"Nice to know you, Mr. Wells." Schultz shook hands, then set a plastic garbage bag down on the floor. He made himself comfortable on a sofa printed with geraniums. Wells took an armchair. The men sized each other up for a few moments, then Schultz began.

"We found a body just inside Kenton's city line . . . up in the woods. The victim's a woman. I b'lieve her to be Ophelia Wells."

Brian's eyes grew. He opened his mouth and closed it. His whisper was a hoa.r.s.e "Whaaat?"

Schultz asked, "Was she your wife, sir?"

Wells was mute, stunned.

"Mr. Wells?"

Brian leaned forward. "Yes . . . yes, she's my . . . Oh my . . . I can't believe . . . Are you sure it's Filly? I mean Ophelia. Are you sure it's . . . ?"

Schultz handed him the sanitized postmortem pictures. Brian turned his head away, muttered an "Oh G.o.d . . ."

"Is it her, Mr. Wells?"

Brian nodded quickly, tears in his eyes. Then he buried his face in his hands. "I . . . This is . . . Good Lord, what happened?"

"Don't rightly know yet," Schultz said. "Any idea what she was doing in Kenton?"

Immediately, Brian's eyes turned menacing, darkening like a tornado sky. "No idea. My wife left me yesterday."

Silence. Then Schultz replied, "Left you?"

"Yesterday," Brian stated. "For another man." He caught his breath. "I don't know anything about him except his name- Justice C. Flatt. She met him in a chat room on the Internet. Filly has a computer down at work. They've been carrying on for quite a while, according to her Dear John note to me."

Brian inhaled, let it out slowly.

"I guess this b.a.s.t.a.r.d Justice must live in Kenton. I mean . . . you don't just wind up in a place like Kenton, do you?"

Schultz kept his face expressionless. "No, you don't. It's a small hamlet." Not much more than spit on a map. "Mr. Wells, I know everyone in Kenton, including the pets. Don't know anyone who goes by the name Justice Flatt."

"So what was Filly doing there?"

Schultz said, "Tell me more about this Justice Flatt."

"Don't know a thing about him. Don't know what he does, what he looks like . . . if he's even a legitimate person. I mean, what kind of a name is Justice? I'm sure Filly was snowed by this a.s.shole. Even if he is legitimate, he's a homewrecker at best."

"You still got that Dear John note?"

"I . . . I burned it." Brian shrugged. "I was . . . furious. I didn't know that . . ."

"Mind if I have a look around?"

"Not at all."

Cooperative but only up to a point. When Schultz started asking personal questions, Wells pulled back.

"I don't see where my past relationship with my wife is any of your business."

"Your wife was murdered," Schultz pointed out.

"But I didn't do it," Wells said. "That's all you have to know." His hostility was frank. "You want a suspect, find this Justice guy. Probably some psycho. G.o.d, I can't believe Filly would do a thing like that. She was always so . . . reasonable. Must have been some kind of midlife crisis."

He threw up his hands.

"Not that any of this . . . matters . . . anymore . . . G.o.d, I'm completely . . . stunned."

Schultz had puttered around the house for the better part of two hours and yet he found nothing relating to Justice. Not much pertaining to Ophelia, either. When he asked Wells about the lack of his wife's personal effects, Brian said that she had packed what she had wanted and he had tossed the rest out in a fit of rage.

"Why should she remain a part of the home she left?" Wells seemed to be trying to control his temper. "If I were you, I'd try Filly's work. She probably has stuff in her desk drawers. That's where she probably wrote most of her notes to this b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Schultz nodded. "I hate to ask you about this, but we're going to need someone to identify the body."

Wells closed his eyes. "When?"

"I could pick you up in a couple of hours."

Wells opened his eyes and nodded. "Fine."

Schultz rose, picked up his plastic bag, then took out the contents. A black coat. He handed it to Wells. "Recognize this?"

Wells took the coat, felt it, smelled it. Again tears formed in his eyes. "It's . . . hers. Filly's."

"You're sure?" Schultz asked. "Check it real carefully."

Wells examined the coat, inside as well as outside. Attentively, Schultz watched him.

Finally, Wells handed it back. "As far as I can tell, it's hers. She had a coat just like this. But I can't say beyond a doubt." He made a swipe at the wetness on his cheeks. "I'll see you in a couple of hours, then?"

Schultz hesitated just a moment before he patted Wells on the back. Then he left.

After rifling through Ophelia's desk, Schultz came up empty-handed. There was some flotsam and jetsam, but again, nothing personal. No communications, memos, faxes, e-mails, or notes from Ophelia's elusive cyberlover. Closing the last drawer, Schultz decided to ask the boss a few questions.

Over to the boss's office, the door marked with a gold nameplate-C. L. TAFT. Taft was an abrupt, rude man. His eyes were fierce and his temper was short. He sat behind a desk piled high with paper. He said, "Truthfully, I don't give a d.a.m.n about Ophelia Wells."

Schultz gave Taft a noncommittal look. "I heard 'bout what she did to you."

Taft's brows raised noticeably. "Good news travels fast."

Schultz said, "Someone did that to me, I'd kill the b.i.t.c.h."

Taft's eyes narrowed. "I would have loved to kill the b.i.t.c.h. But I didn't."

Schultz said, "So you don't mind my asking where you were last night."

"I mind your questions, but I'll answer them anyway. I was up all night, poring over these ludicrous charges that were thrown at me . . . by her."

"You're saying they're not true?"

"Most definitely they are not true. Ophelia is a very, very sick girl."

She's more than sick, Schultz thought. She's dead. Still, Taft's use of the present tense was interesting. Killers usually talked in past tense. "Were you alone all last night?"

"Yes. But I did make phone calls to my lawyer. At around eleven, then again at two or three in the morning. I'm sure you'll verify that."

"Doesn't answer where you were between eleven P.M. and two in the morning."

"No, it doesn't," Taft answered breezily.

Schultz regarded him. "Lucky for you that she died. With no one to press the charges, most likely they'll be dropped."

Taft's smile was owlish. "I don't like your insinuations, and I don't like you. For that matter, I didn't like Ophelia. A goldbrick. Always fooling around on the computer instead of using it. If she had worked more, she wouldn't have gotten herself into this fix."

"You're saying it was her fault she was murdered?"

Taft made a face. "You're twisting my words."

"How 'bout a straight question, then? I couldn't find anything in her desk drawers. Did you go through them, sir?"

Taft tightened his fists. "What are you getting at?"

Schultz said, "You were accused of hara.s.sment by this woman. According to her coworkers, Ophelia doc.u.mented many of the charges. Know what I think? I think you took some pertinent material out of her desk but left behind other things to make it look like you didn't take out pertinent material."

"Get out of here!"

"You want to add a murder charge in addition to your other pile of woes, be my guest."

"Murder charge . . ." Taft turned pale. "I didn't kill her!"

"But you did mess around with her desk."

The boss turned quiet.

Schultz said, "Show me what you removed. Might give me a clue as to who did this."

Slowly, the boss rose, went over to a locked cabinet. He took out a key, opened the drawer, and removed a file. "Here." He gave the papers to Schultz.

Materials doc.u.menting hara.s.sment. Schultz started to page through them.

Taft said, "I have a meeting to attend. I'll be back in around a half hour."

Schultz nodded. A half hour should give him time to look things over.

All packed up by the time Taft came back. Nothing so lucky as to give them Justice Flatt on a silver platter. But Schultz did find an unsigned fax from Jordon, Missouri, a rustic small burg around a hundred miles south of Kenton. A picturesque place used by campers and tourists in the summer. The letter was graphic, hence the lack of signature. Schultz showed it to Taft. "Do you know who wrote this to Ophelia?"

The boss read it, turned red and indignant. "No, I do not!"

"Then why'd you pull it from the file?"

Taft seemed to stumble. "Because . . . she accused me of hara.s.sing her. For all I know, she was planning to use this letter against me. A letter I didn't even write! Look, Sheriff, I don't owe you anything. I sure don't owe her anything. So will you kindly leave?"

"One more thing." Schultz took out the coat, gave it to Taft. "This look familiar at all?"

"This coat? It's a woman's coat."

"Yes, it is. Have you ever seen it before?"

"I couldn't absolutely swear to that. But it looks unfamiliar to me."

"Check it out carefully . . . you know, go through the pockets."

Taft made a few perfunctory gestures, handed it back to Schultz. "What? Is it Ophelia's coat?"

"Yes."

Taft shrugged. "Anything else?"

Schultz shook his head.

Dry-eyed, Wells identified the body. "It's her." He turned away. "When are you going to release the body?"

"She's a murder victim, Mr. Wells. An autopsy has to be done."

"What's the point?"

"The point is, it'll give us information as to who might have killed her."

"But she's still dead." Wells heaved his big shoulders.

Schultz looked at him. "Don't you want to know who killed her? Don't you want to see him punished?"

"Justice system's a sham," Wells said. "Justice . . . Justice . . . both of them are b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

Schultz said, "You'll have to fill out some paperwork to get the whole ball rolling. Want to start on it now?"

Wells shrugged. "Why not?"

Showing no anxiety. Either Wells was a psycho, or he was numb. Schultz said, "So you don't know anything about this Justice Flatt?"

"I told you, no."

"Well, what did Ophelia say 'bout him when she wrote you that note?"

"She wrote mostly about us . . . about how our pa.s.sion had died, how our marriage was a sh.e.l.l. That it wasn't good for either of us to go on. Then she said she'd found someone who was impetuous and pa.s.sionate . . . spontaneous. That she needed to be with him . . ." Wells broke into tears. "Oh G.o.d, poor Ophelia. Poor, poor Ophelia."

And he cried with what looked like true grief.