“I don’t know. I think I’ve known all along, at least a little bit. I just didn’t want to admit it because…” His chest rose, then fell again. “I suppose I didn’t want to admit that Baxter was right.”

“Because she’s a woman?”

Mike frowned. “No. Because she’s… annoying. But I shouldn’t’ve let that affect my judgment. She called this one exactly right.”

Baxter gazed at him, her eyes filled with wonder.

Blackwell was not mollified. “And do you by chance have any evidence in support of this sudden epiphany?”

“We’re still collecting evidence-”

“Don’t stall me, Major.”

Mike’s jaw clenched. “The cuts and abrasions on Sheila Knight’s body can’t be explained by the gun wound. There are signs that she rolled or fell down the slope behind her cabin-and perhaps that she was dragged back up it. There are fresh footprints-not hers-also behind the cabin. We’ve found a key chain-we think it’s a key chain-with some strange design on it. I haven’t identified it yet, but-”

“Is that all you’ve got, Morelli? Because, frankly, it sounds pretty feeble to me. And I am sick of this half-baked, amateurish-”

“Just one goddamn minute,” Mike said, matching his volume. “I’ve been on this force a good long time, and I think I’ve proven I know what a homicide is. I’ve also proven I can solve one, given enough time and support. And I can’t think of any reason why I-or my partner-should have to endure this abusive bullshit!”

The room fell silent. Blackwell took a step back.

“Besides,” Mike said, much more quietly, “it isn’t good for your heart. You might burst a blood vessel or something.”

“Morelli-”

“Look, Chief-just give us a week, okay? That’s all I ask. One week to come up with something. If we don’t-we’ll both agree to close the file.”

“One week to do what?”

“Well… I’m not totally sure. But my partner is right. Always has been.” He glanced at Baxter out the corner of his eye. “And now we’re going to prove it.”

Christina was impressed to see that James Wesley had a house-and a nice-size one at that. After all, he was a single young man, and as far as she knew, he wasn’t the heir to a fortune. The house was nothing fancy-a two-story Federal just north of Fifteenth. But to Christina-who had lived in a two-room apartment for more than a decade-it looked pretty darn good.

She rang the bell, and the door was opened almost immediately-by Michael Palmetto.

“Dr. Palmetto,” Christina said. She extended her hand. “Christina McCall. I interviewed you. With Ben Kincaid. About Erin Faulkner’s death.”

“Of course. You visited shortly after I spoke with the police officers.”

She nodded. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Especially since I heard that there was some bad blood between you and James.

“Well, I’ve only been here a moment.” Was he distracted, or was it her imagination? His eyes kept moving toward the door. “Even though James doesn’t work at the organ clinic anymore, he still does some occasional freelance work.”

“I see.”

“He’s in the basement. You can go on down.”

“In the basement?”

“Yes. He’s always in the basement.”

Visions of Dracula’s coffin flickered through Christina’s brain. “May I ask why?”

“Well, that’s where he does his work.”

“And what work would that be?”

A smile flashed across the Palmetto’s face. “You don’t know?”

“Sorry. I don’t.”

“Well… then you’re in for a big surprise.”

Christina didn’t much care for the sound of that.

“Let me ask you a question. How do you feel about spiders?”

Her face twisted up. “I hate them. Why?”

Palmetto placed his hand on her shoulder. “Ms. McCall, this is going to be the worst interview of your life.”

“Jones is so going to pay for this,” Christina kept muttering. That was the only comfort she could give herself, right at the moment. He was going to pay dearly.

As Christina descended into James Wesley’s basement, she found herself surrounded by more than forty thousand spiders. Yes, forty thousand. All alphabetized and secure in lidded plastic cups, neatly arranged on rows and rows of portable shelving.

“It’s my life’s work,” the handsome black man said proudly as he twirled around the center of the basement. “It’s what I’ve always dreamed of doing.”

Christina was working hard to comprehend. Not just why anyone would want to be surrounded by these horrible creatures. But how she was going to get through the next two minutes without fainting. “But… why?”

“I studied entomology in college, at OSU. Of course I loved all the insects, but I always felt… I don’t know. A special connection to the arachnids.”

“You felt a connection to spiders?”

“Oh yes. I’ve been an arachnophile since I was a boy. They’re wonderful creatures. Diverse. Amazing. I don’t know why they’ve gotten such a bad rap.”

“Could it be… because they’re creepy and they kill people?”

“Well, there is that. But it rarely happens. And there’s so much to study. So much to admire. The web making. The sophisticated strategies for catching insects. The complex mating rituals. And the venoms, of course.”

Christina felt a chill run up her spine at the word venom. “Of course… heh… none of these spiders are poisonous. Right?”

“Well… actually… they all are. To varying degrees.”

Christina felt her knees wobbling. “Could I… possibly… sit down somewhere?”

“Is something wrong?”

“I just… don’t much care for your pets. It’s quite a surprise.”

“But I warned that man about them. Jones. When I called.”

So he had known. This was a put-up job. “If I could just sit…”

Wesley quickly pulled out a chair. “They’re all safely tucked away. There’s no reason to be frightened.”

“Frightened? Me? Don’t be silly.” She lowered herself into the chair. “I’m not frightened.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’m terrified.”

Wesley brought her a cup of tea and a slice of cinnamon toast. Comfort foods. Although Christina thought a couple shots of tequila were more likely to be effective. Eventually, she felt her stomach settle somewhat and the trembling in her legs subsided. Especially when she stared at the floor and didn’t look up at the… creatures. All forty thousand of them.

Despite her desire to pretend she was ice skating on Lake Banff, Wesley seemed determined to give her the full tour. “Now this little thing is the Gramostola spatulata,” he said, pointing at some black beast Christina never came close to looking at. “It comes from Chile. And I have a wide variety of tarantulas-but who doesn’t? This light brown number is the ultrarare African king baboon tarantula. And these slick glistening numbers are the western black widows.”

“But-why?” Christina managed to say. “Why do you have these… things?” She was proud of herself for leaving out the word hideous.

“It’s a farm, basically,” he answered. “I milk them for their venom.”

“You want spider venom?”

“Oh yes. It’s in great demand. Pharmacologists pay big bucks for the stuff.”

“In God’s name why?”

“Well, it’s hard to explain without getting too technical. Basically, the active compounds in spider venom bind with molecules on the surfaces of living cells. And they do so with great specificity. Because of this selective quality, researchers can use it to develop new medicines and to help them better understand how living cells function. They’re used routinely by the National Institute of Health. Most university schools of medicine.”

“How do you get the stuff? Do you just ship them the spiders?”

“Oh no. I extract the venom right here. Want me to show you how?”

She didn’t, but as bad as she felt, she didn’t have the heart to smother his unbridled enthusiasm. He removed a small spider from a plastic cup and took him to the worktable beside a large microscope.