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anymore.”
    “What about the Crime Scene Unit? They get any prints off the letter?”
    “Wrecked,” Koontz told him. “Seems everybody at the newspaper touched it, so prints are impossible. Letter was hand-delivered, so no postage. Envelope not sealed so no saliva. Get this, the letter was actually typed. Old manual typewriter with Wite-Out for corrections. Not a neat job, but still means no handwriting analysis. Of course, we could probably match the letter to a particular typewriter, but that assumes we know enough to find the typewriter. Case is getting easier all the time, isn’t it?”
    Mike sighed and picked up his jacket. “Only one thing left to do.”
    “No…”
    “We gotta find the kid somehow. Newspaper office sits on a major bus line.”
    Koontz groaned louder. “Ah, nuts, I hate this kind of grunt work.”
    “It’s not just a job,” Mike assured him. “It’s an adventure.”
     
     

Chapter 3
     
    D riving to the bus station, Mike started thinking about his ex-wife again.
    He didn’t want to. After the divorce, he’d adopted a strict policy of not looking back. He’d been raised with a certain philosophy about the world. Roll with the punches, live life easy. So he’d gotten a divorce. That’s the hand life had dealt him. Move on.
    Besides, if he thought about it too much—remembered Sandra’s smile, her scent, the way she’d sigh right after he kissed her—he got angry. Angry that she was gone. Angry she hadn’t given them more of a chance. Angry that he was divorced, dammit, and he’d never wanted to be divorced. Would someone please tell him what the hell he was supposed to have done differently?
    Mike didn’t like getting angry. So he made the rule about not looking back. Easygoing Rawlins. Rolling with the punches. Living life fine. Yeah, that was him.
    Until today. Today was doing him in.
    Sandra striding into the morning meeting, looking even better than he remembered. God, he loved it when she had her chin up and her eyes sparkling for a fight. Koontz had it all wrong. Mike had never minded that his wife could be bossy or tough. Hell, he’d loved that about her. Sandra was the first woman he’d ever met who couldn’t be swayed just by his grin. She gave as good as she got. She made him work for things. She made him feel alive. That was his wife.
    And he knew the rest of her, too, the softer side she’d never show someone like Koontz. The late nights when she’d compulsively rub the back of her neck where her muscles knotted from carrying the weight of the world around with her all day. The next morning when she’d drag herself out of bed with the worst migraine rather than let her father’s company down. Then along the way to work, she’d stop and watch the little kids run through the park, because Sandy really wanted to have children and worried that she was too driven and career oriented to be a good mother.
    Rainy days dragged her down. Sunny days perked her up. Her favorite treat was undercooked brownies eaten hot and gooey straight from the pan. And her favorite way of spending Sundays used to be in his arms.
    Mike didn’t want to know how she was spending her Sundays now. That would make him angry. So he thought about their wedding, instead.
    It had been in Boston, some huge stone church where all Aikenses had tied the knot since time immemorial. Sandy’s mom had hired a fancy florist to deck the place out in satin bows and white roses, and they’d triggered a pollen attack so bad Mike’s brother had to be led out of the church. Mike hadn’t really noticed.
    His mother was still injured about the reception menu, he remembered that vaguely. She’d wanted to bring her special potato salad and Mrs. Aikens hadn’t taken that well. The event was being catered. Caterers didn’t need help. What were they thinking? Then his mom had offered Sandy her wedding headpiece, passed down for three generations, and that had also been refused. Instead Sandra had had some