"Tic Tac?"

She glanced over. Tic Tac? "No, thanks."

He rattled a few mints into his spacious palm and popped them in his mouth.

"You like to bike here?"

The question put her on guard again. "No."

"Not much of a biker myself."

This guy wasn't from Austin. The town was full of Lance Armstrong wannabes who liked to "ride" and were "into cycling." Bikers around here rode Harleys.

She didn't say anything. The interview would start up again. Or maybe this was the interview. Maybe he was fishing for information. Do you like to bike? Jog? Did you shoot your ex-boyfriend in the chest?

Courtney shuddered.

"You're in shock."

"Huh?" She looked up at him and felt a twinge of relief. His eyes were brown, like amber, and even if they hadn't been, his build was nothing like her assailant's.

"Shock. Throws your system off. Heart rate, temperature, everything."

She looked away. This detective wasn't here to chat. He wanted something, probably answers to a long list of questions.

He shifted slightly and pulled something from his pocket. A neatly folded white handkerchief. He nodded at her scraped knees.

She took it from him. The only man she knew who carried handkerchiefs was her grandfather, and he was eighty-one years old.

She dabbed at her cuts, wiping away the dust and gravel. She had cuts on her arms, too, and probably her face from when she'd plunged into the woods to get away from the hideous ski mask. She'd run until it felt like her heart would burst, tripping over vines and roots, not hazarding a single glance backward until she'd reached the trailhead and found a blue emergency phone.

Her cuts needed cleaning. She had some hand sanitizer in her purse, but that was back in the Skylark. With David.

She stood up and stuffed the handkerchief in her pocket. She couldn't do this. She couldn't stay here even a minute longer.

"I need to get home."

The detective stood, too, and she got the full effect of his height and heft. She considered herself fairly tall at five-ten, but she had to tilt her head back to look at him. She squared her shoulders and tried not to seem intimidated.

"Can I go?"

He didn't say anything. His gaze moved over her slowly, and she could feel him taking in her bare feet, her dirty knees, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

"Are we done here?" she asked, straining to keep her voice even.

No response.

Why wouldn't he answer? She had rights. Goddamn it, she had all kinds of rights! They couldn't just keep her here indefinitely. Frustration burned in her throat, and she swallowed it down. She wouldn't lose it. She would not lose it. Not in front of these cops, anyway.

The freckle-faced one plodded up to them wearing a sour expression. He offered her a bottle of water.

"I'm fine." Actually, she was parched, but her thirst wasn't nearly as pressing as her need to leave.

The cop shot the detective a glare and then turned to Courtney. "Ma'am. We need to take you to the station now to get a formal statement."

A formal statement.

"Do I have a choice?"

His eyebrows snapped together. "You're saying you won't go?"

"I didn't say I wouldn't, I just asked if I had a choice."

"We could probably do it here," the detective said blandly, "if you really want."

She looked around. The thought of being stuck at a police station for the next few hours made her head throb. But she couldn't stay here. She felt rattled and vulnerable, and she needed a chance to pull herself together.

"Fine." She crossed her arms. "But someone better give me a ride, because my car's occupied."

Her car was a crime scene. She glanced over at it, just as those men in coveralls lowered David's body onto a black bag that had been spread out atop the stretcher. They tucked his arms close to his sides. One of them reached for the zipper- "Whoa."

A hand clamped around her elbow as she swayed backward. Her vision blurred at the edges.

"Easy, now." The detective frowned down at her. His fingers gripped her arm, holding her up.

She pushed away from him and used the car door for support. "Sorry." What the hell? She'd never fainted in her life.

"You'd better sit down," he said.

"No."

"I think you need some water."

"I'm fine." As long as she didn't look at her car again.

"You sure?"

"Let's just go," she said. "I want to get this over with."

Will left the witness in Interview 2 and went off to find a vending machine. He took the long route, stopping by his desk first to check phone messages and e-mail. He wanted her to stew for a while. And he needed some information before he and Devereaux began their interrogation.

After combing the first floor for a few minutes, he found a break room with a machine that took dollars. He bought two Cokes, one for himself and one for Courtney Glass. He'd bet she drank Diet Coke, but her system needed sugar. And he knew better than to bring a woman a diet drink when she hadn't asked for it.

Cans in hand, he rode up the elevator and wove his way through the maze of cubes and corridors back to his department. He recognized the detective slouched against the doorway to the lieutenant's office. Will made his footsteps silent as he walked up on him.

"Yeah, that's because he's twelve."

He identified Devereaux's voice inside the room.

"Twenty-nine." This from the lieutenant. "And he's a war veteran."

"I don't give a shit what he is; he's never worked a homicide."

Will stopped in the doorway, startling Webb, whom he'd met for the first time yesterday. He scanned the expressions. They ranged from pissed off (his partner) to stressed out (the lieutenant) to mildly entertained (Webb).

"Witness is in Two," Will reported. "McElroy's on the door."

Lieutenant Cernak cleared his throat. "Someone's got to take this girl's statement. You're it."

"All right. Why me?"

"She seems to like you. And Devereaux's been reassigned."

Will glanced at his partner. Devereaux's jaw tightened, and he looked away.

"She waived her right to an attorney," Cernak continued. "Looks like she's in a hurry to get home. You need to get her talking, then pin down every goddamn detail."

"Yes, sir."

Devereaux crossed his arms. "Don't fuck this up."

Will gritted his teeth.

"Flirt with her, if you have to," the lieutenant said. "Do whatever you need to to make her trust you."

"You want to brief me on what's going on?" Will asked.

Cernak exchanged a look with Devereaux.

"Her story's hinky," the lieutenant said. "The GSR test, the 911 call. And so far we got no physical evidence that puts some ski-mask guy in the car."

"You think she's lying."

Devereaux's shoulders tensed at Will's statement. Clearly, he had a conflict of interest here, and Will guessed it had to do with the forensic artist.

"I'm saying it doesn't hang together. And this is a sensitive case." Cernak stroked a meaty hand over his head, as if to comb his nonexistent hair. "Vic's a high-powered trial lawyer. Wife's from big money. And the witness's sister works freelance for us."

Will filed all that away. Was this a love triangle? An affair gone bad? That presented some complications for the random-robbery scenario. Not that he'd given that much credence anyway.

Cernak stood up, a clear dismissal. "Any questions?"

Yeah, plenty. "No, sir."

"Go get her talking." He glanced at his watch. "And do it quick, before the news comes on and my phone starts ringing off the hook."

McElroy stood outside the door with his arms folded over his chest. He didn't look happy. He'd had a tedious afternoon and probably faced an evening filled with paperwork. And preseason football was on tonight.

Will handed him a Coke.

"She's all yours," McElroy said, and stalked off.

Will entered the room and immediately noticed the change. The wobbly, distracted woman from the crime scene had disappeared. The new-and-improved Courtney sat in a plastic chair at the end of the conference table, her legs crossed and tilted at an eye-catching angle. She was filing her fingernails with one of those sandpaper things and took a few seconds to glance up from the task.

"Ma'am. Thanks for waiting."

She raised a brow at the "ma'am," but stayed silent. Her dark hair was smooth and shiny now, and her lips, which had looked bloodless back at the park, were a deep, dewy red. She wasn't beautiful, but she did a good imitation.

He popped open the remaining Coke and slid it in front of her. The can was the same color as the streaks in her hair.

"Mind?" He pulled out a chair and sat down next to her. She looked surprised, as if she'd expected him to stand over her, scowling and reeling off questions.

She watched him warily as she took a sip of the soft drink. The smudges were gone from under her eyes now. He noted the backpack at her feet, the one he'd retrieved for her out of the Buick's trunk. He knew-because he'd searched the bag himself-that it contained a crapload of makeup, a striped blue bikini, and an iPod. The jeweled flip-flops that had been in it were on her feet now.

"Thank you for your time, ma'am." He produced a small tape recorder and placed it on the table. "You don't mind if I record this, do you? My handwriting's terrible." Without waiting for an answer, he activated the device.

She put the Coke down and glanced at the recorder. He could tell it made her uneasy, but she shrugged. "Do whatever you want."

He recited the date, the time, and both their names while she returned her attention to her glossy red nails.

"So let's start at the beginning." He scooted his chair closer, and she leaned back fractionally. "What time did you arrive at the park this afternoon?"

"Three-thirty."

"And you were there why?"

"David had sent me a text message-several, actually-asking me to meet him."

"John David Alvin."

"Yes." She huffed out a breath. "Look, I already went through all this with Officer Macaroni. Don't you guys talk to each other?"

He ignored the question. "So you showed up at three-thirty. Then what?"

She put down the nail file. She took a deep breath and focused on something over his shoulder, probably the video camera mounted up near the ceiling.

"I waited," she said. "It was just a minute or two, and then he pulled up."

"In the Porsche Cayenne."

"Yes."

"You two meet there a lot?"

Her gaze snapped to his. "No."

"You ever met there before today? Maybe at night?"

She bristled. "I haven't met him anywhere since we broke up six months ago."