'I thought so.' It was where Honor Newlin had been killed. Mary scrutinized the photo. 'If Brinkley sent this to us, it means it's a police photo. They take photos of the evidence at the crime scene. This must be an earring back they found there. And the lab report is saying it's from a male.'

Paige pointed at the photo. 'I know! I bet this is Trevor's. He didn't have his earring on later.'

'What do you mean, later?' Mary asked.

'Later that night, after my mother was killed. I'd given him a new earring earlier that day, for a present. It was a gold cross with a post back. But when we got back to my place, it wasn't in his ear anymore. Somebody, I guess the police, must have found this back part.'

Mary thought about it. 'Brinkley found it in the dining room.'

That must be right,' Paige said eagerly. Trevor was freaked that he lost it. I thought he was upset because it was eighteen carat, but he must have been worried the police would find it at my parents' house.'

Mary nodded grimly. 'Maybe he lost it fighting with your mother, when he killed her.'

'Does this prove anything?'

The earring back? No. It's a given Trevor has been at your parents' house. He said so to the FBI, remember? That's probably why they asked. If he were confronted with it, he could say he dropped it some other time.'

'No, he couldn't. He has been there before, but he never had that earring before. I gave it to him that day.'

'But they didn't find the earring, they found the back of it. The earring we could identify, but the backs are all alike. It could be an earring back Trevor lost another time, even if it is his DNA on it. It doesn't prove anything except that there are good cops in the world.'

Judy touched Mary's arm. 'Cheer up. You'll think of something else.'

'I will?' Mary said, but to her surprise, she already had.

Davis was at the office working on his laptop, outlining the Newlin case. He'd already gotten two calls from that scumsucker Roberts, but hadn't returned them yet. Let him waste his own time. Roberts had yet to defend a murder case in an actual courtroom. He'd be even easier than DiNunzio. The phone rang and Davis picked up.

'Go away,' Davis said, but it was the Chief. 'What? They went to Walsh? Why didn't he call me, Chief? Doesn't he know we're on the same team? Left hand, meet the right hand.' Davis laughed it off, but the news caught him by surprise. Newlin's daughter, trying to confess to Walsh. This was one wacky family. Newlin must have figured she'd do something like this. That's why he wanted to notify her himself. He wanted to play her, too.

'No bruises? I like that in a woman. Did they take Polaroids anyway?'

Davis reached for his Gatorade, almost buried in documents from Newlin's office. The wife's will was on top because he'd been studying it when the phone rang. Under the will, documents lay thick as the earth's strata; financials from Newlin's firm and partnership compensation, and the other documents they had seized. It was late but Davis would read through them before he went for a run.

'What? Then where? To the feds?' Davis's mood darkened. Those idiots! They got a tag on the boyfriend. You think they could let me in on it? They're worse than the cops, Chief! Fuck no! I don't have time to call 'em and suck up!'

Davis didn't like his plans interrupted. On his computer screen was a list of witnesses they'd need to subpoena

from the firm; Whittier, Field, Videon. He'd planned to have Whittier explain the compensation structure, then use Videon to take them through the prenup and his conversation with Honor Newlin. Davis hated to use the Necessary Evil, but he'd have to. If Davis spent the day preparing him, maybe he wouldn't mouth off on the stand.

'Of course the boyfriend said she didn't do it. She didn't do it! The father did, like I told you. Now let me work. Keep this up and I'll ask for a raise!' Davis said, and hung up.

Maybe it was time for that run.

Jack stood in Detective Brinkley's galley kitchen, his hand resting lightly on a chair of light wood at a round table. A fake Tiffany lamp over the table was the only light in the room and it cast long shadows on Brinkley's already long face. The kitchen was attached to the living room and, like it, was spare and uncluttered, with mismatched furniture. A black IKEA entertainment center dominated the area, with only a small TV above a stereo with tall, thin speakers and shelves of CDs. Jack was too intent to focus on decor for long. He had a plan for getting the information he needed about Trevor. 'I have a beef with you. Detective,' he said.

'Nice face.' Brinkley was crossing to the refrigerator. 'You run into a truck?'

Jack ignored it. 'You're been saying things in the press, things that are hurting my family. The paper says you think my daughter and her boyfriend were involved in the murder. You have it all wrong. I did it.'

That why you came here? To tell me what a bad guy you are?' Brinkley retrieved two bottles of Michelob from the refrigerator and two jelly glasses from a wood cabinet above the sink, then set everything on the table with a clatter. 'Have a seat,' he said, sitting down and eyeing Jack as critically as he had at their Roundhouse interview.

Jack remained standing. The press is all over my daughter because of you. She can't go anywhere. I came here to

tell you that you're ruining my kid's life. You keep this up, I'll file suit against you and the police. You don't have any evidence for what you're saying. It's not true, none of it.'

'You know, you are a bad guy, Newlin. Even though you didn't kill your wife, you're a bad guy.' Brinkley uncapped the beer with a church key that was already on the table. 'You filed a false confession. You played my department for fools. You took public resources for your own personal use. Got everybody running in the wrong direction. And got me suspended, for doing my job.'

'You didn't answer my question. You have any evidence for what you're saying?' Jack demanded. He knew what Brinkley was saying was true, but he couldn't admit it. The detective could report him to get his job back.

'You took the rap for your kid and her boyfriend, but that wasn't right. It was easy but it wasn't right. The right thing woulda been to let these kids answer for what they did.' Brinkley took a sip of one of the Michelobs and slid the other one toward Newlin. 'And you're a bad liar, pal. I'm thinkin' you're just about the worst liar I've ever seen, and I've seen some real morons. I picked up a guy, long time ago. He's standing on the street, talkin' to his buddies, holding a TV.' Brinkley spread his arms wide, the brown bottle in one hand. 'Like this big. I mean, holding the friggin' TV, right on the street. So me and my old partner, we're beat cops, we come walkin' around the corner just by chance, the worst luck of this guy's life.' Brinkley started to laugh. 'And we say, "Hey, what are you doin' with that TV?' And the dude says, "What TV?" I mean, "What TV?"' Brinkley burst into laughter.

Standing there, Jack didn't know what to do. He was trying to talk tough, but the detective was in hysterics. He felt like a complete idiot in his I LOVE PHILADELPHIA jacket, with a face that a truck hit, and he knew that Brinkley was right. Jack wasn't a good lair; he'd worried about that from the beginning. And he was so tired, and

so worried, and so sick at heart, that he could do only one thing. What TV? He started to laugh. He laughed so hard that he had to sit down behind his untouched beer and glass. And when he finally stopped and wiped his eyes, Brinkley was wiping his, too, with a napkin from a stack on the table.

'Well, Newlin,' the detective said, still smiling. 'Let's get down to it. You got your tit in a wringer and you came to me for help. You're worried I'm gonna turn you in, but I won't. Anything we say is off the record.'