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And this murder is a strangulation, so no bullets, no gun casings, no ropes, no knives – and, if the killer wore gloves, no fingerprints.
    Sky caught herself. Let the detectives chase down the answers. She was here to conduct preliminary interviews. Period.
    "Butera, Axelrod. Knock on every door." Jake jabbed a red pin into the wall map of Newton. "There's always somebody up in the middle of the night, staring out a window." Newton had the shape of a clenched fist and the red pin was sticking dead center.
    Butera snorted at the assignment and stood up. He shot Sky a sour look and swaggered toward the door.
    "Doctor Stone." Axelrod stopped at Sky's chair and cleared his throat. "It would be a great honor to talk with you about your father. He's a hero of mine."
    "Axelrod," Jake said. "Do you want to leave this room with all your teeth?"
    Axelrod gave Sky an informal salute and sprinted after Butera.
    Jake unbuckled his holster and set it on the conference table. The concealed barrel of the baby Glock pointed toward Axelrod's vacant chair.
    “Rookies,” Kyle chuckled. "You gotta love 'em."
    "Check missing person reports." Jake tossed Kyle a green file and looked out the narrow window. "Fucking fog."
    The first twenty-four hours of an investigation were critical. Time without an ID was time wasted. Kyle threw Sky a smile and left. Sky stood up to follow, but Jake blocked the door with his body.
     "I need to listen to Molly’s interview, Jake. Maybe we missed something.” Sky rifled through the journal for the child's address. Had she written it down?
    "The kid can wait five minutes.” Jake took the journal from her hand. “I've waited a year.”
    Sky shrank from the hurt in his voice. It was Molly she needed to concentrate on, but she could feel Jake pulling at her like an undertow. Invisible but dangerous.
    As if on cue, Magnus Moriarty filled the doorway. Newton’s Chief of Police was a big man, an intimidating tank of a man with a proud mane of salt and pepper hair that waved back from his forehead. The furrows in his face were deeper than Sky remembered, his complexion ruddier. But he still looked like a disgruntled lion, bad tempered and about to roar.
    "Sir, this is a private conversation." Jake stood his ground.
    "O'Toole just got a lead on the dead woman's ID," Magnus growled at Jake. "Batti il ferro quando e`caldo."
    Sky recognized the phrase. Strike while the iron is hot.
    Magnus pointed at her and said, "You. My office." He made an abrupt turn and left.
    Sky stepped carefully around Jake. He smelled of what? Oranges and tobacco? She headed for the Chief’s office, leaving Jake alone in the briefing room.
    Why, she wondered, did she find herself suddenly disoriented by the odor of oranges and tobacco?

CHAPTER SIX
    "You like Italian sausage?" Magnus held up a rope of raw sausages. "I made these myself."
    Sky stood in front of the Chief's massive mahogany desk and tried to admire the meat but her mind was with Jake.
     "My God, your dad loved Italian food." Magnus hung the sausages over a gold gooseneck floor lamp and sank into his chair. The aroma of oregano permeated the office. "When Monk came to town we'd head to Giuseppe’s for Italian subs. Best in the Lake." He gestured Sky to sit. “How long has Monk been gone, now?"
    How long has Monk been gone?
    Sky sat down. This particular question always led to the same conversation, trying to avoid it was pointless.
    "Four years," Sky answered. "Monk passed four years ago."
    "Still in his prime!" The Chief looked toward a framed photograph of Monk that hung on the wall next to Sky’s chair. Taken at an awards ceremony, the picture showed a grainy likeness of her father shaking hands with the President.
    "Remember Monk in those days?" The Chief’s eyes had a faraway cast. "Working two dozen murders at once, flying all over the country. Hell, all over the world, some of those cases." He leaned back in