The car was in the inbound lane. Where had they been?

Was she an innocent victim? Or guilty of double murder?

These questions warranted some serious brainstorming with his colleagues. Knowing Elise’s actions before she met with Napoli was the kind of clue-worthy information that he often wrung from material witnesses who were reluctant to disclose it, fearing either retribution or exposure of their own misdeeds.

Now, he was that material witness. He was withholding pertinent information. His coworkers were watching him, Gerard and Worley with puzzlement, DeeDee with dangerous perception.

He should tell them about him and Elise now. He should come clean, as he had resolved to do. He should admit to what had happened mere hours before Napoli died bloody and Elise pulled a vanishing act.

But if he did, if he did, he would be immediately removed from the case. He would probably be fired and possibly jailed, but by one means or another, he would be banished from the police department. Confession would amount to abandoning Elise.

He couldn’t do that, not now, not after last night. Whether she was already dead or still alive, he had to learn what had happened to her. If she was the perpetrator, the killer of two men, he would see to it that she was brought to justice, and own up to his own guilt as well. If it was determined that she was the victim, he wouldn’t stop looking for her until she was rescued, or her body was recovered.

But in order to carry out either pledge, he must remain at the epicenter of the investigation. That was essential.

The others were waiting for an answer. He plopped down into a swivel chair, grumbling, “I don’t know what to think.”

In lieu of a cigarette, Worley put a fresh toothpick in his mouth. DeeDee took a sip of room-temperature Diet Coke. Gerard was the one to break the charged silence.

“I’ve been thinking about the timing,” he said. “The housekeeper left Mrs. Laird at home around ten thirty. Dothan called a while ago to tell me that he places the time of Napoli ’s death somewhere between two thirty and three. Where were he and Mrs. Laird for that four hours in between, and what were they doing?”

Well, Duncan could account for an hour of her time.

Had she met Napoli immediately after he’d left her in the abandoned house? Or later?

“If we knew where they were returning from, we might know how they’d filled that time,” DeeDee said.

“I’ve got a problem with his being shot outside the car,” Worley said. “The highway patrolman told me that the car door was closed. He remembers that clearly because he knocked on the driver’s window before he took a closer look inside and saw that Napoli was dead.”

“Okay,” DeeDee said. “What’s your point?”

“Who closed the car door?”

“ Napoli,” she returned.

“He couldn’t have,” Duncan said, realizing what Worley was getting at. “There was no blood on the door handle or the panel.”

“Right,” Worley said. “ Napoli ’s hands were bloody.”

“So he was shot inside the car, and either the shooter closed the door, or the shooter was inside the car with him,” Gerard said.

“Either way leaves us with yet another mystery,” Worley said. “Why did savvy, ass-saving Napoli just sit there and let the shooter reach around him to put a bullet square in the spot where it would do the most damage?”

“Especially when a shot to the head would have been much easier and just as deadly,” Duncan said.

“But that would also have been messy,” DeeDee said. “People driving by would have seen the gore on the windows.”

“Besides, a shot to the head is quick, probably painless.” They all looked toward Worley for elaboration. “What I mean is, when you go for a gut shot, you’re going for a fatal wound, but a slow one. You want to give your victim time to think, Holy shit, I’m gonna fucking die!”

“I think our lady is capable of that,” DeeDee said. When nobody responded, she looked first at Worley. “Worley?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know her, but I trust your instincts. Dunk, what do you think?”

“If she did him, how’d she get Napoli to just sit there and let her do it, when he outweighed her almost a hundred pounds?”

“She was whispering sweet nothings in his ear?” DeeDee said.

None of the men smiled, especially Duncan. “Okay. Then why in her own car? Why did she leave so many clues behind? The sandal. The scrap of fabric from her clothing. How could she run, and where to, without taking the cash from her wallet? According to Baker, there was several hundred dollars in it.”

“All of which seems as unlikely as Napoli tossing her over the bridge railing at the same instant she pulled the trigger, discharging the fatal shot,” Worley said, frowning. “I don’t know what we’ve got here.”

“Third party?” DeeDee ventured.

“No evidence of one,” Worley said.

“There is one other possibility,” Gerard said quietly.

Duncan knew what Gerard was going to say. That one other possibility also had occurred to him, but he had stubbornly refused to acknowledge or accept it.

“I think it’s safe to say that Mrs. Laird had gotten herself into trouble over Coleman Greer. Whether he was gay or bi or whatever, first Trotter, then Napoli, threatened her with a nasty scandal. Her life went from sugar to shit in a very short period of time. The incident with Trotter could be explained away as self-defense. Plausibly, I believe.

“But no matter how this business with Napoli went down, it was ugly, and she was stuck with a second dead man. That was going to raise questions as well as eyebrows, and possibly incriminate her. Even if she didn’t go to jail, the scandal would have ruined her husband’s career and, more importantly, her way of life.

“Maybe the fear of all that fallout was overwhelming.” He let that statement reverberate for a moment, then concluded, “Elise Laird may have jumped from the bridge because she wanted to die.”

Promising to write up his report first thing when he returned, Duncan left the office ahead of everyone else.

Or tried.

DeeDee fell into step with him as he left the building and forged past reporters. “ Duncan, are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he repeated insistently. “I’m exhausted, that’s all.”

“I don’t think so. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing!”

“Stop yelling at me!”

“I’m not yelling, I’m emphasizing a point. I’m okay except for all the…ambiguity.”

“Ambiguity?”

He unlocked his car door then turned to face her. “Think about it. The last two cases we’ve investigated haven’t been clear-cut homicides. I wish we’d draw one where we looked at the corpse and said, ‘This was your textbook, old-fashioned, honest-to-God malice-with-aforethought, thou-shall-

not-kill murder.’ ”

“I have thought about it,” she said. “And you know what? I think that’s exactly what we’ve got. Honest-to-God, thou-shalt-not, et cetera, murders. Doesn’t it strike you funny-and I don’t mean funny ha-ha-that in those same two ambiguous cases, the victims died looking at Elise Laird?”

He opened the car door and climbed in. “See you later.” DeeDee caught the door before he could close it. He frowned up at her. “We’ll pick this up later, DeeDee. I’m so beat, I can’t even think right now, much less concentrate.”

“You’re more than tired. I’ve seen you tired. This isn’t tired.”

“Take a good look. This is tired.” He pulled on the door until she let go. “See you later.”

As he drove away, he watched her in his rearview mirror. She stood staring after him, frowning with concern, before turning and walking back toward the building. As soon as she was out of sight, he kicked up his speed by twenty miles an hour.

A few minutes later, he was back in the neighborhood where he’d met Elise last night. Ordinarily, the pastel glow of early daylight softened the appearance of even the most hostile environment. Not these streets. They appeared as malevolent this morning as they had the night before.