The judge lowered his eyes. "Oren loved Josh more than his own life."

"I believe that. Oh, did you think I was accusing him of murder?" The rocking stopped, and she leaned toward him. "While you've still got one son left, you better hope I solve this case before Oren does."

The judge shook his head. Despite the military record, he could not see his son taking human life by choice-not on Josh's account. Twenty years of sorrow had a tempering effect. With great care, he had watched the returning soldier for signs of unraveling, and he had waited with his safety net to catch the boy when he fell. But Oren had come shining through, his character intact-if not his heart. And the pride of Henry Hobbs was enormous. "You can depend on my son to do the right thing."

"You mean act like a cop?" Once more the floorboards creaked beneath the chair's rockers. "When a child is murdered, cops always look at the parents first. I wonder if Oren took a hard look at you. Does he know what you did in the Korean War? So many medals. You were a damned death machine. As a soldier, you killed more people than I've arrested."

"I'm a pacifist. I sickened of killing as a very young man." And now the judge felt the need to sit down. He settled into the chair beside hers. "I did not murder my son."

The dog lifted his head, awakened by the inflection of pain in an old man's voice.

"I'd like to believe you," said Sally Polk. "But you can see my problem, can't you? Most parents-the innocent ones-they want a case solved. They want justice for the dead child. But you don't." The rhythm of the creaking floorboards was faster now, as if a rocking chair could take her somewhere. "That only makes sense if you already know who killed your son. Rumor has it you're an atheist. So I know God's not telling you to leave the vengeance to Him." The rocking stopped. "If you know who did this, tell me."

"Vengeance is thine, Sally Polk?"

"You bet your sweet ass, old man." She reached out to tap the photograph in his hand. "Mary Kent's skull was caved in with a rock. She died quick. The killer spent more time with Josh. It was hands-on torture. No other way to say it. Broken ribs, a fractured jaw, cracks in his leg bones, breaks in the arms. And then there's the damage to Josh's hands. My expert says one trauma can't account for all the broken fingers. They were snapped like twigs-one by one. The boy's pain just went on and on."

The judge looked down at the dog's brown eyes, wells of solace. "I don't know who murdered my son. If you find out, don't come back here expecting thanks. And I won't thank you for that litany of Josh's suffering-those terrible pictures you put in my head. Now I can see his fear-I can feel it. I can even hear the bones breaking… my child crying. Is this what you wanted?"

He turned to her with all his pain, all his sadness, and it drove her away.

"I'm not an invalid." Swahn waved off assistance as he settled down on the couch in his library. He reached out to an end table and picked up a stapled sheaf of papers. "This is the final report on the bones."

"You didn't get that from the sheriff." Oren sat on the floor and prowled through a box of food delivered by the cleaning woman. He pulled out two roast beef sandwiches and handed one to Swahn. "Who sold you the coroner's report? Dave Hardy?"

"No, I never paid a dime." Swahn bit into his sandwich and nodded toward the box. "There should be a carton of beer in there. And I've got better sources than the deputy. I know Dr. Brasco. He's the anthropologist they called in to examine the bones. I may have misled him. He thought I was consulting on the case. So he faxed me his own results. He also passed along his condolences and regards. Dr. Brasco tells me the two of you go way back to the mass graves of Bosnia. He said you were an uncommon man-his highest praise. He couldn't understand why you left the military. Especially now when-"

"Good job. I found it." Oren pulled out the six-pack of beer cans. "What was Brasco's finding?"

"The female victim died quickly. Josh's death was more drawn out." Swahn reached down to accept a warm beer and popped the tab. "That makes your brother the most likely target. The woman was probably a witness."

Oren could think of other scenarios, but he said nothing.

"That kills the theory of a murder for hire," said Swahn. "A professional would've been more… efficient. The killer's violence toward Josh suggests immaturity, control issues."

"Like somebody who knocks his wife around?"

"I wouldn't rule out spousal abuse. Your brother's killer might have a history of violence, but he certainly had something to hide. Find the secret, something photographable-that's the motive. It's most likely a shameful thing, and that's where the rage comes in."

Oren set down his beer can. "I don't care about a perp's motivation or how he was affected by early potty training. I just collect the evidence, and then I catch him. So simple."

"But you seem to favor abusive husbands. Maybe a jealous husband? You think our killer might've mistaken Josh for you? We could narrow down the suspects if you gave me a list of all the married women you slept with-just the bleach blondes. According to my sources, the female victim was identified as a-"

"We're not partners," said Oren. "You give. I take. It's like that." And now he could rule out any tie to Evelyn, whose hair had been tawny brown, the color of a lion's mane.

"Dr. Brasco said you loved your work. Hard for him to believe you'd ever leave it. He also said you were a moral man. What happened? Were you asked to do immoral things? Is that why you left? Did your shining military code fall apart on you?"

Oren wiped his hands of bread crumbs. "I'm still looking for those missing prints from Josh's last roll. Hannah says she doesn't have them, and I know they weren't left at the drugstore. So that leaves you."

"Unless she lied… But I would never believe any bad thing of Miss Rice, even if I knew it to be true." He looked down at the cartons, the papers and pictures that covered the rug. "You've seen everything I have. If those photographs aren't here-"

"Maybe you missed something. I'll just take a look around upstairs." Oren moved toward the open doors that led to the foyer and the staircase. He glanced back to see Swahn reach for his cane and rise to a listing stand.

Oren slowed his steps near the foot of the staircase, where he listened to the closing of the elevator door in the room behind him-and now the whirr of the slow-rising cage. This was an odd race of dragging feet. He heard the cage door open on the floor above. He climbed upward and paused near the landing to watch William Swahn hobble into a room at the top of the stairs.

Oren gave the man enough time to find the thing he most wanted to hide. Then he opened the door to a room of filing cabinets and other furnishings of a private office. Swahn was not holding papers or pictures. He was secreting a pair of binoculars in the top drawer of a desk.

Interesting choice.

Obviously, the cleaning woman had never ventured into this room. Only one windowpane had been washed, and there were repeated patterns of twin circles in the dust on the sill. Oren took the binoculars from the open drawer and turned to the one clean window, training the lenses on the only thing in sight that was not a cloud or a tree. The binoculars were already focused for the tower of the Winston lodge. Below the roof of bright copper shingles, half the wall was made of glass-a voyeur's dream. He watched Mrs. Winston pacing back and forth like a captive in a giant's jewel box.

"You were right about one thing," said Oren. "I never wanted to work on my brother's murder. Personal involvement screws with judgment." He returned the binoculars to the desk drawer-and slammed it. "That's what blindsided you." He stared at the ruined side of Swahn's face. "You still think you got that scar because the other cops in your precinct thought you were queer?"