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been wiped clean—a tell, in itself, that supported premeditation—but a partial bloody thumbprint was found on an interior jamb. Bloody shoeprints were of interest, as were multiple red fibers, stray hairs, a used coffee cup, and a cigarette.
    Pathology would analyze forensic information taken off the body. Amanda had gone through Davida’s cell phone and her BlackBerry. That left Barnes with the onerous and time-consuming task of scouring Davida’s computer, desk calendar, business files and written correspondence.
    With Melchior’s password list in front of him, he sat down, flexed his fingers and began. Several screen names appeared but none of them looked to be an official representative address with the .gov suffix. An hour of trial and error later, he hit the winning combination. Screen name: DGray, password: LucyG.
    Her mom as entry to cyberspace.
    Forty-eight e-mails.
    He printed them all out. The vast majority were what seemed to be inconsequential communications from friends and community members. A few were personal—mostly from “Mins,” two of those graphically sexual.
    Lovers hot to trot. There didn’t seem to be anything overtly hostile in any of the exchanges with Minette Padgett although in two of the letters, Mins complained about the long hours that Davida was keeping.
    So did [email protected]. Mom was
very
unhappy about Davida’s lack of attention to her own well-being. Her latest one implored her daughter to be careful. Something beyond the egging? Mom was a must-interview.
    Barnes felt someone looking over his shoulder. Max Flint, the CSU computer guy. “You got into her e-mail. I’m impressed.”
    “I had a cheat sheet.” Barnes gave Flint the list of passwords.
    “Should I be looking for anything specific?”
    Barnes checked his notes. “Dig up whatever you can find regarding the victim and Representatives Alisa Lawrence, Mark Decody, Artis Handel and Eileen Ferunzio…” He spelled Eileen’s last name. “She was doing political battle with all of them and I heard some of it was intense. Plus, there’s a guy, Harry Modell, executive director of Families Under God. See if he wrote anything threatening to her. Finally, give me anything that might’ve been sent by the White Tower Radicals. Looks like they were behind the egging and possibly a threatening note.”
    “Lots of enemies,” Flint said.
    “She was a politician.”

6

    W hen the woman stepped outside of the silver Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, both Barnes and Amanda took note of how dignified she looked. Head held high, shoulders back, thin as paper in a black suit, white silk blouse, seamed stockings and orthopedic pumps straining to be fashionable. Atop her gray coif was a black pillbox hat fronted by a small veil. A uniformed chauffeur held her arm and propelled her forward. Taking her other arm was a rawboned, stoop-shouldered man of medium height and weight. His tightly waved hair was equal parts sand and salt but his handlebar mustache was completely white.
    The Donnie Newell that Barnes remembered was a skinny blond kid, skateboarding up and down the basketball courts, getting in everyone’s way. Neighborhood boys used to call him “Surfer Joe,” a ludicrous moniker because Sacramento was hot and dry and hours from the ocean. In a snapshot of time, Donnie had turned middle-aged.
    So what did that say about Barnes?
    He glanced at Amanda. The woman was married to a gazillionaire and was pushing forty but she was beautiful, bright, funny and could’ve passed for a grad student. If you scratched the designer duds.
    Born under a lucky star. He harbored a pang of envy then his eyes went back to Lucille Grayson’s withdrawn face, staring out at nothing with vacant eyes.
    Both kids gone. Hell on earth, what a jerk he was for being petty.
    On the other side of the crime-scene tape, the captain was still answering press questions. Good; it kept the focus away from Lucille.
    Amanda saw him studying the old