Cernak stood just inside talking to a neighborhood constable. The door frame was dusty with fingerprint powder. Will glanced around for a patrol officer, or whoever was keeping the crime-scene log, but didn't see one.

"What is this?" Will asked.

Devereaux ushered him into the living room, where a DVD player was stuck on the opening menu of The Godfather.

"I traced one of those letters to a P.O. box over at Mail N Such north of campus. Box belongs to this guy Pembry."

Will scanned the room, taking in details. High-quality furniture, but simple. Masculine. The place looked tidy except for a dirty ashtray and an open bottle of liquor sitting on the counter that divided the kitchen from the living area.

"So where's the professor?"

"Great question," Devereaux said. "I showed up here to talk to him, and no one's home. The TV's on, and the back door is wide open."

"So why is this a crime scene?"

Devereaux nodded toward the kitchen, where two techs were labeling a paper evidence bag.

"Dried blood. Lots of it. On a towel in the laundry room. I saw it through the windowpane at the back door."

"So maybe he cut himself shaving."

"Look around, Hodges. What else do you see?"

Will looked around, annoyed at being treated like a rookie. He was new to homicide, but he wasn't new to police work. Still, he played along. He noticed the half-finished drink on the end table beside the big leather armchair. He walked across the room and looked at the bottle on the counter. Dewar's. Five Winston Reds filled the ashtray beside the phone. Four of them had been smoked down to the last quarter inch, and one had burned clear down to the filter, leaving a long cylinder of ash. People tended to be very consistent with their cigarette habits.

"He's on the phone, smoking," Will ventured. "Someone comes to the back door, or maybe he hears something in the backyard. He goes to see about it, opens the door, someone enters the house."

Devereaux nodded for him to continue. Will let his gaze roam slowly around the room. Nothing looked broken, no obvious signs of struggle. What was he overlooking here? He took a whiff of air but didn't detect any gunpowder. His gaze paused on the armchair positioned in front of the TV.

The coffee table sat at a slight angle, just inches away from the entertainment cabinet. Eight feet of space separated it from the armchair, making it impossible for anyone to prop their feet up or use it to rest a drink.

Will visually combed the room again, noting the drapes that matched the sofa upholstery, the framed art on the walls, the bookshelves filled with hardback volumes and trinkets, even a silk plant. Someone, at some point, had taken the trouble to decorate this place.

"It's the rug," he said. "There should be a rug here, but it's missing."

"Exactly," Devereaux said. "And so is Pembry."

Courtney woke up with the sun in her face and a crick in her neck. She smelled turpentine and remembered where she was. She stared for a minute at the skylight in her sister's living room and cursed Will Hodges for dragging her over here last night. He'd practically dumped her on Fiona's doorstep before taking off to attend to something "important"-some dead body somewhere, most likely.

Courtney squirmed up onto her elbows and tried to orient herself. The living room curtains were closed, but given the blue patch of sky above her and the brightness of the room, she guessed it was at least eight. Jack would have left for work already, but Fiona still would be around. Courtney's arrival late last night with a grim-looking homicide cop had caused a stir, and Courtney had no doubt her sister would be in full worrywart mode.

Pans clanged.

Courtney kicked off the quilt and shuffled into the kitchen. Fiona stood at the stove, melting butter in a skillet. She glanced up as Courtney plopped into a chair beside the breakfast table.

"Morning," Fiona said cheerfully.

"Morning."

"You want breakfast? I'm making French toast."

"Just coffee, thanks." Courtney pinched her neck, trying to alleviate the kink. Fiona wore one of her boring beige pantsuits, meaning she planned to spend her day around cops and robbers. Her gleaming strawberry blond hair was tucked neatly away in a ponytail. Unlike Courtney, Fiona didn't like to draw attention to her sex appeal, even though she had it in spades.

"What time is it?" Courtney asked.

"Eight-thirty. Jack already went in."

Courtney mustered some energy and followed the aroma of expensive caffeine to the coffeepot. Her sister never cheaped out when it came to coffee. Courtney pulled a mug down from a cabinet and poured herself a cup. Meanwhile, Fiona got out eggs and orange juice. She poured a glass and put it on the counter beside Courtney.

"Here."

"Thanks," Courtney said, annoyed. "So. Another rape case?"

"I don't know. Lieutenant Cernak just left me a voice mail. I'm supposed to interview someone at nine."

Courtney closed her eyes and savored the breakfast blend. Fiona busied herself at the stove, which was her way of coping with stress. It was their pattern: Courtney's life spun out of control; Fiona hovered and tried to act maternal.

Courtney wasn't up for a fight this morning, so she took her coffee into the next room, which had a cement floor and unpainted Sheetrock lining the walls. Light flooded the space through two huge skylights. In the center of the room, on a worn drop cloth, stood a paint-spattered easel.

"This is coming along," she said.

"Yeah, they're almost done."

The art studio, which recently had been added to the back of the little house, was Jack's wedding present to Fiona.

It was love, the kind neither of them had ever expected to find when they were kids growing up in L.A. The Glass sisters were realists. And yet, Fiona had found someone. Someone good and solid and head over heels in love with her. Just looking at the studio made Courtney's chest ache. She was insanely happy for her sister and also a tiny bit jealous.

Courtney walked the perimeter of the room and checked out the canvases leaned up against the walls. When she wasn't drawing rapists and murderers, her sister painted nature scenes. Back in California, she'd gone through a desert phase, but lately she'd been into water.

"Breakfast is ready."

Courtney returned to the kitchen and sat down beside a plate of French toast and cantaloupe, which she had no intention of eating. Fiona put the pan in the sink, grabbed a piece of toast for herself, and picked up her car keys.

"Are you sure you're okay with the bus?" she asked. "I can swing back by here around ten-thirty if you need a ride to Bella Donna."

"I'm fine. My first client's at noon, so I'm just going to hang out." Fiona bit her lip, and Courtney headed off her next comment. "I'll keep the doors locked."

"And the alarm on."

"And the alarm on," she promised. "Hey, can I use your computer? I need to check e-mail."

"Sure. And there's lunch meat in the fridge."

"I know."

"Well...bye." Fiona headed for the door, and Courtney dutifully followed her and secured the bolt behind her.

On the way back to her coffee, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror on the breakfast-room wall. Her eyes were puffy and her complexion sallow. She sighed. Then she opened up Fiona's pantry and rummaged around until she found some oatmeal. She took out a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon and started whipping it together with water and an egg white.

The bell sounded, and Courtney's hand froze.

She padded silently through the living room and parted the gauzy curtains covering the front window. A tan Suburban was parked at the curb.

Courtney glanced regretfully at her jeans and rumpled T-shirt. Her bra was sitting with her purse and shoes beside the sofa, but she doubted Will would notice. She threw the bolt and pulled open the door.

"Hey."

He looked her up and down, and she saw him notice. "Hi. Can I come in?"

"Sure." She stepped back to let him in. "You look like you slept in your car."

He grunted something and brushed past her. He wore the same clothes he'd had on yesterday, right down to the worn Nikes.

"That coffee?"

"Yeah. We've got breakfast, too, if you're hungry." She led him into the kitchen and took down another mug from the cabinet.

He stood beside the counter and watched her pour his coffee.

"Let me guess," she said. "You were on a stakeout?"

"Something like that."

So he didn't want to talk about it. She could understand. Fiona was that way sometimes about her really bad cases.

"Black?"

"Yeah."

She handed him the cup, then went to the table to refill her own. When she turned back around, he had a perplexed expression on his face.

"That's breakfast?" he asked.

She looked at his goopy finger and smiled. "It's a mask."

"A what?"

"For my face." She handed him a dish towel. "Breakfast is on the table. Have at it."

He sat down in front of the French toast and doused it with syrup. The man must burn zillions of calories a day. She watched his back muscles strain against the T-shirt and wondered when he found time to work out.

She joined him at the table and squared her shoulders. "Is this a social visit?"

He looked at her warily and forked up a bite. "No."

She lifted a brow. "Too bad. I have the morning off, and you need a shower."

He reached for his coffee, and she actually saw a blush creeping up his neck. He was fun to tease. It would be even more fun if he teased back.

"I have some more questions for you."

"Okay." She picked up a chunk of his cantaloupe and popped it into her mouth.

"You ever heard of a Martin Pembry?"

The cantaloupe was sweet and juicy, and she stole another chunk. "I don't think so."

"Professor Pembry? From the University of Texas?"

She felt a prick of irritation. "I didn't go to college. But surely you know that, right? It's all in my file?"

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it to reveal a copy of what looked like a driver's license photograph. He showed to her. "He was a linguistics professor. A PhD."

"Was." She glanced at the picture. "So that means he's dead?"

Will sighed. "Most likely."

Whatever that meant.

"Look, I don't know him. I didn't kill him last night, either, if that's what you're thinking. You get to be my alibi this time."

He gave her a sharp look as he tucked the paper back in his pocket. Then he shoveled up some more French toast. "You should cut the jokes, Courtney. This is serious."

"Thanks for the reminder." She crossed her arms. "Why are you asking me about this? Is it related to David?"

"Devereaux thinks so." He guzzled the last of his coffee and stood up. "I need to get home and clean up. What are you doing today?"

"Oh, you know. Plotting my next crime spree."

He put his hands on his hips and gave her the scary look again. He was going to make a great dad someday. She felt sorry for his teenage girls, if he ever had any.

"I'm working," she said finally. "From noon to six. I'll be taking the bus."

"Be careful. And if anything strange happens, call me."

"Okay."

"I mean it. Anything weird. Even if it's just a feeling. Your body's conditioned to pick up on cues you may not even register consciously. If you get a funny feeling about something, just get somewhere safe and pick up the phone."

She gazed up at him and didn't know what to say. He was worried about her. When her sister acted like this, she felt insulted. But with Will, she felt touched.

He glanced at his watch, and she stood up. "Thanks for dropping in," she said. "I'll call you if anything happens. Where will you be today?"

"Downtown." He walked to the door. "I'll try to get your computer back to you this afternoon, if I can."

She opened the door for him. "You're finished with it? What did you find out?"

He turned to face her. "You were right about the e-mail messages. They weren't from Alvin. Or at least, they probably weren't."