“We’ll do that.”

“Have at it.”

He was sure of himself on this point. Maybe it was because his wife would lie for him, or maybe because he was telling the truth. Any way you looked at it, Tess was pretty sure Michael’s wife wouldn’t say anything.

Cheryl said, “Is your wife here?”

“No, she’s out with friends at the moment.” He held Cheryl’s gaze.

Tess couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. There was a hint of a dare in his eyes, which went well with the self-satisfied smirk.

She had to remind herself that just because she didn’t like him, just because he made something recoil inside her, didn’t mean he was anything more than a sociopathic financial advisor.

Cheryl said, “What about March twenty-eighth? Were you here in town?”

“I’d have to look. I’ve gone to Phoenix twice in the last month.”

“Could you do that?”

He pulled out his phone and looked at dates. Held it up for her to see. There was nothing marked for those dates, which didn’t necessarily prove anything. But it didn’t disprove anything either.

“You weren’t in Houston?”

“Houston? Why would I go to Houston?”

Cheryl moved on. “Do you know a man named Alec Sheppard?”

He looked mystified. “Who?”

“Alec Sheppard. He lives in Houston.”

DeKoven shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”

“Don’t be sorry, I’m just asking you about him.” She smiled.

He smiled back.

Cheryl Tedesco said, “Alec Sheppard has indicated that he knows you. He claims you were in Houston at the SkyView Center.”

Tess and Cheryl both knew that there was no record of Michael DeKoven going to Houston. No flight information, no hotel information. Tess knew that Cheryl had been scrupulous in her search. But that didn’t mean he didn’t go.

“Mr. Sheppard says he recognized you,” Cheryl lied.

All’s fair in love and war.

“Then this Mr. Sheppard is either a liar, or needs to get new glasses, or there’s something screwy up here.” He wound his finger around his ear. “You might want to do more research—especially on this guy. Because I don’t know him from Adam.”

“He claims you made a gesture.”

“What kind of gesture?”

“That’s what I’d like to hear from you.”

He stared at Cheryl. His eyes were dark glass. You could not see into them. There seemed to be nothing there. Not anger, not worry—nothing. “I haven’t been to Houston in years.”

He sounded solid. Just the right amount of outrage—not over-the-top. Other than the strange feeling that he was above it all, and better than them, he gave them nothing.

It went on that way for a while longer. Unsatisfying, but Tess thought they got something out of it. At one point her eyes met Cheryl’s—and she saw confirmation there. They both knew he was lying. There would be a trail, if they could just find the trailhead. Perhaps a chartered jet. Perhaps another name. Perhaps both.

He escorted them out. Pleased with himself.

Tess said, “What kind of car is that? It’s really impressive.”

“It should be, for $103,000. It’s a Fisker Karma.”

He’d quoted the price on his Charles Russell painting, too. As rich as he was, why did he have to prove himself?

“Do you have any trouble on that road?” Tess asked. “Looks like there are places you could bottom out.”

“I just take it slow,” he said. “The key is to know where the dangerous spots are, and try to avoid them.”

Which pretty much described his side of the interview.

Half an hour after the two female detectives left empty-handed, Michael’s wife, Nicole, who had just driven in from a shopping trip, paid an unexpected visit to his side of the courtyard. She knocked on his door so hard, if it weren’t two inches thick, she might have put her fist through it.

When Michael opened the door she pushed past him, her whole body shaking with anger. “You must have really messed up, Michael.”

“Always a first time,” he murmured. “To what do I owe this great pleasure?”

“Oh, shut up! You could put us all in danger.”

She was spoiling for a fight. He wished he’d never confided in her, but that was when they were happy, three years ago. Before he finally realized that women just didn’t turn him on. Twelve years into a marriage, that was awkward.

“You said this, this thing you do wouldn’t make any waves. You said you had it all covered, and I would never have to worry about a policeman knocking on my door.”

“Not so you’d notice, but the police didn’t knock on your door.”

“Give them time, Michael. I don’t want the kids exposed to this. I don’t want to be exposed to it myself. I’m thinking of leaving.”

Nicole always said that, but she never did. She liked it here. She liked her own house across the pool, the beautiful rich furnishings from his parents’ house filling it up nicely. She had a great touch. She appreciated his family, if he didn’t. She loved the nice cushy life, didn’t want to take the kids out of their elementary school, didn’t want to be too far from her horsey friends or the new day spa that had been built in the new subdivision down the mountain. She was happy with the way things were. She knew she wouldn’t get much—her lawyers weren’t as good as his.

Plus, she had something to hold over his head.

Nicole liked it just this way. She could forget about him most of the time, but funnel her resentment to him whenever she liked. Make fun of him, make fun of Martin, whom she called “Cabana Boy.” As in, “How’s Cabana Boy today? Did he get a sunburn on his witto tiny wienie?”

This was the level of discourse he had with her. She embarrassed him, and at some point he’d find a way to get rid of her. She was an albatross around his neck.

Don’t shit where you eat.

“Just tell me you had nothing to do with that guy Barkman’s death.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with that guy Barkman’s death.”

She hauled back and slapped him hard across the face.

He shrugged. “It doesn’t change anything. I know you’re upset. I know you hate it when Martin stays over—”

“Shut up! I couldn’t care less about your boy toy, as long as you don’t have sex in front of the kids. I’m talking about Barkman. If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

“Nobody I know.”

“Nobody. Right, nobody. That’s an intelligent answer! The fact is, you don’t know, do you, Michael? You think you’re in charge, but you aren’t in charge. You think you’re so clever. You—”

He grabbed her arms—both of them—and shoved her out the door. She tripped and had to grab the doorjamb to keep from falling. “Fuck you, Michael! You can just…burn in hell!”

She stalked toward her own smaller, more tasteful house. Turned back to say, “You are so screwed, Michael, and you know it! They’re going to come for you, and if they ask, I’m going to tell them what I know.”

“What you know? What you know? You don’t know jack!”

He slammed the heavy door. Hyperventilating.

The bitch.

He called Jaimie. He’d called her earlier, to warn her that a detective might be coming her way, but she hadn’t returned his message. She’d ignored him—again. Jaimie was such a game player, and that was what he wanted to talk to her about.

When his spoiled bitch of a sister answered, he heard a horse blowing loudly through its nostrils. He could barely hear her, but he could sure hear the horse snorting its guts out.

“Jaimie, what do you think you’re doing?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You told that detective from Nogales I was Hanley’s financial advisor.”

“So?”

“I told you he decided against going with me. You knew that. Don’t you know the police talk to each other? I just had a visit from them, by the way. The police.”

“Oh, come on, Michael! Why would I do that? I can’t keep track of your clients. For all I knew George was your client. What’s the big deal? You’re the best liar I know, aside from myself. Quit!”