He didn't answer. He rarely did. She rubbed him, listening to him purr. When she tried to stop, he held her hand in place, making a warning noise deep in his throat. She only laughed and complied for another minute. One final squeeze, then she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning toward his ear.

"Can I see, sweetie? Please?"

A grunt. Adele closed her eyes and concentrated. After a couple of minutes, the darkness cleared. This was the true gift of the seers. They could not only see better and farther, but project those visions to other clairvoyants.

Again, Adele saw Robyn Peltier. Still at that damned computer.

"Show me more," she whispered. "Help me find her."

With an ease that made Adele ache with envy, Thom pulled his mental eye back and panned the room.

"Slow down," she said, as she took it all in, making mental notes. Then, "Okay, take me outside."

They passed through the door into a parking lot. Adele guided him to the front of the office, noting the name and address.

"That was exactly what I needed," she murmured, lips to his ear. "You're too good, you know that?"

A hoarse chuckle. He knew it very well. And he knew what was coming.

She stood and pulled off her shirt.

When Robyn saw a shadow pass the drawn motel drapes, her first thought, supported by her growling stomach, was "Good. Lunch. Finally." Then she remembered she hadn't ordered any yet.

She'd meant to. She'd picked a meal from the menu, then decided she wasn't quite hungry enough and wanted to check a few more things first.

Hope had set her on the task of researching rumors about Jasmine Wills, anything that might support the theory that she had a grudge against Portia, and that the photo had pushed her over the edge to murder.

Robyn had started with tabloid and gossip column archives. Finding nothing new, she'd moved to message boards and blogs, and that's where she'd become mired in the hate and vitriol posters directed at Portia – a woman they'd never met. She'd been pulled off track, bogged down again, lunch plans forgotten as her hopes of finding helpful rumors were squashed by the sheer number of blatant lies and slander.

Finally she'd stalled on a "Shoot Portia Kane" Web game. She'd been surprised it hadn't been removed in light of the tragedy. Then she'd realized it had been created after Portia was killed.

How could someone make such a game? How could people play it? If Robyn wanted a suspect to replace her, she could just post on Craigslist. People would line up, eager to snatch the glory of killing a young woman whose only crime had been to unabashedly enjoy the wealth and social position she'd been born into.

She was still staring at that game when she noticed the figure approach the curtained window. For at least ten seconds the figure stood there, then moved toward the door. Robyn waited for it to appear at the window on the other side of the door. It didn't.

Should she stay where she was? Or run into the bathroom?

When no knock came, she rose, gripping the back of the chair to support herself as she caught her breath. Okay, she was being silly now. A man outside her door? Could it be the one who was sharing her room? Yet even as she tried to convince herself it was Karl, she had only to recall the slender shadow to know it hadn't been.

She took three steps toward the peephole, then stopped, remembering a crime show she'd watched with Damon, where someone looked out his peephole and got his face blasted off with a shotgun.

The figure passed to the other side. Then his shadow started to shrink as he walked away.

Robyn hurried to the peephole. Her view was distorted, but she could tell he had red hair and looked young. She remembered what Hope had said about seeing a red-haired young man at her apartment. Now she flashed back to another figure. Judd's killer. Male, young, a slight build, below-average height…

She checked back out the peephole. The man was walking toward the road.

Robyn darted to the nightstand and picked up the phone. Her finger flew to the pad to dial Hope's cell. But what would she say? If Karl drove really, really fast they might catch a glimpse of the guy before he got away?

She'd wanted to play an active role in the investigation, hadn't she? She put down the phone, and quickly changed back into Judd's sweats.

After squashing the junkie-college-kid lead, Finn's day had continued its pattern of failure.

There had indeed been a boy at Robyn Peltier's door. Confirming that hadn't been simple. First, Finn had to be careful explaining how he knew there'd been a boy there. He'd claimed it was an anonymous tip from a neighbor who'd taken his card.

The officer admitted to questioning the kid, but he hadn't bothered getting a name because the story checked out and the kid lived in the building. Well, no, he hadn't confirmed that… He'd been going to, then an elderly resident had cornered him and started complaining about crime rates and you know how that goes…

Finn asked the officers currently on stakeout duty to follow up. Twenty minutes later, one called back to report that there were no kids in apartment 304. The super didn't recognize the description and he swore he knew every boy in his building, because you had to keep an eye on kids that age…

So Finn had one teenage boy, nicely dressed, well mannered and well spoken, skilled in lying and picking locks. An odd combination. What did it have to do with his case? An unrelated crime of opportunity? Stealing Portia Kane memorabilia to sell on eBay?

Next came what seemed a bit of luck. The lab had managed to raise the serial number on that gun. It was registered to a private citizen – an eighty-six-year-old great grandmother, who'd reported it stolen two months ago. The gun had likely passed through several hands before killing Kane, the silencer added by one of them. Some one would follow up, but Finn suspected another dead end.

The Philly police had also struck out with Peltier's parents. They were outraged that their daughter was wanted for questioning in a murder. These folks also knew the law. They refused a search without a warrant, and they phoned their lawyer. Though they didn't have the right to insist she be present for questioning, they stalled until she arrived.

Regarding their daughter, they hadn't spoken to her in four days. The police were welcome to review their home and cell phone records. They also provided her address in L.A., her home and cell number, though they must have known the L.A. cops already had all this – trying to look helpful while not revealing anything that was.

As for the friend Finn was seeking, their daughter was twenty-eight years old. They no longer monitored her friends and didn't know most of them. One detective had taken advantage of a bathroom break to scout the main rooms. In the living room, he'd found a hanging photo of two teenage girls. One matched the description Finn had been given. The other was Robyn Peltier.

When confronted, Peltier's mother claimed it was a friend from Robyn's teen years and she couldn't recall the girl's name. The father, though, blew up at the intrusion, ended the questioning and sent the detectives on their way.

They were lying about the friend.

Finn knew there was an easy way to get his answer. He had a source who was certain to know exactly who Robyn Peltier's friend was. But that source had slipped away the moment Finn got on the phone with the Philly detectives.

Finn still hadn't decided what to do about Damon. The cop in him said to cut the guy loose. No matter what special skills Damon could bring to the investigation, the husband of the main suspect was not partner material. But Finn couldn't help thinking that it wasn't a coincidence that he'd gotten this case, the one detective who could speak to the dead.