She’d left the second appointment in a bad mood and decided to grab some belated lunch and head home.

In the past few weeks Brynn McKenzie had logged 2,300 miles in her own investigation. She was now driving a used Camry-very used. The waterlogged Honda had died in the line of duty, according to the insurance company, thus excluding it from her personal auto policy. She’d paid for the car herself, from her savings, which hurt, particularly since she wasn’t sure about her financial future.

Graham had moved out.

They’d discussed the situation several times again after April 18. But Graham remained badly shaken by Eric Munce’s death, for which he still blamed himself-though not Brynn, not at all (what a difference between him and Keith).

Graham had been gone only a few days, moving into a rental unit twenty minutes away. She found herself sad and troubled…but in some way relieved. There was also a large numbness factor. Of course, domestics were her specialty, and she knew it was far too early to say for certain where their lives were headed.

He was still paying his share of the bills-more than his share, actually, picking up all of Anna’s medical expenses that the insurance company wasn’t. But their lifestyle had been based on two incomes and Brynn was suddenly much more conscious of finances.

She ate a bit more of the cooling soup. Her phone buzzed. Joey was calling and she picked up immediately. It was just a check-in and she made cheerful comments as he told her a few things about gym and science, then hung up to hurry off to his final class.

After allowing that Graham might have been accurate in his comments about the boy-and about her rearing of him-she’d done some investigating (and interrogating) and learned that the reports of Joey’s ’phalting were true; he’d hitched rides on trucks a number of times. Only by the grace of God had he been saved from serious injury. The class cutting too had occurred.

She’d had several difficult talks with the boy-prodded largely by her mother, which had surprised her.

Brynn had swooped into her son’s life like a tactical officer from a helicopter. He was only allowed to board at a local free-style course, when she was there with him. And he had to wear his helmet, no ski hats.

“Mom, like, come on. Are you kidding?”

“That’s your only option. And I keep your board locked up in my room.”

He’d sighed, exaggeratedly. But agreed.

She also required him to call in regularly and to be home within twenty minutes of the end of school. She was amused to see his reaction when she reminded him that the police have an arrangement with the local phone company that allows them to track the whereabouts of cell phones, even when they’re not in use. (This was true, though what she didn’t share was that it would be illegal for her to use the system to electronically check up on him.)

But if she was getting the rebellious behavior under control, there seemed to be nothing she could do with his moods about Graham’s departure. Although her husband stayed in regular touch with his stepson, Joey wasn’t happy at the breakup and she didn’t know how to do anything about that. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d walked out the door. She’d fix it, though at the moment she didn’t have a clue how.

She pushed the soup away, reflecting that so much had changed since that night.

“That night.” The phrase had become an icon in her life. It meant a lot more than a chronological reference.

She was single again, had an injured mother in her care and a troubled son to keep an eye on. Still, nothing in the world would stop her from finding Michelle and Hart and bringing them in.

She was, in fact, wondering if there was anything she could salvage from the meetings she’d just had with the detective and FBI agent when she realized the bar was deathly quiet.

Empty. The waiter, busboy and bartender were gone.

And then she had a memory: seeing a slight man walking behind her on the way from the police station here. She hadn’t thought anything of it, but now realized that she’d stopped at one point to look in a store window; he’d stopped as well, to make a phone call. Or to pretend to.

Alarmed, she started to rise but felt the breeze of a door opening and sensed people behind her, at least two, it seemed.

She froze. Her gun was under her suit jacket and a raincoat. She’d be dead before she undid two buttons.

There was nothing to do but turn around.

She did so, half expecting to see Hart’s gray eyes as he steadied the gun to kill her.

The heavier of the two, a man in his sixties, said, “Detective, I’m Stanley Mankewitz.”

She nodded. “It’s Deputy.”

The other man, skinny and boyish, was the one she’d seen earlier, following her. He had a faint smile but humor was not its source. He remained silent.

Mankewitz sat on the stool next to hers. “May I?”

“You’re bordering on kidnapping here.”

He seemed surprised. “Oh, you’re free to leave any time, Deputy McKenzie. Kidnapping?”

He nodded to his associate, who went to a nearby table.

The bartender had returned. He looked at Mankewitz.

“Just coffee. A Diet Coke for my friend.” He nodded at the table.

The bartender delivered the coffee to the bar and the soda to Mankewitz’s associate. “Anything else?” he asked Brynn, as if saying, Want some cheesecake for your last meal?

She shook her head. “Just the check.”

Mankewitz prepared the coffee carefully, just the right amount of cream, a sugar packet and a Splenda. He said, “I heard you had quite an evening a few weeks ago.”

That night…

“And how would you know that?”

“I watch the news.” He gave off an aura of confidence that she found reassuring in one sense-that she was in no physical danger at the moment-but also troubling. As if he had another weapon, like knowing something that could destroy her life without resorting to violence. He seemed completely in control.

In this way he reminded her of Hart.

The union boss continued, “Very important to be informed. When I was growing up, before your time, we had an hour of local news-five P.M.-and then national and international. Walter Cronkite, Huntley and Brinkley…Just a half hour. Me, that wasn’t enough. I like all the information I can get. CNN. I love it. It’s the home page on my BlackBerry.”

“That doesn’t answer the question of how you happen to be here, when I just decided to come in on a whim… Unless you’d somehow found out I had an appointment at Milwaukee PD.”

He hesitated only a moment-she’d obviously touched something close to home. He said, “Or maybe I’ve just been shadowing you.”

“I know he has,” she snapped, nodding at his slim associate.

Mankewitz smiled, sipped the coffee and looked with regret at the rotating dessert display. “We have a mutual interest here, Deputy.”

“And what would that be?”

“Finding Emma Feldman’s killer.”

“I’m not watching him drink very bad coffee two feet away from me right now?”

“It is bad coffee. How’d you know?”

“Smell.”

He nodded at the can of soda by her plate. “You and my friend and that diet pop. That’s what’s not good for you, you know. And, no, you’re not in the company of her killer.”

She looked behind her. The other fellow was sipping his soda while he looked over his own BlackBerry.

What was his home page?

“Don’t imagine you work many murders in Kennesha County,” Mankewitz said. “Not like this one.”

“Not like these,” she corrected. “Several people were killed.” Now that she was alive and the bartender was a witness, even a bribable one, she’d started feeling cocky, if not ornery.

“Of course.” He nodded.

Brynn mused, “What kind of cases do we run? Domestic knifings. A gun goes off accidental during a 7-Eleven or gas station heist. A meth deal goes bad.”