"Ex-wife's the trustee on the kid's funds until he hits twenty-five."

Nathan considered the possibility.

"Who's that?"

He followed Hodge's gaze up the sidewalk. A tall guy with a trim build and a shock of white hair stood at the door glad-handing people as they filed in.

"That's Jim Wilkers," Nathan said. "Founding partner at Alvin's firm."

"He doesn't look too broken up."

"Nope. Fact, doesn't look like anybody's doing much grieving."

At last the hearse pulled up to the church. A black limousine rolled to a stop just behind it. Several men in dark suits got out, followed by a petite woman in a slim-fitting black dress. Hodges had met her Monday when he and Webb had performed the miserable duty of informing her that her husband was dead.

A little girl clambered out of the car. She wore a lavender dress and white shoes. She had the same golden hair as her mother, only hers was natural.

"You meet Mackenzie yet?" Nathan asked.

"No."

"She's his only other child, that we know of," Nathan said, watching the four-year-old cling to her mother's leg. "And I'll never understand why rich people name their kids after consulting firms."

Hodges's attention was focused on the side mirror. Nathan checked the one on his side and noticed the white hatchback parked on the other end of the lot. It was under a tree, just like the Taurus.

"Know who that is?" Hodges asked.

Nathan studied the driver's silhouette. It appeared to be a woman with short-cropped hair and sunglasses. She didn't seem in a hurry to go into the church.

"Nope."

"Can you read the tag?" Hodges asked.

"Not from this distance. We can get it on the way out."

The hearse was open now, and a casket was being removed from the back by half a dozen men who ranged in age from thirty to sixty. Nathan recognized a local judge, but the other pallbearers weren't familiar. Their names had been in the paper, though, and Hodges could add the obit to the file, if he hadn't already.

The young detective's phone buzzed, and he jerked it from his pocket. Nathan waited, learning virtually nothing from this end of the conversation. Hodges had a talent for keeping things to himself.

Finally he ended the call and tucked the phone away. "That was Webb."

"Yeah?"

"A jogger stumbled across our murder weapon at Zilker Park."

Six months without a sip of alcohol, and now Courtney had had three vodka cranberries in five days. She didn't need to keep track, really, but it had become a habit. One of the defining goals of her life was to avoid ending up like her mother.

"Another Cape Cod?"

The bartender flashed her a smile and nodded at the empty glass.

"No, thanks." She returned the smile, but stopped just short of flirting. She wasn't in the mood right now, and her head was killing her.

Where the hell was Jordan?

When her friend had asked her out for drinks and tapas at Emilio's, Courtney had initially said no. But Jordan kept repeating the invitation, and Courtney knew it was hopeless. Jordan was determined to take her out for her birthday, and Courtney was tired of being at home. She hadn't slept well all week, and the unending nights alone were starting to make her crazy.

Courtney heard a few bars of Gwen Stefani and pulled her cell from her purse. The sleek flip phone was a recent purchase, a little early birthday present to perk her up after an extremely crappy week.

"Omigod, I'm so sorry!" Jordan's voice filled her ear.

"Where are you?"

"Have you been there long?"

"Almost an hour," Courtney said. "I'm on my third bowl of olives."

"Briana made me stay and do inventory!" Jordan wailed. "I'm going to be here all night. Did you know we were changing lines?"

"I heard this morning."

Briana, the salon owner, had recently decided to switch product lines after the main one they stocked began appearing in grocery stores. Bella Donna was nothing if not exclusive. Courtney had seen the floor-to-ceiling boxes in her boss's office this afternoon and was grateful she hadn't gotten stuck there with Jordan.

"You need a hand?" she asked anyway. She couldn't stand the thought of going back to her empty house. In the past four nights, Courtney had organized every closet and cabinet in her tiny home. She'd caulked her shower. She'd given herself facials. She was fresh out of projects, and if she watched one more minute of reality television, she was going to need a padded cell.

"Absolutely not," Jordan said. "No one should have to spend their Thursday evening this way. It's cruel and unusual punishment. We're supposed to be celebrating!"

"Don't worry about it," Courtney said. "My real birthday's not until next week, anyway." She motioned the bartender to bring her check as Jordan ranted about their boss. After voicing her sympathy, Courtney managed to get off the phone.

"My birthday's next week, too."

She glanced over. The guy beside her had been eyeing her for fifteen minutes and evidently thought he'd found an opening.

"Oh, yeah?" She smiled at him, trying to guesstimate how much gel he must have used to get his hair to look like an otter's. He had his BMW key chain in plain view on the bar, and she deducted points for cheesiness. "So you're a Sagittarius? Or a Capricorn?"

His looked confused for a second. "Uh, Capricorn."

Of course. She fished a twenty from her purse and slid it under her glass.

"And what about you?" He smiled and leaned closer. "What's your sign?"

She shouldered her bag and slid off the stool. "Do not disturb."

"Hey, wait." Beamer Man was determined. "Let me buy you another round."

"No, thanks."

"Come on, it's your birthday."

"No. Thank you." She turned away and nearly smacked into a big, broad chest.

"You're leaving." Will Hodges gazed down at her with those whiskey brown eyes.

"Trying to."

He sent a very scary look over her head at the guy with the otter hair.

"Come on." He took her elbow. "I'll give you a ride."

Before she could respond, he steered her through the crowd and pulled open the heavy wooden door. They stepped out of the noisy bar into the damp August night.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, supremely aware of his hand on her arm.

"Looking for you."

"Yes, but why?"

"I need to talk to you."

Her feet moved down the sidewalk, and she started to get uneasy. How had he known she was here? And was she being arrested? Taken in for more questioning? Her relief at seeing him turned to nerves.

"So talk." She pulled her arm away and pivoted to face him. He wore a dark suit and a stern expression. He rested his hands on his hips, and she noticed the butt of his gun poking out from the jacket.

"You changed your hair."

"Very good, Detective," she said, crossing her arms. She'd abandoned ebony with scarlet highlights in favor of a cool claret. She'd needed a change. Jordan had given her a trim, too, freshening up her long layers. "So what did you want to talk about? Besides my hair?"

He glanced up and down the sidewalk. "Not here."

"Fine. Let's go back inside." Anywhere but the police station. She hated that place. She'd been there twice in the past six months, and just the thought of returning made her queasy.

He reached over and opened the door of an ancient Chevy Suburban. "Get in. I'll drive you home."

"This is your car?"

He nodded.

She pursed her lips and looked it over. The tan truck had three dings on the passenger's side alone. It was rare to meet someone who drove a car older than hers.

She got in, marveling at the cracked vinyl seats. Will obviously wasn't a man who used cars to impress women, and she felt strangely grateful.

"Watch your feet." The door squeaked as he pushed it shut.

She smoothed her hair and tugged at her hemline as he went around to the driver's side. The black halter dress had seemed perfect for hanging out at Emilio's with Jordan, but now Courtney felt too exposed. She was getting goose bumps up and down her arms, and it wasn't the slightest bit cool out.

Maybe it was Will. He radiated testosterone, and she'd been going through withdrawal. Every time he came near her, her senses went on alert.

Will got behind the wheel and fired up the truck with surprisingly little trouble.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked him.

"Your sister told me."

So he'd been talking to Fiona. She didn't know if this was good or bad. Fiona had left a message on her cell phone about an hour ago, and Courtney wished now she'd taken the time to listen to it.

"How'd you know I needed a ride?"

"You don't have a car."

This was true, but she could have rented one. Had he been checking up on her?

Of course he had. He was an investigator. She was part of his case. Courtney folded her hands in her lap and struggled not to fidget. She sensed the interrogation coming and tried to steel herself.

"What did you do today?" he asked, pulling into traffic.

"I worked."

"What else?" He slid a glance at her legs, and she felt a hint of satisfaction knowing this big Robocop was actually human.

"Some chores around the house." She pulled her purse into her lap and rooted around for a lip gloss.

"What else?"

She looked at him. His gaze was fixed on the road now, and she had a chance to study his profile. He had a strong, square jaw and a straight nose. His neck was thick, and his arms strained the fabric of his jacket as he steered the Suburban. This man was very big and very intimidating, although it wasn't his size that made her uncomfortable.

"That's about it." She flipped down the visor. No mirror, of course, so she glossed her lips without one. She'd gone with pouty lips tonight, which required maintenance, and dramatic, smoky eyes. It was her go-to evening look.

They stopped at an intersection, and he glanced at her. His gaze strayed down to her mouth.

"What?" She dropped the tube back into her purse.

"I'm trying to figure out why you're lying."

"I'm not lying. And what the hell business is it of yours how I spent my day?"

"You were at Alvin's funeral," he said. "I saw you."

She tossed her purse on the floor and looked straight ahead. "Light's green."

Then they were moving again. They cruised down the street in his hulking Suburban, and she tried to pinpoint how he'd spotted her. She'd spent hours getting ready. Her wig was fabulous. Her own sister would have had trouble recognizing her.

"Why are you lying to me?" He glanced at her.

"Who says I'm lying?"

He shook his head slightly. Her stomach tightened, and she felt fear bubbling up. He could see through her. He could see everything. Somehow he knew what had really happened, and she was going to go to jail.

"Just be honest, okay? You'll be doing yourself a favor."