"It fits great," Webb countered. "Her boyfriend dumps her to go back to his moneybags wife. She gets jealous and takes the guy out. Maybe she planned on killing herself, too, and lost her nerve at the last minute."

"Their relationship ended six months ago," Devereaux said. "And anyway, she dumped him. And vandalized his car."

"That's her version," Cernak said pointedly. "We don't have Alvin's side, because there's no report."

Devereaux shook his head and stood up. He wandered to the window and shoved his hands in his pockets. Devereaux already had relayed what Alvin had told him that fateful night in January, and everything corroborated Courtney's version of the relationship. But Cernak didn't seem interested in anything that wouldn't withstand the sunshine test.

Will didn't blame him. If and when this thing ever went to trial, every detail would be scrutinized by the media, not to mention some defense attorney. That was why Will was most interested in the physical evidence.

He looked at Webb. "So explain the Mace. We've got traces of it all over the Buick's ceiling and the backseat upholstery."

"So she staged the scene," Webb answered. "Maybe she hired the hit, and then made it look like a holdup."

"And then planted her own gun?" Devereaux quipped from across the room.

"And what about the mucus?" Will added. "You're saying she planted that, too?"

Webb guzzled coffee from his Styrofoam cup while Cernak squinted at the dry-erase board where investigators had listed the physical evidence they had so far.

Traces of mucus had been found on the back floorboard of the car, as well as the back door handle. It would be great to run the DNA, see what popped up in the database. But DNA testing was costly and didn't typically happen until there was a suspect in custody to compare the sample against.

The mucus was key. It went a long way toward proving Courtney's statement that someone else had been in the backseat and that she'd Maced the son of a bitch.

"Maybe the wife hired the hit," Devereaux suggested. "You know, take out the cheating husband and the girlfriend at the same time. It's not like she needed the guy's income."

This was a promising theory, one Will intended to pursue in the near future by driving out to Lakeway. He wanted to see how the grieving widow was getting along.

"Why not just divorce him, though?" Webb asked.

Devereaux shrugged. "Maybe she loves her kid. Doesn't want to share custody."

"Doesn't add up," Webb said. "She loves her kid, so she makes her go through her dad getting murdered? In a car with some bimbo?"

Will bristled at the description of Courtney. He glanced around, hoping no one had noticed, but Devereaux was watching him.

Will shifted his attention to the whiteboard, where their potential suspects were listed. "What about the partner?"

"Which one?" Devereaux asked.

"Any of them. Riley. Wilkers. Take your pick. None of his colleagues looked too broken up at the funeral."

Devereaux shook his head. "I ran down Riley and Wilkers. They both have airtight alibis: one was on a plane, and the other was in a meeting with the state comptroller."

Will gritted his teeth. No one-with the obvious exception of Courtney-looked good for this crime. They needed to track down this mystery gunman, assuming he existed. Will thought back to some of the tactics he'd used working narcotics in Fort Worth. Confidential informants, although slimy, had been one of his best resources.

"We need to hit up some of our CIs," Will said. "See if there's anything on the street about someone shopping for a triggerman."

"You thinking Courtney Glass?" Cernak asked.

"Maybe," Will said. "I was also thinking about the ex. Rachel Alvin. She still uses his name. Maybe she never got past their divorce. And maybe she hired a hit to get control over that ten million dollars that's about to go to her son."

"But how would she know about his estate plan?"

"Plenty of ways." Will shrugged. "He could have just told her about it."

"Or maybe Courtney was in cahoots with the ex," Webb put in. "Two pissed-off women out for revenge."

"We need to look up that dog walker," Devereaux said, smoothly changing the subject. "What's her name again?"

Will thumbed through his file. "Beatrice Moore. Twenty-eight. She's a waitress."

"Her timeline's off," Devereaux said. "Let's talk to her again. See if she remembers anything new about what she saw in that car."

Cernak pushed his chair back and stood up. He took a few steps toward the whiteboard and surveyed it with crossed arms. "I want Courtney Glass back here, too. Hodges?"

"Sir."

"You handle it." He turned and glared at Devereaux. "And you butt out. She's got some questions to answer."

"She's got a lawyer now," Webb reminded everyone.

"I know." The lieutenant's glare shifted to Will. "Go through that weasel attorney, if you have to, but talk to her again. She needs to explain that gun."

CHAPTER 5.

Jordan poked her head into the employee lounge as Courtney was about to leave.

"Thank God. I thought you'd left already."

"I have." Courtney pulled a tiny bottle from her leather backpack and squeezed a droplet of oil onto her Japanese scissors. She rubbed lubricant into the screw.

"Baby. Please. This is a huge emergency. You've got to help me."

Courtney tucked the scissors into their suede pouch and returned them to her backpack. "I'd love to, Jordan, but I've got a hot date."

"At four-thirty in the afternoon?"

"We're going rock climbing."

"Girl, come on. This is my best client. You've got to help me out here-"

"I don't do brides." Courtney shouldered her backpack, carefully avoiding Jordan's puppy-dog eyes.

"It's not the bride. I've got that covered. It's her sister-"

"I definitely don't do bridesmaids." She shot Jordan an irritated look and got her friend's beagle impression in return, complete with head tilt and soft whimper.

Courtney sighed. "What's the emergency? I really don't have time for a cut-"

"Her hair's done." Jordan took her hand and pulled her back out toward the floor. "We're dealing with a skin problem. It'll take twenty minutes, max. I'd do it myself but I've got back-to-back clients until six."

"I haven't done makeup in nearly a year," Courtney protested. "Get Erika to help you."

"She left already. You're my only hope." Jordan led her past the shampoo chairs and into Bella Donna's holy of holies, the gilded, sky-lit, granite-appointed studio where the salon's top artists performed breathtaking miracles on a daily basis. Courtney spotted a trio of immaculately coiffed women awaiting their turn at the altar. It was a mother and two daughters. Bridezilla wore a gauzy white veil, along with a button-down shirt and jeans, which no doubt would be traded for a designer gown in a few hours. Her sister, who wore a pink rose tucked into her chignon, looked about fourteen. Courtney immediately saw the emergency. Besides having abysmal posture and about thirty excess pounds, the younger girl had a terrible case of acne.

"The mom and bride have been booked for months, but no one thought to make an appointment for the sister," Jordan murmured in Courtney's ear. "Can you believe it? The poor thing needs help."

The teenager stood glumly off to the side, nibbling a hangnail while her mother and sister debated something.

The bride was beautiful-in an underfed Texas debutante sort of way-while her sister looked mousy at best. Their similar height and dark coloring only emphasized the differences between them. Courtney pictured the girl standing beside her older sibling, being scrutinized by a church full of people. She sighed.

"See what I mean?" Jordan asked.

Courtney mentally canceled her plans for the evening. The rock climbing, like the hot date, had been fictitious, but she'd really been looking forward to a soak in the tub and some Project Runway reruns.

She turned to Jordan. "This is the last time. You know I despise wedding parties."

"You're a lifesaver."

Courtney tossed her bag on the nearest empty stool. "And my makeup kit's at home. You're going to have to lend me your stuff."

"No problem." Jordan flashed her Naomi Campbell smile. "I've got everything you need. You'll be done in a blink."

Will tracked her down at a high-end beauty shop that looked like it had been decorated by King Midas. A gold chandelier hung over the entranceway, where an old-fashioned gold phone sat on a big glass table. The receptionist stationed there eyed him with naked curiosity as he walked in.

"May I help you?" She wore a low-cut white blouse over a pair of breasts that probably cost half his annual salary.

"I'm here to see Courtney Glass."

"She's with a client right now. Do you have an appointment?"

He flashed his creds. "Nope."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Right this way," she said, and sashayed out from behind the table.

She led him past a purple sofa thing that was shaped like a mushroom and littered with hair magazines. Giant mirrors framed with gold froufrou leaned against Roman columns all over the room. Will smelled something fruity he couldn't identify, along with the unmistakable scent of singed hair.

He spotted Courtney crouched in front of a barber chair, talking to a teenage girl. The girl nodded, apparently riveted by whatever Courtney was telling her. Courtney held a little jar of something in her hand. She dabbed at it with a paintbrush, applied it to the girl's lips, and then passed her a hand mirror. The kid broke into a big grin, displaying a mouthful of braces.

"Courtney? There's someone here to see you."

Courtney glanced over her shoulder and froze.

He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops of his jeans. "You got a minute?"

The receptionist hovered, obviously hoping to catch some gossip.

"Thanks, Jasmine." Courtney stood up and gave her a phony smile. "Would you mind ringing up this client for me? She's with the Bennett wedding." Then she turned to the girl. "Have fun tonight. You look beautiful."

The girl mumbled a thank-you and let Jasmine lead her away.

Courtney turned her back on him and started dropping makeup into a metal tackle box. "My attorney advised me not to talk to police outside his presence."

She wore a stretchy black T-shirt that stopped about an inch shy of her hip-hugger jeans. She had nice, round hips, and her back was turned, so he let himself look.

"Did you hear what I said?" She spun around. "No more interviews."

"I'm not here for an interview."

She rested her shapely butt against the granite counter. "Oh, I see." She pumped some liquid sanitizer into her palm and rubbed her hands together. "You're here for what? A cut and color?"

"How about just a cut?"

"You want me to cut your hair?"

"You know how to do men?"

She tilted her head to the side, smiling slightly. "Uh, yeah."

"Great." Will plunked himself down in the cushy chair that had just been vacated.

"You can't afford me."

"Sure I can."

She was smiling fully now. Or maybe it was more of a smirk. She pushed away from the counter and stepped toward him. "You're really serious."

"Sure. Gimme a trim." How bad could it be? In the army, he'd practically been sheared like a sheep.

She stepped on a pedal, and the chair sank a few inches, putting him directly at eye level with her breasts. He looked up. She reached out to touch his head, and he felt the first stirrings of alarm.

"You don't have a whole lot to work with here." She frowned down at him as her fingers combed through the hair above his ears. "I can crisp up your lines, though."

She smelled spicy-different from the rest of the room-and he pulled back slightly. Maybe this wasn't such a smart tactic.

"Just a trim."

"You're the boss." She fisted her hands on her hips. "But I'm warning you, you start giving me the third degree, and that's it. You're at Supercuts."

She pulled open a drawer and whipped out a black cape, which she swished over him. Then she lifted some clippers off a hook beside the mirror.