"She took it pretty hard," Mendez said. "You knew Ms. Fordham as well."

Morgan sat back against his spotless vehicle. "Yes. I knew her. Is this the part where you're going to accuse me of sleeping with her?"

"Were you?" Hicks asked.

"No. I knew Marissa from the Thomas Center. I helped out with the copyright business on the poster she did. And I knew her socially a little bit-charity functions, c.o.c.ktail parties, like that."

"She dated your partner," Hicks said.

"She dated a few different men. Marissa wasn't interested in being tied down by anyone other than her daughter. She was a terrific mother."

"You put together a trust for her little girl," Mendez said. "Can you tell us who the trustee is?"

"I am. That's not uncommon when people don't have close family-and actually just as common when they do. They want a neutral third party. Relatives can get crazy when there's money involved."

"Are we talking about a lot of money?"

Morgan frowned. "I can't tell you that. It's confidential."

"Your client is dead."

"But her heir is alive, and who knows what relatives might crawl out of the woodwork now," he said. "I can't release the information without a court order or I could end up in front of the ethics committee and/or being sued."

"Let me put it this way, then," Mendez said. "Will the little girl be well taken care of?"

"Yes."

"What about a will?" Hicks asked.

"I asked her about that. She said it was taken care of. I didn't draw it up for her."

"Did she tell you if she had made provisions for the care of her daughter in the event something happened to her?"

"No. Not beyond the trust. But I can't imagine she hadn't. Sara and I took care of that for Wendy before she was even born."

"You're an attorney," Hicks pointed out.

"Yes, but I'm a father first," Morgan said. "Marissa was a mother first-and a single mom at that. I'm sure when you go through her personal doc.u.ments you'll find everything you're looking for."

"Did she ever mention the little girl's father to you?" Mendez asked.

"Not by name. And only to tell me he wasn't a factor in Haley's life."

Morgan glanced at his watch and frowned. "I don't know what else I can tell you. Does Jane Thomas know about Marissa?"

"Yes. We were there earlier," Hicks said.

"I'd like to get going then-if there's nothing else."

"Not for the moment."

"You know where to find me," Morgan said.

Yeah, Mendez thought as he backed the sedan up to let Steve Morgan out of his parking place, just this side of a murder victim.

15.

"Anne Marie! You look like something the cat dragged in!"

"There's nothing like a good friend to brighten a dark day," Anne said, sliding into the booth.

Fran Goodsell had been her best friend from her first day teaching at Oak Knoll Elementary six years ago. Completely irreverent in all the most inappropriate moments, he always found a way to distract her from whatever troubled her.

Sharp-witted and loyal to a fault, he was the fourteenth of fifteen children born to an Irish Catholic family in Boston and had just turned forty in the spring, celebrating with an outrageous costumed fete he called "Franival!"

His phenomenal teaching skills had helped him create an impressive resume at top private and public schools on the East Coast before he had migrated to California.

Despite the fact that he actually loved his work and was brilliant with children and parents alike, he liked to profess that teaching kindergarten had driven him to drink and to contemplate the mandatory sterilization of most of the population.

"Honestly, darling," he said, casting a disapproving eye at Anne's present state. He was, of course, as always, perfectly preppy with a twist, dressed in khaki pants and not one but two Ralph Lauren Polo shirts-a vibrant blue one over a vibrant orange one-with the collars turned up.

Anne supposed she looked a little worse for wear at the end of this day, even though she had started out feeling smart and together in olive slacks and a lightweight black sweater set. Now her slacks were creased and wilted, and her sweaters seemed to have stretched and grown in the heat of the afternoon.

She had cried off most of her makeup during what she called her "mini-meltdowns" of the day. At some point she had given up on her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail with a brown scrunchie she had found in the bottom of her purse.

"You're not seeing me at my freshest," she said. "I feel like something the cat threw up."

"Are you pregnant?"

"No. And thanks for reminding me."

It was no secret to Franny that she and Vince were anxious to start their family. He made it his life's work to dig out the most private details of her life-and she usually gave them up without too much of a fight because he was in many ways better medicine than her therapist had ever prescribed.

His face softened and he reached across the table to put his hand over hers. "It'll happen, honey. You're just still under a lot of stress."

"I know," she said softly. And pushing thirty. Ticktock.

"For G.o.d's sake, you haven't been doing it all that long," Franny said. "And don't forget, we're talking practically uncharted territories down there."

"That isn't true!" Anne protested, finding an embarra.s.sed grin.

"Virgin forest," he said, eyes twinkling. "Thank G.o.d you found yourself a lumberjack with a big axe."

"Stop it!" Anne said, giggling as her cheeks burned. "You'll get us thrown out of here."

"You're a lucky girl, Anne Marie. That's all's I'm saying," he said with an extra-thick Long Island accent.

A waitress came by and took Anne's order for a gla.s.s of pinot grigio.

Piazza Fontana was the restaurant where she and Vince had had their first unofficial date. He had asked her here on the excuse of wanting to talk about her students who had discovered the body of Lisa Warwick. She had gone, protesting the notion that she was interested in anything other than just that. After dinner he had stolen a kiss when he walked her to her car. Her lips had tingled all night.

The restaurant had become their favorite haunt. Vince, who came from-by his own description-a big, loud Italian family from Chicago, knew good food and wine. Anne loved the ambience of casual elegance-dark wood and white table linens, exposed brick walls, a fountain gurgling in a corner. They dined here at least once a week.

The owner himself, a transplant from Tuscany, brought her a gla.s.s of wine and a broad smile.

"Signora Leone! What a pleasure, as always."

"Thank you, Gianni. It's good to see you."

"Where is your husband?" he asked, looking around. "He lets you out of his sight? All the young men will be looking and saying 'Who she is?'"

"I'm here to protect her," Franny announced.

Gianni Farina rolled his eyes comically, patted Franny on the shoulder, and muttered something in Italian.

"No tip for that!" Franny called after him.

Anne laughed and took a sip of her wine as the front door opened and Vince walked in, greeted by no less than three people before he made it past the maitre d' stand. He traded a few lines of Italian with Gianni, an exchange that ended in laughter and a big grin from Vince.

"Are you keeping an eye on my bride, Franny?" he asked as he slid into the booth next to Anne.

"I can't be held responsible for how she looks."

Vince ran a hand back over her hair, his eyes shining as he looked down at her. "She looks beautiful."

"You're in love."

"I am." He leaned down and gave her a sweet little kiss that filled her with a soft, warm glow. "You look tired."

Anne mustered a smile. "Long day. What's your excuse?"

His head was hurting him. He wouldn't say so, but she had learned to read the signs: the tightness around his eyes, the deepening of the lines across his forehead. He needed to lie down. She needed to take care of him.

"The same," he said. "I told Gianni we'd take something home with us."

"And ditch me," Franny complained.

"Three's a crowd," Vince returned.

"Do you have any leads on the case?" Anne asked.

"Some interesting possibilities," Vince said evasively.

"What case?" Franny asked. "Peter Crane?"

Franny was obsessed with the prospect of the Crane trial. The idea that his dentist-the person he allowed to put his hands in his mouth, for G.o.d's sake!-was a serial killer. And that Crane had abducted and hurt Anne made him all the more rabid on the subject.

"Somebody murdered Marissa Fordham, the artist," Anne said.

"What?"

"Marissa Fordham," Anne said again. "She did that beautiful poster for the Thomas Center."

"Oh my G.o.d!"

"Did you know her?" Vince asked.

"I've met her a few times at social events. She just brought her little girl to school for the pre-kindergarten Halloween party. I liked her. She's a cool lady. We talked about her coming in for a visiting artist day. What happened?"

"She was found dead this morning," Vince said, giving no details away. "We're trying to find out who her friends were in the hopes they might be able to turn the investigation in the right direction."

"People aren't supposed to get murdered here," Franny said, getting angry. "Do we really have to go through this again? This is unbelievable!"

"People who kill other people don't tend to stop and think how it's going to impact the community," Vince said. "They don't stop in the heat of the moment and think Oh my G.o.d, there were all those murders here last year. Maybe I should wait. Oh my G.o.d, there were all those murders here last year. Maybe I should wait."

Franny ignored the edge of sarcasm in Vince's voice. His mind was racing to try to make some kind of sense of a senseless act. "Was it a robbery or something?"

"No."

"Oh my G.o.d. Someone just went to her home and killed her? At random?"

"We don't think it was random," Vince said. "In fact, I would say it was very personal with a lot of rage behind it. She managed to p.i.s.s someone off to the point of no return.

"I remember you once telling me you know everybody worth knowing in Oak Knoll, Franny," he said. "You run in some artsy circles. Have you ever heard anything negative about her?"

Franny looked uncomfortable. Vince sharpened his stare a little.

"She was single, independent, talented, and gorgeous," Franny said. "A lot of not-single, not-independent, not-talented, not-gorgeous women are threatened by that. Surprise, surprise."

"Women worried about someone stealing their husbands."

Franny rolled his eyes. "Like anyone would want them."

"Does anyone in particular jump to mind?"

"No, no. I've heard the odd catty remark, that's all. She's a s.e.xy single mom-she must be a s.l.u.t. That kind of thing. It's 1986, for G.o.d's sake," he said. "Single women have children. h.e.l.lo: The scarlet letter went out with the poodle skirt.

"What about her daughter?" he asked. "Where is she?"

"In the hospital," Vince said. "Unconscious, the last I heard."

That was the final straw for Franny. Color slashed across his pale cheeks and his eyes all but disappeared behind an angry brows-down squint.