"Where were they from?"

"A public library near the capitol. The messages were routed through Alvin's law firm by someone who knows something about technology."

Courtney gnawed her lip. That sounded sophisticated. And frightening. Hitmen and technology experts, disappearing witnesses and dead professors. What on earth was this about? And what did it have to do with her?

She shuddered, and Will noticed.

"Be careful," he said. "And remember to trust your gut."

She put on a brave face as he left, and then collapsed on the sofa. She trusted her gut. And it was telling her to call in sick to work and hide under the bed.

Instead, she went back to her coffee. She couldn't call in sick. She needed the money.

She picked up the newspaper that Fiona and Jack had abandoned on the breakfast table. She skimmed the front page, looking for any mention of something involving a UT professor. Nothing. She reached for the Metro section and scanned the headlines.

A photograph at the bottom of the page caught her eye.

"Memorial Fund Honors Slain Cyclist."

Courtney's heart skipped. She recognized the woman. She was plump. Thirtyish. She had a brunette bob and flawless ivory skin. Eve Caldwell, according to the caption. The name wasn't familiar, but Courtney knew she'd seen her before, and she knew she'd been with David at the time. Where was it? Where had they been? Courtney stared at the photograph and tried to visualize it.

The Randolph Hotel.

Eve Caldwell had been glaring at Courtney from across the bar the last time she'd met David there. This woman had been the one to set off Courtney's alarm bells, the one to make her think David was seeing someone else. Later, she'd snooped through his pockets and his BlackBerry for evidence....

Courtney dropped into a chair and gazed down at the picture. Eve Caldwell, whoever she was, was dead. And David was dead. And someone was trying to kill her.

What was this about?

She bent over the article and scoured it for information. Eve Caldwell had been thirty-two. And according to the story, she'd been killed in a cycling accident on Loop 360 last week. This article wasn't about the accident, though; it focused on some scholarship fund that had been set up in her honor. A memorial service would be held today.

Courtney curled her fingers around her coffee mug and stared out the window. Slain cyclist. Murdered attorney. Dead professor.

Dead hairstylist.

She wanted to run. She wanted just to jump into her car and take off. Where would she go? She had no idea. And if she didn't, no one else would either.

But she didn't have a car. And she didn't know the first thing about hiding.

Courtney rested her head in her hands and took a deep breath. This was crazy, whatever this was. What was her connection to all these dead people? No wonder Cernak believed she was guilty-she was at the vortex of something, and it kept getting worse. Just wait until he found out about Walter, and that she'd been investigated for murder once before. He'd have a warrant out for her in no time.

Courtney stood up. She couldn't just sit here, locked away in her sister's house. She needed to do something, to figure out what was going on. She was linked to these deaths, whether she wanted to be or not, and she might be the only one who could connect the dots.

She checked the kitchen clock and made a decision. She was going to take Will's advice today and follow her gut. She was going to call in sick.

But she had no intention of hiding under the bed.

"What's she doing here?"

Nathan turned around to see Hodges standing behind him, gazing at the video monitor. The screen showed real-time footage of Fiona Glass conducting an interview.

"Cernak called her in," Nathan said, muting the volume. "She's talking to Pembry's neighbor. He says he was taking out the trash when he saw an SUV backing into the professor's driveway two nights ago, between seven and eight."

Hodges stepped further into the room. "Cernak wanted to use her? What if it turns out to be connected to the Alvin case?"

Nathan shrugged. "It's his call. Anyway, he's skeptical about the connection. Or at least he was. He might change his mind when he sees the first drawing." Nathan handed Hodges a sketch, the one Fiona had completed just a few minutes ago.

"Who's this?" Hodges asked.

"The man this neighbor saw getting out of the SUV. White male. Mid-forties. Short, stocky build."

"Sounds like the guy our jogger spotted in Zilker," Hodges said.

"That's what I'm thinking, too. And the vehicle fits."

Cernak stopped in the doorway of the cramped little room. His gaze flicked to the screen. "She's still at it?"

Hodges passed him the drawing.

Cernak frowned down at it. "This is it? So, what's she drawing now?"

"Hands," Nathan said.

"Hands?"

Nathan turned to the monitor and watched Fiona work. The witness was smiling, comfortable. He'd been in there more than an hour now and had hardly stopped talking. Fiona always said the key to a good sketch was the interview, and Nathan knew her interview skills were unparalleled.

"Witness insisted he couldn't see the guy behind the wheel-"

"How do we know it was a guy?" Hodges asked.

Nathan smiled. "That's what Fiona wanted to know, too. Turns out, he caught a brief glimpse of the hands on the steering wheel. Didn't even realize it till she started asking him questions about it."

Cernak muttered something and shook his head. The lieutenant wasn't a big believer in soft skills. He liked Fiona's work product, but he didn't always trust her methods.

Fiona turned her drawing board, sharing her sketch with the witness. He nodded eagerly, and said something. Nathan turned the volume up, but it sounded like the interview was ending. Fiona sprayed fixative on the drawing and shook the man's hand. Then she ushered him out of the room and handed him over to a uniform so he could fill out some paperwork.

"I don't like this," Cernak said, just as Fiona poked her head into the observation room.

"Finished," she said, giving Nathan the second drawing.

Unlike her usual sketches, this one showed the driver's-side door of a vehicle and, through the window, a pair of hands on the steering wheel. The driver wore a distinctive ring on his left pinky. Fiona had drawn a close-up of it on the lower left corner of the paper. It was chunky and square-shaped. Men tended to wear the same jewelry on a day-today basis, so it was a good detail to have.

"This a diamond?" Nathan passed the picture to Cernak.

"Something that looks like one, anyway," Fiona said. "The witness said he noticed it because it caught the light."

"This is helpful," Nathan said, stating the obvious, mainly because Cernak was scowling at the drawing. The lieutenant would be thinking Fiona's sketch was both good and bad. The good part-they now had a lead in the Pembry case. The bad part-that lead suggested a connection to the Alvin homicide, which meant the evidentiary value of Fiona's drawing had just evaporated. They could never use her pictures to help solve a case in which her sister was a suspect.

At least, they couldn't openly use the drawings.

Nathan exchanged glances with Hodges. Like it or not, Fiona had just established a link. The next challenge was to figure out what that link meant.

Cernak returned the sketch to Nathan. "Circulate this within the department," he snapped. "But one word of this leaks to the press, and it's your ass."

Courtney slid onto a stool and propped an elbow on the bar. She glanced around the room, then let her gaze settle on the bartender, who had been watching her since she'd stepped into the Lariat Lounge.

He placed a napkin in front of her and gave her a long, lingering look that she recognized. He was going to hit on her if one of the patrons here didn't beat him to it. "What can I do for you?"

"Cape Cod." She smiled. "With a twist, please."

While he made the drink, she let her gaze comb the room, picking up details she'd never noticed before because she'd been too busy noticing David. About a dozen small, candlelit tables filled the floor in front of the stage. There was seating along the sides, too, a series of rectangular tables positioned in front of a leather bench seat tucked against the wall. A handful of couples sat there now, talking in low voices and sipping cocktails. Most of the men looked like wealthy business travelers. Most of the women looked like arm candy.

"Here you go."

Courtney turned to the bartender and shifted her shoulders strategically to make sure she had his attention. For tonight she'd chosen a black baby-doll dress with spaghetti straps.

"Thank you." She smiled up at him. He had the tall-dark-and-handsome thing going, and he knew it, too. "I used to come here all the time, but I don't remember you. Are you new here?"

"Three years." He didn't smile, but he gave her that slow, appraising look.

She held out her hand. "I'm Courtney."

He shook it. "Jason."

She stirred her drink with the slender red straw and took a sip. She turned her head slightly and gazed out at the tables as several more couples arrived and settled into chairs. "You guys are pretty busy tonight."

"It's the singer." He nodded toward the microphone set up on stage next to a gleaming black piano. "Lucinda Mason. Maybe you've heard of her?"

"I don't keep up with the music scene."

A cocktail waitress appeared at the other end of the bar. "Just a sec." Jason winked at Courtney and walked over to fill the order. While he was gone, Courtney took her purse from her lap and placed it on the bar beside her drink. She unzipped the bronze leather clutch, which matched her sling backs, and pulled out a clipped photograph.

Jason took care of a few customers and then made his way back and slid a bowl of cashews in front of her.

"Listen, Jason, I'm trying to find someone." She tapped a red fingernail on the newspaper photo of Eve Caldwell. "You ever seen her in here before?"

He glanced down at the picture. "Sure."

"Guess this is my lucky night. When did you last see her?"

"She was around a lot for a while. Haven't seen her lately, though."

"Who was she with?"

He propped his hip against the counter and cocked his head to the side. "Same guy as you."

CHAPTER 10.

Courtney's breath caught. "Are you sure?"

"He's a lawyer, right? Rich big shot. Lousy tipper."

"That's him."

"I haven't seen him around lately." He nodded at the photograph. "Her either."

That's because they're dead.

Courtney tried to keep her smile in place as she tucked the clipping back into her purse. "You ever see either of them here with anyone else?"

"Besides you? No."

Courtney sipped her drink, and for a few moments they traded sultry looks. Another waitress approached, and he went off to fill an order.

Courtney pivoted her stool to face the stage. No sign of the singer yet, but the room had filled in. Many of the men had that sly look about them that told Courtney they were here with someone they shouldn't be. How had she missed it before? How had she sat here, in this very bar, and not realized she was being played by a cheap-tipping lawyer in a three-thousand-dollar suit? Just thinking about it made her chest burn. And then all that burning anger was replaced with fear as she glanced around the bar and realized two of the people who used to come here were dead now. And maybe there were more.

What was the connection between this hotel and these deaths? Was David the connection? Was she? She turned her attention back to the bar, but continued to watch people come and go in the mirror behind the liquor bottles.

Jason cleared her glass away and filled a new one with ice. He spent a few moments mixing Grey Goose and cranberry juice, and she wondered whether he'd remembered her brand from months ago, or whether it was just a lucky guess. He seemed to have a sharp memory.

He placed the drink in front of her and leaned a palm on the bar. "So I take it you're mad at your boyfriend."

"You're observant."

He leaned closer. "I could help you forget about him, if you want."

She gazed up at him, and couldn't help but smile. It had been six months, but she hadn't lost her touch. She could make an attractive man want her. But the only man she wanted to want her at this particular moment was immune to her.

Or he pretended to be, at least.

"That's very tempting." She took a twenty out of her purse and placed it beside her untouched drink. "I'll have to let you know."

He spotted her immediately. She was standing beside the valet guy and showing him something from her purse. Will pulled up to the valet stand, thrust the Suburban into park, and got out.

"'Scuse us." He took her arm and towed her away from the college kid who stood there, gaping.

"What the hell, Will?"

He jerked the passenger door open. "Get in."