Jane reached the light at McKinney and stopped; the trolley rumbled past.

She couldn't imagine a woman as professional as Marsha Tanner just up and quitting without word or notice, but stranger things had happened.

Anger toward the police rose up in her. They didn't care about an innocent man's reputation. They were unconcerned with the long-term ramifications of their smear campaign and the stress it put on relationships, personal and professional.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. And the more convinced that Marsha wasn't ill, simply uncomfortable. Or intimidated.

The driver behind her blasted his horn and she realized the light had changed to green. She started off, but instead of taking a left to head back toward Deep Ellum, she took a right to take her to the M Streets.

SEVENTEEN.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003 1:15 p.m.

Marsha lived on Magnolia Avenue. Jane wasn't certain of the number, but knew it was near the corner of Matilda, a white bungalow with blue shutters.

She had seen a picture of it just after the woman had bought the place. If Marsha had changed the color of those shutters, she would be sunk.

Jane reached Morningside and turned onto it. As she neared the cross street, she slowed the car and began scanning both sides of the avenue, looking for those shutters.

In the end, Jane found Marsha's house by her distinctive canary yellow VW Beetle, parked in the driveway.

Jane pulled in behind the VW. She climbed out and crossed to the shady front porch. From around back came the sound of high-pitched barking. Tiny, Marsha's Pomeranian. The dog was Marsha's baby. She had no less than a half dozen photos of the dog in her office. The woman had joked about it before. About how she even dressed the canine in a reindeer costume every year for a photo with Santa.

Jane climbed the steps and crossed to the door. There, she hesitated, the sense that something wasn't right stealing over her. Marsha would never leave Tiny outside, especially not on a day as cool as this one.

Maybe the poor woman really was ill. So ill, she needed medical attention. Attention she couldn't get for herself. It would explain both her failing to have called in sick and not answering Ian's calls.

Jane rang the bell, waited a few moments, then rang again. When Marsha didn't appear, Jane peeked through the front windows. Nothing appeared out of order, but still, something didn't seem right.

With a growing sense of urgency, she tried the door.

And found it unlocked.

The door slid silently open. "Marsha?" she called out, poking her head inside. "Jane Westbrook. Just checking to make certain you're okay." Still no reply. Jane entered the small foyer, wrinkling her nose at the smell. The hint of something foul in the air.

She glanced left at the dining room, bringing a hand to her roiling stomach, then right to the small living

room. b.u.t.ter-cream walls, periwinkle-blue couch and bright throw pillows. A woman's room, Jane thought. Welcoming and warm.

It didn't feel warm now. Or welcoming.

It felt wrong.

"Marsha?" she called again, this time softly. She was in bed, Jane told herself. Asleep. Too ill to call out.

The smell the result of stomach flu.

Heart thundering, Jane crossed the foyer. To her left lay a hallway that led most probably to the bedrooms. Straight ahead, closed swinging doors. To the kitchen, she guessed. She headed for the doors, feeling as if she was being drawn to them. The smell grew stronger. She reached a hand out, laid it against the door and pushed.

The door eased open. She opened her mouth to call to the woman again; the words died on her lips.

Replaced by a sound of horror.

Marsha couldn't answer her. She would never answer anyone again.

The woman had been bound to a kitchen chair. She was naked save for a pair of black underpants.

Something black had been stuffed in her mouth. Some sort of a cord had been wrapped tightly around her neck.

On the floor, in a heap, lay a white terry-cloth robe.

The room spun. Jane stumbled backward. She grasped the door frame, steadying herself.

She suddenly became aware of the dog pawing frantically at the back entrance, the purple color of the woman's face, the smothering smell of death.

Hand to her mouth, Jane turned and ran. Through the swinging doors, past the pretty living room, out the

front door, to the edge of the porch. There, she bent over the bushes and violently retched.

She lifted her head. She realized she was sobbing. A woman across the street stopped watering her flowers to stare.

"Help," she whispered.

She took a step toward the stairs, legs rubbery. Stars danced in front of her eyes. She clasped the railing,

made the first stair. "Help," she called again, louder this time. "Please, someone...the police-"

A mother pushing a baby carriage paused, expression alarmed. "Miss? Are you all-"

Jane took another stair. "Hel-" The blood rushed from her head; her legs gave. Her world went black.

EIGHTEEN.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003.

2:00 p.m.

Stacy surveyed the scene, struggling for objectivity. Fighting to forget her sister outside, pale as a ghost

save for the nasty gash on her forehead. She'd fainted. Luckily, a neighbor had been close by and had come to her aid. And called the police.

Ian had arrived just after she and Mac; he was with Jane, looking stunned.

Could he be that good an actor?

The normally easygoing Mac looked ready to explode. "We're too late," he muttered. "Son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

She didn't comment. What could she say? They had blown it.

The first officer handed them his preliminary report. "Place is as neat as a pin. Purse accounted for.

Contents of jewelry box seem intact."

"Doors and windows?"

"No sign of forced entry."

No surprise there. This was no random killing, no botched robbery. It was an execution-style

killing-deliberate and to the point. The most bizarre part-Tanner's attacker had stuffed her brain her mouth.

Stacy turned back to Mac. "What are you thinking?"

"We need to check her past. Could be she had some unsavory connections. Drugs. Organized crime."

That didn't sound like the Marsha Tanner Stacy had met, but people who ended up this way often were not what they seemed.

Pete Winston arrived. He looked anything but happy to see Stacy. He had been the coroner's representative at the triple the night before; like her and Mac, pulled in to a.s.sist. The DPD wasn't the only city agency being laid low by the flu.

"Killian," he said, "always at the center of the action."

"No rest for the wicked," she replied, an unmistakable edge in her voice. "You're looking a little green around the gills."

"Feeling it, too."

"Then keep your distance," Mac muttered. "I've got too many cases to get sick."

"What can you tell me right now?" Stacy asked.

Pete sent her an irritated glance as he fitted on his gloves. "I'm calling this one a homicide."

"No s.h.i.t."

"You want more? Back off and let me do my job."

Unfortunately for him, backing off wasn't in her repertoire. "At least give me an estimated TOD."

He picked his way across the bloodied floor, careful not to disturb evidence. "Judging by her lividity, she

hasn't been dead long," he said. "A matter of a hours, five, maybe six. Body temperature will tell the tale."

Stacy did the math and glanced at Mac. About the time they'd planned on visiting the woman somebody had been killing her. She saw by her partner's expression that he had done the calculation, too.

"We f.u.c.ked up, Killian. Big time. Captain's going to have our a.s.ses."

"No joke."