LITMIR.BIZ

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needs a car seat,” Peter told her, sounding wiser than his seven years. “Mom makes me ride in a booster seat. It’s okay if you don’t have one.”

      “Guess what?” Linda said, smiling. “I have two car seats, and one’s a booster. My boy, Ryan, is six and Timmy just turned four. Maybe you can come over and play with them one day. I’ll be right back, okay?”

      Linda’s cheerful demeanor disappeared once they stepped outside the room. She was strong, Carolyn thought, the type of person you’d want beside you in a crisis. Brad had made a good decision in recruiting her to help out. “They don’t know their mother’s dead yet.”

      “I gathered,” Linda answered. “You know Drew better than the rest of us. I’ll get the kids out of here so you two can talk. Has he notified Veronica’s family yet?”

      Carolyn shook her head. “There’s another kid in the kitchen. Her name is Stacy.” She stopped and chewed on a cuticle. “Drew asked me to go to the morgue and identify the body. He says he can’t handle it.”

      “Can your fiancé go with you?” Linda asked, tilting her head. “You’re awfully pale, Carolyn. I’m not sure you should be driving. Brad told me you’ve known Veronica since grade school. Is that true?”

      “Yes,” she said. “We went to St. Andrews together. We were cradle Catholics.”

      “Shouldn’t you call a priest, then?”

      “No,” Carolyn told her. “Drew’s an atheist, and Veronica was furious over the way the church handled the sex scandals. The last person she’d want in this house with her kids is a priest.”

      “That’s too bad,” Linda answered. “Faith can plug a lot of holes at a time like this, particularly when there’re young children involved.”

      “Nothing can plug this hole,” Carolyn told her, heading to the living room.

      She exchanged a few words with Brad, embraced Drew, and left to go the morgue.

      CHAPTER 4

      Tuesday, October 12—8:15 P.M.

      One side of Veronica’s head was gone. Her blond hair was caked in blood, and her face was unreconizable. Carolyn bent over and stared at the gold wedding band on her left hand. “It’s her,” she told the morgue attendant, a portly Irish man with red hair and freckles. When he started to zip the bag up, she added, “I’d like a few minutes if you don’t mind.”

      “Take all the time you want,” Sean O’Malley said. “Just give a holler if you need anything.”

      Poor Veronica, Carolyn thought. Before Marcus had come into her life, she’d envied her. She might not have had much in the way of material possessions, but she’d had everything that mattered—a decent husband, four beautiful children, a great personality. No matter how depressed Carolyn got, Veronica always found a way to pull her out of it. She’d never let her work get to her. Last year had changed that, though. But she couldn’t think of that now. She had to pay her respects, let go, find a way to reconcile herself to what had happened.

      Picking up her friend’s lifeless hand, she said, “I love you, honey. I promise the bastard who did this to you will pay. Don’t worry about Drew and the kids. It’ll be hard at first, but they’ll make it.” She placed the dead woman’s hand on her chest, the same chest the county pathologist, Charley Young, would soon slice open during the autopsy.

      Why was she talking to a corpse?

      Was Veronica with God now? She’d never done anything seriously wrong, at least not as far as Carolyn was concerned. Her friend didn’t see it that way. Now she wondered if Veronica had been right, and her death was some sort of divine retaliation. Veronica should have taken her suspicions to the police last year. Carolyn had talked her out of it. Was she now just as responsible?

      Even with the most experienced officers, there was always that one case that tore their heart out. Veronica’s had been a child mutilation. She would have eventually put it behind her if the murderer hadn’t been set free. The worst part was that he’d been released because of the incompetence of the county’s chief forensic officer at the time. Robert Abernathy had been charged with multiple counts of falsifying and mishandling evidence, as well as perjury. Lester McAllen, the monster who’d butchered Billy Bell, was only one of scores of defendants whose convictions were overturned because of Abernathy. When Abernathy and Lester McAllen were both murdered, Veronica suspected the boy’s father had killed them. She also blamed herself for contacting Tyler Bell and telling him that the man responsible for his son’s death was scheduled to be released.

      Carolyn wrapped her arms around her chest. If Veronica’s spirit was lingering somewhere, it certainly wouldn’t be inside this dreadful place. Carolyn made the sign of the cross, zipped the bag up, and quickly left the room.

      O’Malley stood, handing Carolyn a white envelope.

      “Is this her death certificate?” she asked. “I’m not a relative. She was my friend, but anything official should be handled by her husband.”

      “Turn it over,” he said. “It’s got your name on it. You’re Carolyn Sullivan, aren’t you?”

      She used her fingernail to tear open the envelope. As soon as she read it, she jerked her head up. “Where did you get this?”

      “It was on my desk,” O’Malley told her, taking a sip of his coffee.

      Carolyn’s eyes flashed with fear. “Who put it there?”

      “I don’t know,” he said. “Must have been someone on the day shift.”

      “Call them,” she said, the paper fluttering in her hand. “This is a death threat. I have to know where it came from.”

      O’Malley leaned back in his chair. “We’ve got three people working the day shift, Louise Reynolds, Sam Ornstein, and Cory Williams. Louise usually sits at this desk. She goes bowling on Tuesday nights. I guess I can try her cell phone. Tracking everyone down will take time.” He gestured toward a row of plastic chairs. “Have a seat. Want me to get you some coffee? I just put up a fresh pot.”

      Carolyn ignored him, reading through the words again. The letter had obviously been typed on a computer. The font was enormous and all the words were in caps.

      I KNOW YOUR SON GOES TO MIT.

      I KNOW YOUR DAUGHTER GOES TO VENTURA HIGH.

      I KNOW YOU NO LONGER LIVE AT THE SAME HOUSE.

      I KNOW MARCUS, THE MAN YOU ARE GOING TO MARRY.

      KEEP YOUR NOSE OUT OF THIS, OR I WILL KILL THEM ALL.

      THEN I WILL KILL YOU.

      “I need rubber gloves and an evidence envelope,” Carolyn said, interrupting O’Malley while he was dialing.

      “I can only do one thing at a time,” he complained, opening the top drawer and slapping a box of gloves on the corner of his desk.

      Carolyn set the paper down and put on the gloves, then folded the note and placed it back inside the envelope. Removing the gloves, she shoved them in her purse in case she needed them later. She was too anxious to sit down. Punching the autodial on her cell, she called Hank Sawyer and read him the letter. O’Malley was talking to someone on the phone, but he looked over at her, and she could tell he was eavesdropping.

      “This person knows me, Hank,” she said, opening the glass doors and stepping outside in the hallway. “It has to be someone from the agency. They even know I moved recently, and that I’m getting married.”

      “Your house was up for sale for six months,” the detective told her. “There’s no telling how many people passed through that place. You probably had things lying around. You know, stuff about the wedding, maybe something from MIT. As far as Rebecca is concerned, they could figure out she goes to Ventura High because of where the

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