Mike turned one way then another, as if searching for a rag doll he could shred. “If you’ve filed a report suggesting Erin ’s death might not have been a suicide, Blackwell will have to keep the investigation open.”

“I would imagine so.” She slapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, partner. I think we’re going to be working together for a good long while.”

Christina took another sip of her caffe latte and continued burrowing through the miserably thick file. She actually enjoyed bringing her work to bookstores in the evenings, and Novel Idea was just a mile south of their Warren Place offices. To some degree, coming here went against her natural instinct to avoid all things trendy, but hey-if you have to work late, at least you can have something to imbibe scrummier than that sludge Jones called coffee.

Although to get through a file like this one, she might need something stronger than coffee. She was wading through the police reports on the Faulkner home invasion, looking for any scrap of a hint of a detail that might lend some insight as to how to get Ray released. And it was making her sick.

Could there ever have been a more horrendous crime? This case had traumatized her profoundly the first time around, and now the nightmares were starting all over again. She closed her eyes and saw the crime-scene photos appear like some grisly slide show. Every single member of the family murdered, but for Erin, and in brutal and horrifying ways. Both parents, stabbed repeatedly. The father’s leg broken, plus several ribs. Her brother, cut almost beyond belief. Her sister, crumpled on the floor, a lovely polka-dot skirt draped across her legs. The whole family in one bloody heap, except for the baby, who was in the nursery, and Erin, who had been chained down in the basement. One day, they were a happy, normal suburban enclave, and the next-they were virtually extinct. What the hell was the world coming to?

By the time she got to her third latte, Christina had scrutinized every page of the reports, photos, and tech analyses, but she was no nearer to solving any of the central mysteries of the case. Such as-why? The police called it a robbery that went bad; the Faulkners’ considerable cash and jewelry had been taken (and never recovered). But surely that could have been accomplished without so much brutality, so much bloodshed. Couldn’t they have gotten the goods without torturing those kids? Without killing them all?

And then there was a second mystery, the one that had drawn so much attention at the trial: Why was Erin chained downstairs while the rest of her family was killed in the living room? The prosecutor had suggested that Ray, in addition to being a brutal torturer/murderer and thief, was also some kind of sex pervert, and that he had put Erin away to enjoy later, like a chocoholic saving the last Godiva for a rainy day. But to Christina, that explanation only raised more questions. Such as: Why didn’t he come back for her? The bodies were not found for several days, after Erin freed herself. There was no sign that the killer had been rushed in any way. Why didn’t he return? Even if he decided against a sexual assault, why didn’t he kill her as he did the others? Leaving her alive could only create a potential incriminating witness. Why?

And then there was the greatest of all the mysteries: Why had the killer cut out their eyes? Why would he take the time? All the forensic evidence indicated that it was done after they were dead (thank God). So what was the point? It didn’t fulfill any need to make them suffer-they were long past it. What kind of twisted psychological compulsion would cause a person to do that? Christina couldn’t understand it-and suspected she never would. Which was too bad, because she would really like to come up with something useful for Ben, something that would give him some hope that they might be able to help Ray.

She pushed her chair away from the table and stretched her arms. She needed a break. She’d been at this too long. Actually, ten minutes was too long for this kind of material, and she’d been at it for more than five hours.

She passed from the café section into the book stalls, just to stretch her legs. Maybe she could browse the new crime novels; she might get some insight there. Or better yet, she’d go back to the science-and-nature section. Novel Idea had a great one; it was like visiting a mini-museum. Where you could buy stuff. Even before she arrived, she could hear the soothing trickling sound of water working its way down a stone fountain. Nice. She could go for a little Zen tranquillity at the moment. Maybe she could pick up a little trinket for Ben…

Or not. He never liked her presents anyway, although he did a nice job of faking it. She wasn’t even sure he liked the cat she’d gotten him, and he’d had Giselle for years now. Why she kept trying was beyond her.

Or beyond reason, as her friends would say. Her girlfriends gave her no end of grief for sticking with Ben so long. You could do better, they told her. You could be making the big bucks. Which was true, of course.

So why was she still struggling along on the seventh floor of 2 Warren Place at Kincaid & McCall? She couldn’t really explain it, not even to herself. But there was something about working with Ben that she just… liked. As unsophisticated as that seemed, it was the truth. She’d liked him the day they met, back when he was a naive and bumbling associate at Raven, Tucker & Tubb. She sensed there was something different about him, something special. She also sensed he wasn’t going to be around there long, and boy, was she right about that. Given how poorly he and Richard Derek got along, it’s a miracle Ben lasted as long as he did.

After Ben started his own practice, Christina came in with him. Probably not a sensible career move, but after several years in corporate America, she was ready to do something she could care about. She’d had enough of helping multinationals weasel out of their contracts and pollute the environment. She wanted work that mattered. And with Ben Kincaid, she got it. With Ben, everything mattered. With Ben, every case was a holy crusade. He took the cases that made a difference; he represented the people who really needed help. Of course, half the time he couldn’t get paid, but when all was said and done, did you want to spend your life amassing money, or doing work that was genuinely important? That helped other people, that made their lives better?

It had been a real pleasure, watching Ben mature over the years. Not that he wasn’t still a trifle naive. Painfully reserved. Mildly neurotic. But at the end of the day, it was all rather endearing. He was cute, damn it. Even her most cynical girlfriends, she noticed, had more than once mentioned that they wouldn’t object to going out on a double date with Ben in the package. Some of them, she suspected, assumed that she and Ben were dating on the sly. Or doing something on the sly, anyway. But they weren’t. Never once. Never even close.

Well… maybe close. But never.

She wondered what he was doing tonight. Was he feeling just as traumatized by the case and… well, she had to be truthful about it. Lonely? It sometimes seemed as if he lived for his cases. Maybe he didn’t mind spending the night alone, just him and the files. Maybe he liked it.

She didn’t. Not that she minded working, but…

It had been too many years now since she’d split from her husband. She’d had a few boyfriends since, but nothing that really took. They ended all too soon, and in reality, she was rarely sorry. You’re married to your work, one of them said. Well, perhaps she was. Perhaps she and Ben were married and they just didn’t know it.

The flaw with that theory being that he was at his place and she was here gazing at Zen fountains. Not much of a marriage.