They returned, opened the door to the warm scent of coffee and Hudson walking out of the downstairs bath. His hair was wet from the shower, his jaw still dark with beard shadow, jeans from the night before hanging low on his hips. He was tossing on his shirt as Becca closed the door and hung up Ringo’s leash. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he drawled as she slid out of her jacket.

“Good morning…I guess.” She shuddered. “I’m still sick about Glenn.”

“Me, too. I’ve already got a couple of calls in to the rest of the guys.”

“And?”

“You were right. The Third downplayed it, but he got a note.”

“He did?” Becca stood still.

“Zeke didn’t. Not yet, anyway. And I haven’t got a hold of Jarrett or Mitch. Or Scott, for that matter. I was going to see them this morning.”

“I want to go with you,” she said and poured two cups of coffee from the pot on the counter. “I want to see the other notes.”

Hudson hesitated as she handed him one of the mugs. “I’d like to know more before we take this to the police.”

“If Glenn got a note, do you think it might be at his house?”

“I thought you said it burned.”

“It did…at least in my vision.”

He nodded but she sensed he was having some trouble with the whole vision thing. “Do you want to ask his wife? Gia?” he asked.

Becca grimaced as she tried to imagine what Gia Stafford must be feeling this morning. Last night at the fire, Gia had been sobbing wildly and clinging to everyone within range. She wouldn’t want people descending on her with their own agendas. Then again, she might be interested in anything connected with her husband’s death. “It’s hard to say how she’ll react. If it were me, I’d want to know every scrap of information that might help explain how the person I loved was suddenly taken from me.” There was a pause and Becca asked, “Why Glenn? Was it an accident? Arson? How do these notes fit in?”

“What if the fire was set on purpose?” Hudson suggested, staring into his coffee mug. “Maybe to get rid of Glenn? He was drinking himself into a stupor and no one was around. It was a perfect opportunity.”

“Well, they were really lucky to just happen to have their firestarter arsenal with them-the night Glenn decides to tie one on?”

“Maybe he tied one on a lot.”

Ringo was dancing at her feet, whining and trying to catch her attention. “Oh, buddy. Sorry.” Opening the pantry door, she found the bag of dog food and measured a ration into his bowl. The dog was on it in an instant.

“Maybe it was planned in advance,” Hudson said as she closed the pantry door. “By someone who knew Glenn’s habits and waited for the right moment. And last night was it.”

“Who are you thinking of? Gia?” Becca asked.

“I can’t picture her planning anything so detailed,” he admitted.

“And the notes?”

“We don’t know for certain that Glenn got one,” Hudson said carefully.

Becca knew he was right, but she was inclined to believe in her vision. “Maybe we should ask Gia.”

He reached for his cell phone without hesitation. “She might not be up to a visit.”

“Let’s go see.”

“Where are you going?” Gretchen demanded as Mac grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and made for the nearest exit of the police station.

Her hair was pulled back severely, causing pressure at her temples and straining her eyes so she had a Siamese cat appearance. It looked uncomfortable and he figured it wasn’t going to help her temperament. He’d tried to be absent when she arrived at the station this morning, but he’d gotten caught up in the case and suddenly it was eight-thirty and Gretchen was there with a box of doughnuts.

“Home to bed,” he told her. “Pulled an all-nighter.”

“Doing what?”

“There was a fire. Glenn Stafford and Scott Pascal’s restaurant. Looks like Stafford’s dead.”

“Are you for real?”

He nodded, slid his sidearm into his shoulder holster, and grabbed his jacket.

“Why wasn’t I called?”

“Because the fire investigators haven’t labeled it arson, so there’s no homicide. And it’s outside of our jurisdiction.”

“Bullshit. It involves our case.” The wheels were turning in her mind, the box of doughnuts dropped unceremoniously onto the corner of his desk.

Mac headed toward the door, his head full of images from the night before. He intended to do just as he’d told Scott Pascal the night before: he was going to ask the Preppy Pricks about the notes. He’d made a couple of calls already and was on a mission.

Gretchen was hot on his heels, her footfalls short and angry as she followed him outside. “Your attitude sucks, McNally. I’m this close to reporting you.” She held her hand out, so he could see the index finger and thumb separated by only a hairsbreadth.

“To who?” Mac asked at his own personal Jeep. He’d parked the prowler around the back since he was going off duty-at least officially.

“D’Annibal, for starters. The chief if I have to.”

He’d had it with her. “I don’t know what your gripe is, Sandler. You’ve been to a number of interviews. You think the Jessie Brentwood investigation’s a waste of time, my personal white whale. You hate everything about being my partner. Do whatever the hell you want.”

“You should have called me when you decided to go to the fire.”

“Wake you up at two in the morning for something that might not be a crime?”

“It was Pascal and Stafford’s restaurant! That’s critical to our investigation!”

“What investigation?” Mac finally snapped back. “You don’t give a damn. All you want is a fresh body, not a twenty-year-old corpse.”

“Fuck you.”

“Back atcha.” He slammed into his Jeep and drove away, wishing the pavement was gravel so he could peel out and choke her with the dust. He slipped a pair of nearly forgotten sunglasses onto his nose as shafts of rare winter sunbeams slipped through the clouds and bounced off the wet pavement.

Christ, she was a pain. And he didn’t need the headache. Between his obsession with this case, the other cases he was investigating, and his home life, which was centered around his kid, he didn’t have time for Gretchen Sandler’s histrionics. Not for the first time he wondered who she’d slept with to make detective. Worse yet, she had a way of making him lower himself to her level. The fact that he’d just baldly and gleefully lied to her pleased him in a way that defied explanation. Maturity was highly overrated, he concluded as he turned the Jeep away from the direction of his home and toward the garage where Mitch Bellotti spent his days.

Hudson had checked on Glenn’s address and found the house without difficulty. It was a white-pillared colonial with an excruciatingly steep driveway and little ceramic gnome-like creatures hiding in an expansive yard. There was a brown older model Chevrolet sedan parked precariously on that slope. Hudson parked Becca’s Jetta on the street below and they walked up a set of steps that switchbacked through sliding mud and bark dust, courtesy of the nearly incessant precipitation.

An older woman with coiffed gray-white hair answered their knock and looked at them with suspicion. “Yes?”

“We’re high school friends of Glenn’s,” Becca said. “We wondered if we could see Gia.”

“Well, Gia’s sleeping right now. This isn’t a good time. She’s been medicated.” She was brusque and determined.

“I understand. Would you tell her Becca Sutcliff and Hudson Walker came to see her?” Becca added.

“Oh. I think Glenn mentioned you.” She glanced past them to Becca’s car. “I’m Gia’s mother. I don’t think it’s worth your while to stay. She could be out a while and when she’s awake, oh, dear, the medication makes her a little…unclear.”

Becca half expected Mama Bear to slam the door on them when Gia herself appeared on the stairs beyond. Tousled and red-eyed, clutching a bathrobe closed with one hand, she walked barefoot to the entry. “Who’s here?”