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color to her cheeks; but make no mistake about it, she was her father’s daughter. Stubborn, methodical, same worry line between her eyes. At five foot seven, she was taller than most of her classmates but had fortunately inherited none of her father’s innate awkwardness. She was blessed with Maddie’s athletic grace and moved like liquid mercury. “Phew, you reek,” she said, clamping her pillow over her face.
    He ran his fingers over his beard bristle. “I was just about to take a shower, thanks a lot.”
    “Take a nice long one, okay? With lots and lots of soap,” she said with a muffled giggle. “You’re staying for breakfast, right?”
    “Can’t.”
    She removed the pillow and looked at him, disappointment in her eyes. “Dad… I need some face-to-face time with you.”
    “Yeah, well. I need face-to-face time with you, too.”
    “So?”
    “How’s tonight sound? I think I can get away.”
    She frowned. “‘Think’ isn’t good enough.”
    “Lemme see what I can do. C’mere.” He wrapped his arms around her again and gave her a lingering hug, needing to know that she was okay. If she’d been left relatively unscathed by yesterday’s events, then he could get back to work and quit worrying.
    “The whole house was shaking like a leaf,” she told him. “You could hear hail bouncing off the metal cellar doors. Peg and I were like, ‘What was that? What was that?’ We were jumpy as hell. I was so scared at one point I thought my heart was going to burst.”
    “I’m glad Peg was with you.”
    She gave him a despairing look. “I tried to call Grandpa, but the lines were down.”
    He could feel his face tense up. “Don’t worry,” he said. “That side of town didn’t get hit.”
    “Yeah, but still… shouldn’t you go check on him?”
    “I’m sure he’s fine.”
    “Please?” She fingered the locket at her throat, the heart-shaped locket on its long silver chain that her mother had given her for her tenth birthday. She never took it off. She slept with the damn thing on, probably bathed with it on. Just like all the other sentimental objects she couldn’t bear to part with—her cowgirl lamp with its torn shade, the moth-eaten Indian throw rug with the mystical symbols on it. He was sure she’d die of old age with that silver chain clasped around her neck.
    “Your grandfather’s fine,” he insisted.
    “Come on, Dad. Please? For me?”
    “Get some sleep.”
    “Yeah, right. He’s
only
your father.”
    He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you trying to guilt-trip me?”
    “Gee, I dunno. Is it working?”
    “Fine. I’ll go see him,” he said. “Happy now?”
    “Tell him to call me, okay?”
    “I’ve got a few things I have to do first. But I promise, okay? Now get some sleep, you pain in the butt.”
    She giggled and said, “You should talk.”

4
    C HOKING BACK the stench of the autopsy suite, Charlie observed this most indecent scene through narrowed eyes. The three victims lay side by side on identical chrome tables—Jenna Pepper, Rob and their fourteen-year-old daughter, Danielle. The bodies had been X-rayed, weighed and measured, and any identifying marks such as tattoos or old injuries had been recorded. The bloodstained clothing, along with the wrapping sheets, had been bagged and sent off to the state lab for processing, and now the victims lay naked and exposed, miscellaneous debris protruding gruesomely from their bodies.
    “Sorry I’m late.” Roger Duff secured his lab coat around his stout middle as he swept into the morgue. “How’s Sophie?”
    “Fine.”
    “Good. Glad to hear it. Any property damage?”
    “Minor. You?”
    “I can’t find my cat.” Duff was a small man with a big attitude, a sour-faced old-timer whose irritating arrogance Charlie had long ago accepted as part of the package. He was the medical examiner for the whole county and was often called out of bed in the middle of the night to drive to a crime scene as far away as Camargo.