still dazed by his father-in-law speaking for the first time in almost four months. "He woke up and started talking. He was trying to tell me something. After a couple of attempts, the seizure started."

Schneider was skeptical. "He spoke? What did he say?"

"He said my name." Ben thought back. "Then he said, 'Harley.' He said that a couple of times."

"Does your father-in-law know someone named Harley?"

"I wish I knew," Ben said. "It seemed really important to him."

"I wouldn't read too much into this. Fact is, the chances are pretty good the man was hallucinating. For all we know he may want to take a ride on a motorcycle."

Ben shot back. "Knock off the glib shit, Doc. My father-in-law was trying to tell me something. With everything that has been going on, it could be important."

"I apologize, Ben," Schneider said without a hint of sincerity.

"I don't need your apologies. I just need straight answers. When can you bring him around? I know he was trying to tell me something."