High Noon

In the squadroom, Phoebe used a large whiteboard to create a chart. As she built the diagrams, added names, she struggled to keep her conversation with Duncan from playing back in her head. Stubborn, macho idiot. Going off on a tangent about his precious balls because she expected him to take proper and reasonable precautions. She'd never have thought it of him. It just went to show how wrong you could be about someone.



If he got his head, or his damn balls, blown off, it was his own fault. She had to stop, shut her eyes and order herself to calm down.



That wasn't going to happen. If she didn't know just where to find Duncan, how the hell would Roy's killer? And why would he waste his time and energy cruising around the city looking for Duncan, and then risk exposure by trying something stupid?



He was too smart for that.



He had a plan, of that she was certain. And he wouldn't have tipped his hand to her if Duncan was his primary and immediate target. Duncan might very well be one, but there was time.



She'd let herself panic, and she knew better.



Calm, rational thinking was the way to find the answers.



She'd pulled another detective and an experienced uniformed officer into the case.



"We believe," she began as she continued to write on the board, "that the UNSUB is connected to one of the female victims of a previous hostage situation, suicide or crisis in which I sat as negotiator. What we know is he targeted, abducted and killed Roy Squire, specifically because of the victim's connection to me. We know he has knowledge of explosives. We know he traveled to Hilton Head, and returned to Savannah with Roy in Roy's car, which was found abandoned and wiped clean in the long-term lot at the airport, where we can assume he had his own car parked or took a cab. We do not know, yet, how he got to Hilton Head." She turned around. "Detective Peters, I need you to check on oneway car rentals that were picked up in Savannah, dropped off in Hilton Head. One-way railway and bus tickets, air tickets. Or any round-trips purchased that were used only one way. He may have chartered private. We don't know how deep his pockets are. Find out what you can from private planes, destination Hilton Head, within the last week."



"Why didn't he use his own car, coming and going?" Sykes wondered. "If he has one. Drive's not that far from here to there. Why use the victim's to transport?"



"We don't know that either. It's possible he doesn't own a car."



"Or," the new team member, Nably, began, "the one he owns, or has access to, isn't geared for hauling a full-grown man, bound and gagged, forty, fifty miles."



"Too small," Phoebe mused.



"Or a hatchback SUV with no trunk, no place to conceal the abductee." Nably pulled on his prominent bottom lip. "Or maybe he just likes the idea of having us puzzle on it, and spend the time finding out."



"Very possible." She paused to drink from her bottle of water. "It's also possible, and I believe probable, that the subject has had police or military training. He knows how we work, so yes, he might have done things this way to add to the legwork. He's had training. He was able to slip through the perimeter on the Johnson situation, dispatch his target and slip back out without a ripple."



"Maybe he was in uniform," Sykes suggested. "Or had ID."



"Yes. He got through the posts, into the building and into Reeanna Curtis's apartment. It had been cleared, and she rushed out with her children-doesn't remember if she locked the door or not. Either way, he got in. He chose that apartment, that window. Why?"



"Because he knew enough to know it wasn't optimum angle, and SWAT wouldn't use it."



"I agree." She turned back. "The pink roses on the grave-which we have not been able to trace-indicate the UNSUB's attachment to a woman, most likely a dead woman. These are the names of all female casualties in any negotiations in which I took part, both for this department and previously for the FBI.



"Brenda Anne Falk, suicide. Her husband is clear on this. She had a brother and a father, both of whom have been verified as in Mississippi during the time frame of Roy's abduction and murder. At this time, we have no leads on anyone else connected to her who has either motive or opportunity. Linked here are the other law enforcement personnel who are listed in the file on that incident. There is no known personal connection between any of them and Brenda Falk."



"Maybe he doesn't have connections to any of them," Sykes put in. "Maybe it's a cop or a fed who just went south. Picked up on any of those," he continued with a nod toward the board. "And/or you, Lieutenant, because the voices said so."



"Then it'll be a lot harder to find him. Victim two, chronologically, is Vendi, Christina. She was part of an organization called Sundown, a small, extreme fringe terrorist group. Poorly organized, poorly funded, and still they managed to invade the home of Gulfstream Aerospace's CEO during a dinner party, taking fifteen people hostage."



"I remember that." Nably pointed a finger. "You were on that."



"I was. The demands were as radical and extreme as the group, and as poorly thought out. After twelve hours of negotiation, during which time it was known that at least one of the hostages was seriously injured if not dead, it was determined by tactical command to move in."



"You talked them into letting the kids out, and a pregnant woman. I remember this."



"They did agree to release the CEO's two minor children and a female guest who was seven months pregnant, taking the hostages down to twelve. Two members of Tactical were able to gain entry through a second-story window, and took out two of the hostage-takers. Vendi opened fire on law enforcement and was terminated. The single remaining terrorist was taken into custody. He's still inside."



She could remember how horrible it was. The screams, the gunfire. "Vendi's father was career army until his recent retirement. He has, always, disavowed her actions, and cannot be placed in Savannah nor in Hilton Head during the time frame. However, there would be any number of military connections there, and further connections to Vendi from any remaining members of the disbanded Sundown organization." She pushed at her hair. "I've asked the FBI to look into this angle.



I know," she said, reading the expressions. "This is our case. But the Bureau's resources for this kind of investigation are wider and deeper than ours."



"Next is Delray, Phillipa, who was killed during a carjacking. Her five-year-old daughter was in the car, and was then taken by the two carjackers as hostage. They were pursued to a garage on the west side, managed to get inside. Negotiations were successful, the child released and the two men surrendered. Delray's brother was in the army, serving in Germany at the time of his sister's death. He now lives in Savannah, as does Delray's husband. Delray's brother, Ricardo Sanchez, is with the mounted patrol."



"I know him." The uniformed officer held up a hand. "I know Rick Sanchez. He's a good guy."



"I hope you're right, but he'll have to be interviewed."



Didn't sit well, she could see that, just didn't sit well for cops to poke at another cop. "I'll be speaking to him myself," she decided on the spot. "We then have Brentine, Angela, killed during an attempted bank robbery. Her injuries were received during the initial phase, and initial attempts to secure medical attention for her were refused. She succumbed on the way to the hospital during hour four of negotiations, when we were able to secure her release. Her husband, Brentine, Joshua, was in New York on business. He remarried nineteen months after his first wife's death, since divorced. He has never served in the military or in any law enforcement capacity. Angela Brentine has no living male relations." "There was a lot of press on that one," Sykes remembered. "Not only the bank-robbing spree that ended here, but Brentine's wife. He's old Savannah, money and status. Rumors floated around, as I recall, that her dying saved him a messy divorce."



"I'll be talking to Brentine very soon. Officer Landow? I'd like you to re-interview Reeanna Curtis, from the Hitch Street incident. Any details she remembers before, during, after she was evacuated. Talk to neighboring apartments as well. Take another officer of your choosing. I'll authorize it. Detective Sykes, I'd like you to reach out to members of the tactical team on that same incident. I believe they'll be more... relaxed with you than with me. I'm not looking to cause trouble for any of them. I want to know if anyone caught so much as a glimpse of another officer-uniformed or just badged-that they might not have recognized right off. If anyone is reluctant to speak about this, I'd suggest you show them a couple of the crime-scene photos of Bonaventure. After Roy Squire was blown to pieces."



"I'll take care of it, Lieutenant."



"Thank you." She nodded because she saw Dave step in. "Let's get started."



When Dave gestured to her office, she walked into it ahead of him. "You've got a lot laid out in a short time, Phoebe. Get any sleep in there?"



"Some. Truth? It kept coming back when I drifted off. Roy chained on that grave, the explosion. I was better off awake and doing. I'm not so scared when I'm doing as I am when I stop."



"Your family?"



"I don't know. How long can I keep them shut up in that house?



Fine for my mother," she said with a tired laugh that wanted to turn bitter. "But the rest? I just don't know. I'm going to go out, start talking to witnesses, connections to those four female victims. Something's going to break out of it. I know it will."



"Take one of the men with you."



"I don't have anyone to spare. We're already spread thin with the de tails on my house, the ones taking Josie and Carter to work and sitting on them."



It made her sick to think of it, sick in mind, in heart, in the belly.



"And I know that can't go on much longer either. I know we don't have the manpower or the budget for unlimited babysitting."



"They're there today, so we think about today. How's Ava... everyone handling it?"



"Everyone, including Ava, is handling it as best they can. You might call her, or go by. It might ease her mind."



"Well. Hmm." He slipped his hands into his pockets. "About the interviews, I'd go with you myself, but I've got a meeting at City Hall. If you could pick someone out of the hat, not just the squad, who would it be?"



Maybe, maybe either he or Ava would make a move before they were both collecting Social Security, but she wasn't putting money on it. "Sykes is solid, and that's why I want him tugging on the tactical team. Liz Alberta. She's SV, I know, but she's got a good ear. But I don't know what her case load is, or-"



"I'll find out, see if it can be worked. Take ten minutes, call home. You'll feel better, clearer in your mind.".



"You're right. You take five, call yourself, it would do the same for you."



They met Sanchez in Forsythe Park, and stood in the shade with his wise-eyed horse. The thick air of the morning had turned oppressive, so the rich brown hide of the horse gleamed damp.



Close to MacNamara House, Phoebe thought. Close enough that in uniform, mounted on his pretty horse, he could watch her home without anyone noticing.



Sanchez stood about five-feet-eight by Phoebe's gauge, with a tough, scrapper's build. There was a little hook-shaped scar under the corner of his left eye, and a hard, stubborn line to his jaw.



Was the man in the ball cap, the whistler, taller? She thought by an inch or two. But had she paid enough attention to be certain?



"She didn't care about the car," Sanchez said, speaking of his sister.



"She just wanted to get Marissa out. She fought them because she wouldn't leave her baby, so they put a knife in her and left her bleeding to death on the street."



"You were in Germany when it happened?"



He nodded at Liz. "They gave me hardship leave, let me come home for her funeral. My mother, I thought it would kill her, too. And my brother-in-law, he was like a dead man for days."



"You were only nineteen when it happened. You were training as a weapons specialist."



"I thought I'd make the army a career. See the world, fight the fight. But after Philli... I finished my tour and came home."



"And joined the mounted unit about two years after."



"That's right." His eyes narrowed. "What's this about, Lieutenant MacNamara? The one who put that knife in her, he's still in. Have you come to tell me he's getting out?"



"No. Can you tell me where you were last night, Officer Sanchez? Between eleven and three?"



"I could," he said evenly. "I'd want to know why. I'd want to know why you're asking me where I was around the time a man was blown up in Bonaventure."



"I'm asking you because a man was blown up in Bonaventure."



"What does it have to do with me?"



"Let me ask you this first. You didn't say how your niece was spared that day while your sister was killed."



"I told you, the bastards killed Philli because she fought them. Cops caught up with them at a garage; they'd locked themselves in with Marissa. Cops surrounded the place, got them to let the baby go and surrender."



"Who got them to surrender?" Phoebe asked him.



"The cops." His horse tossed its head at the impatience in Sanchez's voice, and automatically he stroked a hand over its cheek to soothe. "The cops saved her life. Men like that? Men who'd kill a mother trying to protect her baby? What's to stop them from doing the same to a little girl? Cops saved Marissa. It's why I'm a cop."



No possible way this is the guy, Phoebe thought, and when she ex changed a look with Liz, saw they were in agreement. "I was the hostage negotiator in the crisis situation with your niece."



"You?" Some of his color drained, then poured back again, deeper, darker. "I didn't know there was a negotiation." His voice had thickened. "You didn't ask for details?"



" I... when I got here... everyone was in shock, in mourning. It was like a blur. Then I had to go back, finish my tour. When I was discharged and came home, I didn't want to know. I didn't want to look back at that. I wanted-I wanted-"



"To be one of the ones who saved lives, who helped people in trouble."



"Yes, ma'am," he managed after a moment, and nodded to Liz. "You asked where I was last night. I stayed the night at my girlfriend's apartment. Here." He took out his pad, his pencil. "Here's her name, her number, the address. Is there anything else you need to know?"



"This is fine. Thank you, Officer Sanchez."



When she took the paper, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet. "Marissa's ten now. She's ten years old now. Here's her picture." He flipped it open, and Phoebe looked down at a dark-haired, darkeyed little beauty. "She's gorgeous."



"She looks like her mother." He put the wallet away, held out a hand. "Thank you, from my sister."



"Life's a strange ride, isn't it?" Liz commented as they walked the wide path back to Phoebe's car. "You changed the direction of his life. Never met him, never spoke to him before today, but he's doing what he's doing, maybe is what he is, at least partially, because of what you did one day five years ago."



"Maybe. It's just as true that due to someone's perception of what I did some other day, two people are dead."



Liz followed the direction of Phoebe's gaze toward the house on



Jones. "Do you want to go in, check on them?"



"No. Let's go talk to the husband, just to tie this one up. Then we'll try Brentine."



Delray was a quiet, gentle-eyed man. After five minutes, Phoebe decided he'd have a hard time squashing a spider much less killing a man in cold blood.



She had a much different impression of Joshua Brentine.



He kept them waiting twenty minutes in the reception area of his river-view offices. Clouds the color of angry bruises roiled in from the northeast, Phoebe noted. A wicked storm was just waiting to happen.



They were ushered in by Brentine's glossy, narrow-hipped assistant to an office with a wide view of the river that had been furnished more as an elegant parlor than a place of big business.



The mix of elegance and power reflected the man, to Phoebe's mind, who looked as if he'd been born wearing a perfectly cut suit. The burnished hair waved back from a high, aristocratic forehead; the hawksharp brown eyes didn't mirror the smile his mouth offered.



"Ladies. I apologize for keeping you waiting." He rose from behind an antique desk, gestured to a seating area with curved settee and wingbacked chairs. "My schedule is well packed today."



"We appreciate the time, Mr. Brentine. I'm Lieutenant MacNamara, this is Detective Alberta."



"Please, sit. I'm forced to admit I have no idea why I've warranted a visit from two of our city's most attractive public servants."



"The bank robbery which resulted in the tragic death of your wife has come up in a current investigation."



"Is that so?" Settling back in his chair, he looked politely puzzled. "How so?"



"I'm not able to divulge the details of an ongoing investigation. According to the information in the file, you weren't in Savannah at the time of your wife's death."



"That's correct. I was away on business. In New York."



Phoebe glanced around the office. "You must travel extensively, given the nature of your business."



"Yes, I do."



"And the bank where your wife was killed. Am I correct in saying that wasn't the bank you used, at that time, for your professional or personal businesses?"



"No, it wasn't. I don't understand why this has anything to do with something current, Lieutenant."



"We're just confirming details, and I certainly apologize for the necessity of bringing up a tragic event that caused you such grief."



But you don't appear to be touched by that, Phoebe thought. Not like poor Falk, reliving the death of Brenda.



"Witness statements agree that Mrs. Brentine did have an account in the bank. That, in fact, she came in that day to withdraw all her funds and close that account. Maybe you could tell us about that, Mr. Brentine, as it was over three years ago. We haven't yet been able to access the bank records on that transaction."



"Tell you what?" He rolled his shoulders. "Angela had a small, personal account of her own. Mad money, you could say. A few thousand dollars. Some terrible twist of fate had her deciding to bank that day, at the very time of the robbery."



"You didn't know about the account?"



"I didn't say I didn't know about it. I said it was her little piggy bank, so to speak."



"I'm sorry, I'm just wondering why the wife of someone in your enviable financial position would need a separate little piggy bank."



"I imagine she enjoyed the independence."



"But, according to the file, she wasn't employed during your marriage."



"No, she wasn't." He lifted a hand from the arm of his chair, a palmup gesture she recognized as impatience. "She was very busy taking care of our home, being a hostess, working with charitable organizations. I'm afraid I can't help you any more with this, so if you'll excuse me-"



"But to withdraw all of it, at one time," Phoebe persisted. "That's what stood out for me when I read the case file in conjunction with this other investigation. That's just puzzling."



"Unfortunately, neither you nor I can ask her."



"That is unfortunate. I expect she was going to buy you a present, or splurge on something foolish. I'm always splurging on something foolish if I get enough money in my hands. I bet she had a couple of close girlfriends. We women do, and we tend to tell them these silly details we don't tell our husbands."



"I fail to see what that detail has to do with anything."



"You're probably right. I'm just going off on a tangent. It just niggles me, I suppose. I hate not to know. Well, if you could tell us where you were last night, that would be helpful, and we'd be right out of your way. After eleven last night?"



He said nothing for an icy ten seconds. "I don't like the implications of that."



"Oh, there's no implication at all. I apologize if it seemed otherwise. It'd be helpful if you'd verify your whereabouts. Otherwise... " Phoebe looked toward Liz.



"That would niggle both of us," Liz said with a big smile. "Then we'd be taking up a lot more of your valuable time."



"I was at the theater with a friend until after eleven, then we had drinks. I got home about one this morning. Now if there's anything else-"



"Just one little thing. The name of your friend. Just to tie this up so we won't have to bother you again."



"Catherine Nordic." He rose. "I have to ask you to leave. If you have any other questions, I'll contact my lawyer."



"That's not necessary. Again, I apologize for bringing up difficult memories. Thank you so much for your time."



As they walked back through reception, Liz glanced toward Phoebe. "Didn't like him."



"Why, neither did I! Self-important putz. And wasn't it interesting he didn't want to tell us anything about his dead wife's friends or that bank account? Tell me, Liz, if you were married to a very wealthy man, why would you be socking money away in your own account?"



"Security, should said wealthy husband decide to dump me or vice versa."



"And if the marriage was in trouble?"



"A girlfriend would know. I get a whiff of something else here. Cold-fish husband, and a controlling one you bet your ass-so you've got to sneak money into a separate account-a husband who's out of town a lot while you're kicking around arranging flowers and taking lady lunches."



"Affair."



"We are not only attractive public servants, but cynical ones."



"Hmm." Phoebe ran it through her head as they rode the elevator down. "I don't see the dead wife as the love of his life. Strikes me as he's more or less x'd her out like he might a canceled meeting. But if she had a lover... maybe one she was planning on running off with. Broke open that piggy bank."



"Wrong time, wrong place. Her shooter and his cohorts are doing life, but that might not be enough for a brokenhearted lover. Have to blame somebody."



"And everyone got out alive but her. I didn't get a medical team in, not in time."



"Couldn't," Liz corrected. "I read the file, too, Phoebe."



"If someone was in love with her, if someone was eaten up by guilt that she went to the bank because of him, 'couldn't' wouldn't mean squat. Let's track down Angela Brentine's friends, her hairdresser, her personal trainer. The kind of people an unhappy woman talks to. If she had a lover, one of them knows."



"I can get the best friend." Liz took out her phone as they crossed the lobby and stepped outside. "I've got a friend with the paper. I'll ask him to pull up the report on the Brentine wedding. Best friend was probably maid of honor, or certainly in the wedding party."



"Aren't you handy to have around?"



"The guy I used to live with thought so, until I showed him the door."



Glynis Colby was a long beanpole of a blonde in jeans and a linen shirt. Her photographer's studio claimed a corner of the third floor of a rehabbed house near Greene Square. Various props, including an enormous teacup and an army of stuffed animals, were stacked around the walls. She called her assistant-a little guy with a streaked ponytail and a cherubic smile-Dub when she asked him to get everyone a cold drink. "I still miss her. It's been three years and counting, and I'll see something and think, I've got to call Angie. But she's not here."



Here was the emotion Joshua Brentine had lacked. "You were friends a long time?" Phoebe asked her.



"Since we were fourteen. Glyn, Angie and Dub-the unholy trinity. We were going to be famous together."



"I know your work," Liz put in. "You took pregnancy photos of a cousin of mine. They were gorgeous. Then she came back with her little boy. You've got a good reputation-deservedly."



"We do pretty well, right, Dub?"



He gave her hand a squeeze after he'd set down glasses. "Angie? She was the sweet part of the heart."



"We had this concept," Glynis continued. "Angie specialized in wedding photography, I'd do pregnancy and children. A fun way, we thought, to generate repeat business. Plus, she just loved doing weddings, had such an eye for them. And Dub..."



"I'd run the business."



"I was under the impression that Angela wasn't working at the time of her death."



"No. Joshua didn't like it. Or us." Glynis slanted her gaze toward Dub, wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Bad influences."



"He hated me more," Dub put in. "Homophobe."



Glynis poked him in the arm. "Oh, you just like to be number one. He hated me just as much. I was the slut."



"I was the gay man slut. That trumps. He met her at a wedding she was working," Dub continued. "Big society deal and a huge coup for us."



"We'd only been in business for about eight months."



"She was beautiful. Really beautiful, and I meant it about the sweet."



"And she had enormous charm. Joshua swept her right off her feet." Using both hands, Glynis made a broad, swooping gesture. "Acres of flowers-heavy on the pink roses she liked best. Candlelight dinners, romantic getaways. Six weeks later, she was engaged. Three months after that she was Mrs. Joshua Brentine."



"Then it started." Dub's mouth tightened as he picked up the story. "He pressured her into quitting her work. How could she snap pictures-as he put it-at weddings when, if the wedding was important enough, she'd be a guest?"



"And she had a duty to blah, blah, blah," Glynis said with a shrug. "She gave it up, gave it all up for him. She adored him. He didn't like her socializing with us, so he made it difficult. Manipulating's a Bren tine specialty. So we'd grab lunch now and then, and she wouldn't tell him, or we'd have dinner when he was out of town."



"Dangerous liaisons," Dub added. "When did she start the affair?"



Glynis's eyes widened at Phoebe's question. "How do you know about that?"



"Why don't you tell us about it?"



"It wasn't sleazy. It wasn't like that, she wasn't like that. Joshua had to have everything his way. He wouldn't let her be, and she got more and more unhappy. He expected her to be available round the clock for him, but he could do whatever he damn well pleased."



"Easy tiger," Dub said as he rubbed Glynis's shoulder.



"All right." Glynis took a long breath. "All right. She was miserable, and he wouldn't give way on anything. He wouldn't consider counseling, and nixed therapy for her when she got depressed. She didn't have any money of her own by that time. Everything was in his name. When she came to realize divorce was going to be the only way, she'd come in here a couple times a week, more if she could manage it. She'd do setup, darkroom work, digital manipulation, anything we needed, and we paid her in cash."



"She met someone. She wouldn't say how or where or who, but she was happy." Dub pulled out a blue handkerchief, handed it to Glynis so she could wipe her eyes. "The light came back into her."



"When did the light come back?"



"About six months before she died. She called him Lancelot, her pet name for him."



"How'd they contact each other?"



"She bought a preloaded cell phone. His idea, right, Dub?"



"Yeah, she said that he knew how to do what had to be done. Listen, the men responsible for what happened to her are in prison. What's the point of dragging this out now?"



"It's going to help us on another case. Anything you can tell us about the man she was involved with could help."



"Well, I think he had a place on the west side where they'd hook up." Glynis glanced at Dub, got a nod. "I saw her the day before it happened. She was flying. She said she'd decided to move out, to get a di vorce. As soon as that was done, she and Lancelot were going to get married. She was going to take what money she had and move to Reno, establish the residency requirements for the divorce. She wanted it fast. She always wanted fast."



"Anything else that you know about him, anything she said about him? However minor a detail."



"I think he worked out-seriously. She talked about how he was really built, and worked at it. He was giving her tips on getting stronger physically."



"Blue eyes," Dub remembered. "She bought him a shirt one day, said it matched his eyes. Blue rugby style. Nice. And he cooked."



"That's right, that's right. She said how sexy it was to watch him cooking dinner. I remember it surprised me, because he didn't seem the type."



"Why not?"



"Everything else she said, or the impressions I got, said ultra machismo. To be honest, I was worried about her. We both were. He seemed like the polar opposite of Joshua, and we wondered if she didn't fall into all this as a kind of reaction. Hot-blooded, tough, physical. Blue collar."



"Why do you say blue collar?"



"Sometimes she called him her blue knight. Maybe it was the eyes, though. But I got the impression he was a working stiff, you know." Or maybe the blue was the uniform, Phoebe thought.



"He was really pushing her to leave Joshua. He didn't like the idea of her sleeping with another man, even though sex had become a nonissue between Angie and Joshua. She said it made Lancelot crazy to imagine it, and I think she liked that part. It made her feel sexy and vital again. But it felt like another kind of manipulation to me."



"She needed a breather," Dub said. "Some time to get Angie back.



But this guy, he made her feel like a goddess, like she was indispensable and indestructible. Nothing bad would ever happen to her when he was with her. He'd promised."



"But it did," Glynis said softly. "The worst happened."



"He never contacted you after her death?"



"No."



"Where are her cameras?" Phoebe asked.



"I don't know. She kept them at the mystery man's. She had two, and for a while I checked eBay, the pawnshops, the secondhand stores. Just in case he sold them. It'd be nice to have them back, those pieces of her."



"You'd recognize them?"



"Yeah, at least if I had my hands on one of them I would. She painted this little pink rosebud on the bottom of her equipment. Like a signature. Pink roses were her favorite."



"Pink roses like on the grave where Roy was chained." It was energizing, Phoebe thought, to have that much confirmed. "Lancelot's our guy."



"Yeah. Now we just have to find a blue-eyed hard-body who can cook and lives on the west side. Or did three years ago."



"Add in cop. How does the cop from the west side meet the sad princess from Gaston Street?" Closing her eyes, Phoebe tried to think it through. "She did charity work, attended snazzy events. A lot of cops moonlight as private security. And let's see who's turned in their papers in the last three years-cops between thirty and forty because he's going to be young, and he's not going to have time to pull tours while he's planning his revenge."



"If we're walking down the right road, she would've had that second cell phone on her when she went into the bank. Her personal effects would've gone to the husband."



"Yeah." Missed that step, Phoebe realized, and nodded appreciatively at Liz. "You're right, and if so, he'd have checked the incoming and the outgoing. He'd know. Better let him simmer first, take this other angle. Then we'll go back on him."



Phoebe glanced toward the eastern sky as she got into the car. The storm wasn't going to wait much longer.