Dutton, Monday, January 29, 11:35 p.m.

Daniel got out of his car and looked up at the house on the hill with a wince. This was not going to be good. Janet Bowie had used a credit card to buy her own admission ticket to Fun-N-Sun and the tickets of seven other people, a group of kids.

Now he got to tell state congressman Robert Bowie his daughter was thought dead. With heavy steps he climbed the steep driveway to the Bowie mansion and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a sweaty young man wearing running shorts. “Yes?”

Daniel pulled out his shield. “I’m Special Agent Vartanian, Georgia Bureau of Investigation. I need to talk with Congressman and Mrs. Bowie.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “My parents are asleep.”

Daniel blinked. “Michael?” It had been nearly sixteen years since he’d seen Michel Bowie. Michael had been a skinny fourteen-year-old when Daniel had gone away to college. He wasn’t skinny any longer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”

“You, on the other hand, haven’t changed a bit.” It was said in a way that could just as easily be taken as a compliment or as an insult. “You need to come back tomorrow.”

Daniel put his hand on the door when Michael started to close it. “I need to talk to your parents,” he repeated quietly but firmly. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important.”

“Michael, who’s calling at this time of night?” a booming voice thundered.

“State police.” Michael stepped back and Daniel stepped into the grand foyer of Bowie Hall, one of the few antebellum mansions the Yankees hadn’t managed to burn.

Congressman Bowie was tying the belt of a smoking jacket. His face was impassive, but in his eyes Daniel saw apprehension. “Daniel Vartanian. I heard you’d come into town today. What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night, Congressman,” Daniel began. “I’m investigating the murder of a woman found in Arcadia yesterday.”

“At the bike race.” Bowie nodded. “I read about it in today’s Review.”

Daniel drew a quiet breath. “I think the victim may be your daughter, sir.”

Bowie drew back, shaking his head. “No, it’s not possible. Janet is in Atlanta.”

“When did you last see your daughter, sir?”

Bowie ’s jaw hardened. “Last week, but her sister talked to her yesterday morning.”

“Can I talk to your other daughter, Mr. Bowie?” Daniel asked.

“It’s late. Patricia’s asleep.”

“I know it’s late, but if we’ve made a mistake, we need to know so we can keep searching for this woman’s identity. Somebody is waiting for her to come home, sir.”

“I understand. Patricia! Come down here. And make sure you’re properly dressed.”

Two doors opened upstairs and both Mrs. Bowie and a young girl came down the stairs, the girl looking uncertain. “What’s this about, Bob?” Mrs. Bowie asked. She recognized Daniel and frowned. “Why is he here? Bob?”

“Calm down, Rose. This is all a mistake and we’re going to clear it up right now.” Bowie turned to the young girl. “Patricia, you said you talked to Janet yesterday morning. You said that she was sick and not driving down for supper.”

Patricia blinked innocently and Daniel sighed inside. Sisters covering for each other.

“Janet said she had the flu.” Patricia smiled, trying for sophisticated. “Why, did she get a parking ticket or something? That’s just like Janet.”

Bowie had grown as pale as had his wife. “Patricia,” he said hoarsely, “Agent Vartanian is investigating a murder. He thinks Janet is the victim. Don’t cover for her.”

Patricia’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“Did you really talk to your sister, Patricia?” Daniel asked gently.

The girl’s eyes filled with horrified tears. “No. She asked me to tell everybody she was sick. She had somewhere else to go that day. But it can’t be her. It can’t.”

Mrs. Bowie made a panicked sound. “Bob.”

Bowie put his arm around his wife. “Michael, get your mother a chair.”

Michael had already done so and helped his mother sit while Daniel focused on Patricia. “When did she ask you to cover for her?”

“Wednesday night. She said she was spending the weekend with… friends.”

“This is important, Patricia. Which friends?” Daniel pressed. From the corner of his eye he watched Mrs. Bowie sink into a chair, visibly shaking.

Patricia looked miserably at her parents, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She has a boyfriend. She knew you wouldn’t approve. I’m sorry.”

Ashen, Bowie looked at Daniel. “What do you need from us, Daniel?”

“Hair from her brush. We’ll need to fingerprint the room she uses when she’s here.” He hesitated. “The name of her dentist.”

Bowie blanched, but swallowed and nodded. “You’ll have it.”

“Oh, God. We never should have let her have that apartment in Atlanta.” Mrs. Bowie was crying, rocking, her hands covering her face.

“She has an apartment in Atlanta?” Daniel asked.

Bowie ’s nod was barely perceptible. “She’s with the orchestra.”

“She’s a cellist,” Daniel said quietly. “But she comes home on weekends?”

“Sunday evenings, mostly. She comes home for supper.” Bowie tightened his jaw, struggling for composure. “Not so much lately. She’s growing up. Away. But she’s only twenty-two.” He broke, dropping his chin to his chest, and Daniel looked away, giving him privacy in his grief.

“Her room is upstairs,” Michael murmured.

“Thank you. I’ll have a CSU van out here as quickly as possible. Patricia, I need to know everything you know about Janet and her boyfriend.” Daniel put his hand on Bob Bowie’s arm. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

Bowie jerked a nod and said nothing.

Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 12:55 a.m.

“What’s going on here?”

Daniel stopped short. A wave of anger swept through him and he tamped it back. “Well, if it isn’t the elusive Sheriff Loomis. Let me introduce myself. I’m Special Agent Daniel Vartanian and I’ve left you six messages since Sunday.”

“Don’t get sarcastic with me, Daniel.” Frank scowled at the small army that had descended on Bowie Hall. “Goddamn GBI has overrun my town. Like locusts.”

In truth, only one car and one van belonged to GBI personnel. Three of the police cars were from Dutton’s small force and one was from Arcadia. Sheriff Corchran himself had come, offering his condolences to the Bowies and his help to Daniel.

Deputy Mansfield, Loomis’s second in command, had arrived shortly after Ed’s crime scene van had pulled into the drive, outraged at not having been the one to process Janet’s bedroom, in direct contrast to Corchran’s helpful attitude.

Of the other cars that lined the drive, one belonged to Dutton’s mayor, two others to Congressman Bowie’s aides. Still another belonged to Dr. Granville, who was currently overseeing the near- hysterical state of Mrs. Bowie.

One of the cars belonged to Jim Woolf. The Bowies had given him no comment and Daniel had held him off with the promise of a statement when the ID was confirmed.

It had been, just minutes before. One of Ed’s techs had brought a card bearing the victim’s fingerprints with him and had almost immediately matched the prints to those taken from a crystal vase next to Janet Bowie’s bed. Daniel himself had confirmed the news to Bob Bowie and Bowie had just climbed the stairs to his wife’s room.

Shrieking from the upstairs bedroom told Daniel that Bowie had told his wife. Both he and Frank looked toward the upstairs, then back at each other. “Do you have something to say, Frank?” Daniel asked coldly. “Because I’m a little busy right now.”

Frank’s face darkened. “This is my town, Daniel Vartanian. Not yours. You left.”

Again Daniel tamped down his temper, and when he spoke, it was evenly. “It may not be my town, but it’s my case, Frank. If you really wanted to be of some help, you might have returned any of the messages I’ve left on your voicemail.”