“That’s about it.” He leaned back in his chair. “After all, it’s not as if I’m going to ask you to do anything illegal. Considering my position, that would go without saying.”

“Would it? I don’t know what you’ll ask me.”

“No, you don’t. And that may bother you a little. But no more than the discomfort you’ve caused me on occasion. And this is going to be something of a headache. I’ll have to make a call and back it up with my presence.” He looked at his watch. “I have an appointment. But I could cancel it and call the superintendent in charge of the Hunter case. Should I do it?”

She hesitated. If she made the promise, she would be bound to keep it. She hated the idea of being obligated to Griffin.

She wanted to sock him.

She turned toward the door. “Make the call.”

*   *   *

THE EARLY-MORNING SUN SHIMMERED ON the San Diego Bay as Kendra and Beth drove slowly toward Marina Cortez. They had stopped for coffee at Starbucks when Kendra had joined Beth after talking to Griffin. She had wanted to give Griffin plenty of time to get his ducks in a row. It should have been a beautiful drive, but Kendra couldn’t shake the horrible image that had greeted her and Lynch there the other night.

It was now quieter, with a single TV news van parked nearby and a reporter from the local Spanish-language station doing his stand-up on the dock. The houseboat was still cordoned off with yellow police tape, and four men in their shirtsleeves were waiting nearby.

Waiting for her.

“Do you know them?” Beth asked.

“Yes. Three of them are cops, the other is FBI Special Agent Michael Griffin. He’s the man I had to stop to see at FBI headquarters downtown. He’s the only reason I’m being allowed in here today.”

“Good of him to show up,” Beth said. “I’m surprised. You were looking pretty grim when you came back to the car after seeing him.”

“I was feeling pretty grim.”

“But evidently he decided to come and smooth things over for you.”

“That’s the way it looks, doesn’t it? More likely to make sure I play nice with the local cops. He stuck his neck out for me, and he wants to keep me from abusing the privilege.”

“Will it work?”

“We’ll know soon.”

They parked and walked up the narrow dock to Sheila Hunter’s houseboat. Kendra extended her hand to Stokes. “Detective, I do appreciate this.”

Stokes shook her hand. “Thank my boss. Or my boss’s boss.” He grimaced. “Or whoever your FBI associate here strong-armed.”

“Strong-armed?” Griffin smiled. “Is that really how we describe cooperation between our law-enforcement agencies? I merely made a request.”

Stokes gestured to the two other men. “I believe you’ve met Detectives Ketchum and Starger. They’ve gone over every inch of this place since the night of the murder. If you would care to tell them what you’re looking for, I’m sure they would be happy to—”

“I have no idea what I’m looking for,” Kendra said.

The detectives exchanged a look. “No idea at all?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Stokes’s tone was sour. “So much for cooperation between law-enforcement agencies.”

Kendra turned toward Griffin. She wasn’t sure how much information he’d given to their superior, and she wasn’t anxious to share what probably would sound like a wild-eyed conspiracy theory.

“Look,” Griffin said. “Dr. Michaels promised to share any observations she makes while in Sheila Hunter’s houseboat. That was my deal with your superintendent, and she will honor that. Fair enough?”

Stokes motioned toward Beth. “Who’s this?”

“Her name is Beth Avery. I brought her to take notes.”

Stokes turned toward Griffin. “Was she part of your deal, too?”

“I suppose she is now.”

Stokes handed Kendra, Beth, and Griffin pairs of latex evidence gloves. “If you wish to touch something, call one of us over to supervise.”

Kendra snapped on her gloves. “No problem, I have a feeling you won’t be too far away.”

“We won’t. This crime scene is still under the jurisdiction of the San Diego PD.”

Griffin nodded. “And I’m sure you’ll keep reminding us of that.”

“Only if it becomes absolutely necessary. It’s up to you,” Stokes smiled. “Ready?”

Am I ready, Colby?

What have you got to show me in there?

You must have been here in this very spot, plotting, planning.

Killing.

She nodded. “Yes, I’m ready.”

They stepped off the dock and walked through the doorway of the boxy one-story houseboat. Kendra was immediately struck by the luxurious interior that eschewed any hint of a nautical theme. The floors were covered by intricately patterned tile that looked like something out of a Beverly Hills estate. The lighting was soft, with several small ceiling spots highlighting framed art deco travel posters for European ski destinations.

Beth stepped around a large brown leather sofa. “Nice place. Very nice. I can see why you thought an online journalist wouldn’t be able to afford digs like this, Kendra.”

“I told you, it’s registered to an executive of her media company.” Kendra’s eyes darted around the room. “Strange.”

“What?” Beth asked.

“There are a few objects in here that have been wiped clean. Recently, in the last day or two.” She turned toward Stokes. “I know forensics wouldn’t have done it. Your men wouldn’t have done it either, would they?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but our department doesn’t provide maid service for murder victims.”

She pointed to a guitar propped up on a black metal stand in the corner. “That guitar has definitely been wiped down. Its glossy finish would show every fingerprint and each speck of dust, but there are none.” She pointed to a ceramic cigarette lighter resting on the countertop that divided the kitchenette from the living room. “Same story with that lighter.”

“Lighter?” Beth turned toward the police officers. “Did she smoke?”

“No.” Kendra answered before they could reply. “I would have picked up the odor on her, but someone was in the habit of smoking an occasional cigar in here. And the glass tabletop and the back of the chairs do have fingerprints. No one was concerned about wiping those clean.”

Detective Starger spoke for the first time. “We lifted quite a few prints from the tabletop and elsewhere in here.”

“Good,” Kendra said. “I’d like to know what the story is with that guitar. Especially since she didn’t play it.”

“How do you know?” Griffin asked.

“Anyone who plays an acoustic guitar with any regularity develops calluses. I have them. It’s actually necessary to play well. Sheila Hunter’s fingertips were smooth, and her nails long and beautifully manicured.”

“Maybe a boyfriend?” Beth suggested.

“Maybe.” Kendra turned toward Stokes. “Was she in a relationship?”

“Not as far as we’ve been able to determine. We’re still exploring that possibility.”

Kendra scanned the kitchen. “Everything seems to be in place in here.”

“There were two glasses in the sink,” Stokes said. “Both had Sheila Hunter’s prints and her prints alone.”

Kendra nodded and turned back toward the living room. “Any sign of the area rug?”

“Area rug?”

“About six by eight feet, red and cream with gold medallions. It was in the middle of the living room, under the couch and coffee table.”

Detectives Starger and Ketchum exchanged a look before turning back to face her. “There was no rug here,” Ketchum said.

“Actually, there was. The only question is whether it was removed before or after Sheila Hunter’s murder.”

Stokes crossed his arms across his chest. “And how would you know that?”

“I saw it.”

“You’ve been in here before?”

Oh, Lord, now they were suspicious of her again. “No, never.”

“Then how—”

“You saw it, too,” she said impatiently. “All of you did. You just weren’t paying attention.” Kendra walked back toward the entrance, where the wall was covered by a collage of framed photographs. She pointed to a group shot of Sheila and her friends in the living room wearing oversized football jerseys. Some were sitting cross-legged on the rug, others were standing around it. “Right here.”