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he’d looked fat, Emily thought, but up close, the bulk was solid muscle. He was a serious weight lifter. He bent from the waist and eyeballed the boot from wide, rounded toe to horizontal treads on the sole to pull-loop in back. He told the CSI to take pictures, then bag it for the lab. Finally, he tilted his face up at Branch and grinned. “If you found this, there must have been a sign saying X MARKS THE SPOT .”
    Branch grinned back, jerked his head at Emily. “Actually, my colleague here found it.”
    â€œGood thing someone did. I’d like to wrap this up already.” He straightened to six-foot-six, casting Emily into shadow. “Hi. I’m Commander Martin Benedetti. Sheriff’s chief of detectives.”
    â€œOfficer Emily Thompson,” she replied, accepting his hand, which was so big it enveloped hers in warmth. She was pleased to find he didn’t shake limp-fingered as so many men did with women. “Actually, Commander, I didn’t—”
    â€œCall me Marty,” Benedetti urged. “All my friends do.” He squinted at Branch. “You, on the other hand, should keep calling me commander.”
    â€œThat might be interpreted as a sign of respect,” Branch said. “So I’ll call you nothing.” His square face tightened. “I still think you’re wrong. But you’re gonna do what you want, anyway, so let’s get it over with.”
    â€œFine by me,” Benedetti said. He pulled handcuffs from under his suitcoat. “Emily Thompson, you’re under arrest,” he said, motioning for her wrists. “For the murder of Lucille Crawford, shot dead this morning in a silver Porsche. You have the right to remain silent….”

EMILY AND BRADY
    Chicago, Illinois
January 1965
    â€œThere she is, Miss America!” Dwight Kepp sang to the nurse’s aide clipping barrettes into Alice’s raven hair. “Doctor says you’ve been taking good care of my wife.” He tipped his fedora. “I thank you and intend to mention your fine attitude to your superiors.”
    The young aide beamed. “Every patient should be so easy to care for,” she said, patting Mrs. Kepp’s paper white hand. “All this woman suffered without a word of complaint.”
    â€œI’ve nothing to complain about, dear,” Alice said, gazing up from the hospital bed at her handsome, perfectly groomed man. “I’ve got a wonderful husband, a lovely home, and a new son. What’s a little pain compared to all those blessings?”
    Little pain, indeed, the aide thought, marveling at how stoically Mrs. Kepp bore her ordeal. Their boy was thirteen pounds, nine ounces, of elbows and knees turned sideways in the birth canal. Doctor struggled two hours to pull the boy out—doctor was so pious about natural childbirth!—but finally ordered Mrs. Kepp into surgery when he spotted the umbilical cord around the boy’s neck. Thirty minutes later baby entered the world, pink, healthy, and howling. But Mrs. Kepp paid a terrible price—this child would be her last. The aide wasn’t sure if Mr. Kepp knew that yet, but it wasn’t her place to tell him. That was doctor’s job. She shook off the negative thoughts. “Mr. Kepp, would you like to meet your new son?”
    â€œI’ve waited nine months to answer that,” Dwight said, face glowing. “It’s yes, emphatically.”
    â€œThen I’ll fetch him from the nursery. I won’t be long.” As she left, Dwight gently took Alice’s hand and bent to whisper in her ear.
    Â 
    â€œYour papa’s wonderful,” the aide told the sleepy infant as she plucked him from the warmed blankets. “Handsomer than Cary Grant! Thoughtful! Attentive! Devoted to mother. You’re a lucky one to have such a fine dad!”
    Mrs. Hoffmeyer, head nurse of the maternity ward, asked jokingly whether Mr. Wonderful just