He circled this last question. He'd never believed in Aimee's protestations of innocence, but she had taken care of Tucker for three years or more. The Fort-de-France police had interviewed her thoroughly and though she'd been unwilling to give up Tucker, she'd been forced to in the end as she'd little legal choice but to let him go.

West had no jurisdiction over Teresa's murder, but he had the link to Jonathan Cantrell and Cantrell's death, and possible homicide, was definitely in his bailiwick.

He reread the report from the gendarmerie. He'd already noted that they'd found the boat on which Teresa had died, a rental, but the man who'd rented it had used identification in the name of John Bonner with a fake Pennsylvania address. The description of the man was vague: medium height, light brown hair, tan pants, and a light shirt. But at least he knew they were searching for a man, one who knew enough about boats to take one into the bay and maybe out to sea.

He examined the autopsy report again. It was confirmed that Teresa had died of a head injury, and that the marks around her neck from an apparent chain, maybe a piece of jewelry, had come after her death. Someone had wrapped the chain around her neck and tightened it. In a fit of fury? Because she was wearing a necklace and whoever killed her tightened it before slipping it off her head? Because it was valuable? The killer had left no fingerprints or any other identifying crime scene data. He was currently a ghost.

Teresa's DNA had been sent to the crime lab and her fingerprints had been entered into the AFIS database. West wasn't expecting much beyond a DNA confirmation since he already knew the body was Teresa's and that Teresa was Tucker's mother. He didn't think Teresa had ever been arrested, but maybe there had been some cause to fingerprint her once upon a time. In any case, this was the waiting game he was playing. The DNA would take a few weeks at the earliest; the fingerprints should be back quicker, especially if there was a match.

Noticing that Callie had left him a text, asking him to call, West checked his recent phone calls and clicked on her number, calling her back. She answered right away, sounding somewhat strained. "What's wrong?" he demanded instantly.

"Just getting used to being around here. Think you'll be off by six, or seven?"

"Probably closer to seven. What about dinner? Is that too late for Tucker?"

"We had lunch around one, so maybe not. Can't wait for you to get here," she added lightly.

"Me, too." He hung up, wondering why that phone conversation seemed off.

West's chair backed up to Dorcas's, who swiveled around again in his chair and said, "Jesus, man. You got a hit."

"What do you mean?" West asked, turning to look at him.

"I put all that French stuff through my e-mail 'cause you got me going on this case before you came back."

"What kind of hit?" West demanded impatiently.

"Those fingerprints from Martinique for your sister-in-law? The ones for Teresa DuPres Laughlin? Her thumbprint matches one found on the steering wheel of the car that rammed the Cantrell Mercedes and sent it over the cliff."

Chapter Twenty-Six.

"What?" West jumped up to look at Dorcas's computer screen.

"At some point, she was inside the car that ran them off the road. Probably driving. And they didn't find anyone else's prints, so . . ."

"She did it," West said.

"Not for sure."

"She did it," he said again, with certainty. "Maybe I can't prove it yet, but I know it."

Dorcas grinned. "This is the kind of thing that p.i.s.sed off the captain."

"Paulsen was p.i.s.sed off because I broke up with his daughter."

"Yes and no. See, I'm glad you're back, because I've been meanin' to point some things out. You jump to conclusions, and what really chapped Paulsen's hide was that you were always right."

"Not always." West's head was buzzing with the news about Teresa.

"Always," Dorcas argued. "When you'd get that bloodhound look like you've got now. He wanted you to be wrong, but you never were."

"You're giving me way too much credit."

"Just tellin' it like it is."

"Teresa knew Jonathan Cantrell. If she ran him off the road, she did it on purpose."

"Where you goin'?" Dorcas asked as West swung away from his desk and toward the door.

"The stolen vehicle that slammed into the Cantrell Mercedes was impounded, but eventually it was returned to its owner. I'm going to check with him."

"You got that from my notes on the Cantrells?" Dorcas asked.

"You do good work, Pete. Don't let anyone tell you differently."

"And here I thought I was just a pretty face."

The doorbell rang, scattering Callie's disjointed thoughts. She'd broken down earlier and called Diane back, getting her voice mail, which was a boon. She really hadn't wanted to talk to her, but knew she needed to head her off at the pa.s.s or risk a series of ever more angry phone calls. "I'm back in LA," she'd told Diane's voice mail, not without some misgivings, but she was ready to sever connections with the Cantrells once and for all.

Hurrying to answer the door, she looked through the peephole and spied Derek Cantrell standing on the front porch. "d.a.m.n," she muttered, pulling back, wondering if it was too late to pretend she wasn't home. d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n. Phoning Diane back hadn't been such a hot idea, apparently, as it had sent her brother right to Callie's door.

Cautiously opening the door, she said to Jonathan's brother, "My message for Diane was just to let her know I was back. I wasn't expecting a house call."

"I won't stay long," Derek said to her, stepping across the threshold quickly as if afraid she might shut the door on him.

"What can I do for you, Derek?"

They were standing in the foyer and when Callie showed no signs of inviting him in, Derek asked uncomfortably, "Can we sit down for a few minutes?"

"We've said everything there is to say. I'm here temporarily. I told you that. I'm moving out very soon. I just need a little time. Don't push me or I could change my mind and fight you for every Cantrell dime."

"It isn't just about money. This house has been in the family for years."

"It's totally about money," she disagreed.

"Callie, don't be this way."

"This way," she repeated. "You mean, honest?"

"You don't even like this house, do you?"

She didn't immediately answer, trying to read his expression. He seemed sincere but Derek, like his brother, was a chameleon. She never really knew what was beneath their changing skins. The Security One box Jonathan had rented popped into her head and she considered telling Derek about it. She couldn't access it anyway, and really didn't want the legal wrangle. If they worked together, though, they might find a way to open the box. Whatever was inside was probably Cantrell property and there was nothing she wanted from them anyway.

As if reading her mind, he asked, "You haven't found any trace of the mortgage money?"

"Not so far."

Without being asked, Derek walked past her, but instead of going into the living room, he headed for the den. Irked, Callie followed him, standing in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest as Derek looked over the expanse of the walnut that was the desktop and the box with the ring of keys.

Tucker swooped in at that moment, skidding to a stop in the doorway beside Callie. He looked Derek over from head to toe. "Who is him?" he asked.

"Tucker Laughlin, meet Derek Cantrell."

"Laughlin," Derek repeated, examining Tucker as thoroughly as he was being checked out.

Something about the angle of his jaw jolted a memory of Jonathan. She could suddenly practically see her husband the way he'd looked that last evening. He'd been furious because they'd learned their sitter had come down with the flu and they were stuck taking Sean with them to the soiree put on by moneyed friends of the family. Callie had said she would be happy to stay home, but Jonathan wouldn't hear of it. His face had turned brick red with annoyance and he'd sported a scowl well into the evening. Callie had spent most of her time that night trying to play cheerleader to Jonathan, hoping to keep his temper from exploding and taking out his fury on Sean.

And then the ride home. Suddenly that ethereal memory she'd been reaching for came close enough to grab. Jonathan driving fast. Looking in the rearview. The dark SUV on their tail. He'd been excited and Callie had sensed something else was going on. She'd screamed at him to slow down. She'd demanded to know who was in the other car. She'd shrieked that their son was in the backseat.

He'd ignored her and they'd hurtled forward to the wide curve about a half mile from their house....

"Callie? You okay?" Derek was suddenly right in front of her, his hands on her shoulders.

She drew back sharply. "Fine."

Tucker's hand had stolen into hers and he was pressed against her leg, alternately gazing up at her and then at Derek with suspicion and worry.

"You looked like you were going to faint," Derek said. "What happened? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Callie walked on unsteady legs to the desk chair and sank into it. The keys were directly in her line of vision.

It had been a woman driving intently behind them. Callie had seen the outline of her shoulder-length hair, the tightness of her knuckles on the steering wheel.

She meant to kill us. . . .

"Calleee," Tucker said on a faint whimper.

Immediately, she reached out to him and he climbed onto her lap, his spindly legs draping over hers. "I'm okay. I just felt kind of dizzy for a moment."

"You go away," Tucker said determinedly to Derek.

"No, it's okay," Callie intervened. "Really. It's not about Derek."

"You really do look like h.e.l.l," Derek said.

That made her utter a short bark of laughter. "Thanks."

"What happened?"

"I saw a vision of the past," she said, holding on to Tucker a little too tightly. He started to squirm in her embrace and she let him go.

He jumped down and looked at her. "It okay?" he asked.

"Yes, yes . . . I hear the TV on in the family room . . . the room by the kitchen," she added at the line drawn between his eyes. "Go see what's on while I finish talking to Derek."

"I stay with you."

"Well, you can, but I'm all right. I think you might be missing something on TV."

He frowned at her for another couple of moments before he moved toward the door, keeping himself facing both of them as he backed out.

"At this rate, I'll turn him into a TV addict," she said ruefully.

"What's the deal with you and the Laughlin kid?" Derek asked.

She was immediately sorry she'd said anything. "Was there something else? I really think I should be talking to you through a lawyer."

He looked around the room as if cataloging everything in Jonathan's den. "I guess not," he said reluctantly as his gaze drifted over the box of keys. "What are all these keys to?"

"Jonathan's car . . . the house . . ."

It was then that Callie made a final decision about her life. She couldn't move on completely until she'd dealt with the consequences of her husband and son's deaths, and now was as good a time as any. "I'm pretty sure one of them is to a box at Security One." She then told him about the charge on her bill and her suspicion that maybe the box was where Jonathan had stashed the remaining mortgage money.

Derek looked excited. "You haven't looked yet?"

"I just found out and I'm not a signer."

"Well, we've got the death certificate," he said eagerly "You're his widow. They have to let you in."

"Maybe, but it's bound to be a legal hiccup."

"I could go as Jonathan," he said as if the idea had just popped into his head. "People got us confused all the time, and I can copy his signature."

"Can you?" Callie said quietly.

"Sure. I'm good at it. I mean . . . I haven't done it in years, but I'm pretty sure I haven't forgotten," he added hastily.

"I don't even have the death certificate."

"Oh, I do. You were a mess . . . but we got all that stuff done. I'm calling Diane." He immediately s.n.a.t.c.hed his phone from his pocket and hit a saved number.

"I don't want to do this, Derek."

"No, no. This is good." He cut off his call before it went through. "Tell you what. I'll head out and pick up a copy of the death certificate, and I'll talk to Diane then. But I still think it would be easier just to act like I'm Jonathan. Try it first and see what happens. They obviously don't know he's dead, so . . ."

"No, thanks."

"Fine. I'll get the death certificate and we'll do it that way. Don't worry. I'll be back soon."

He was out the door before she could protest further.