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again. She was buttoning up a
     
    sleeveless dress, but her mind wasn't on the task. She
    was staring into near space, and he could practically
    see the wheels of her clever brain turning.
    Stefanie Mundell had been with the County Solicitor's
    Office a little more than two years, but during
    her tenure she had made quite an impression--not always
    a good one. Some regarded her as a royal bitch,
    and she could be. She had a rapacious tongue and
    wasn't averse to using it. She never, ever backed
    down during an argument, which made her an excellent
    trial lawyer and a scourge to defense attorneys,
    but it didn't endear her to coworkers.
    But at least half the men, and perhaps some of the
    women, who worked in and around the police department
    and county judicial building had the hots for
    her. Fantasy alliances with her were often discussed
    in crude detail over drinks after work. Not within her
    hearing, of course, because no one wished on himself
    a sexual harassment rap filed by Stefanie Mundell.
    If she was aware of all the closet lusting for her,
    she pretended not to be. Not because it would bother
    her or make her uneasy to know that men were applying
    the lewdest terms to her. She would simply
    look upon it as something too juvenile, silly, and trivial
    on which to waste time and energy.
    Secretly Rory watched her in the mirror now, as
    she buckled a slim leather belt around her waist and
    then pushed her hands through her hair as a means of
    grooming it. He wasn't physically attracted to her.
    Watching her operate didn't spark in him any mad,
    carnal desire, only a deep appreciation for her keen
    intelligence and the ambition that drove her. These
    qualities reminded him of himself.
    "That was a very meaningful 'hmm,' Steffi. What
    are you thinking?"
    "How furious the perp must've been."
    "One of my detectives commented on that. It was
    a cold-blooded killing. The M.E. thinks Lute might
    have been unconscious when he was shot. In any
    case, he was posing no threat. The killer merely
    wanted him dead."
    "If you made up a list of all the people who wanted
    Lute Pettijohn dead--"
    "We don't have that much paper and ink."
    She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. "Right.
    So, any guesses?"
    "Not now."
    "Or you just aren't saying?"
    "Steffi, you know I don't bring anything to your
    office before I'm ready."
    "Just promise me--"
    "No promises."
    "Promise no one else will get first shot."
    "No pun intended."
    "You know what I mean," she said crossly.
    "Mason will assign the case," he said, referring to
    Monroe Mason, Charleston County solicitor. "It'll be
    up to you to see that you get it."
    But looking at her in the mirror and seeing the fire
    in her eyes, he had no doubt that she would make that
    a priority. He brought the car to a halt at the curb.
    "Here we are."
    They alighted in front of Lute Pettijohn's mansion.
    Its grandiose exterior, befitting its prestigious South
    Battery address, was a layering of architecture. The
    original Georgian had given way to Federal touches
    following the Revolutionary War. There followed the
    addition of Greek Revival columns when they were
    the antebellum rage. The imposing structure was later
    updated with splashes of Victorian gingerbread. This
    patchwork of architecture was typical of the Historic
    District, and, ironically, made Charleston all the more
    picturesque.
     
    The three-story house had deep double balconies
    lined with stately pillars and graceful arches. A
    cupola crowned its gabled roof. For two centuries it
    had withstood wars, crippling economic lulls, and
    hurricane winds, before sustaining the latest assault
    on it—Lute Pettijohn.
     
    His well-documented restoration had taken years.
    The first architect overseeing the project had resigned
    to have a nervous breakdown. The second had suffered
    a heart attack; his cardiologist had forced him
    to retire from the project. The third had seen the
    restoration to completion, but it had cost him his