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  “I don't think Merilyn Lankford's a terrorist or a money launderer for the mob,” she said, relieved he wasn't trying to talk her out of taking the job.

  “You never know. People have all kinds of dirty laundry in their closets. For my peace of mind, okay?” He reached behind him where he'd hung his jacket on the back of the chair and took out his notebook. “Give me their full names again, and address.”

  Sighing, she did.

  “Sonny's his real name? Not a nickname?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Never mind, I can find out. If they've ever even had a traffic ticket, I'll know about it.” He slipped the notebook back into his pocket and resumed eating.

  A disruption in his domestic arrangements wasn't enough to kill his appetite, she noticed with amusement and made herself begin eating again, too.

  Inevitably her mind slipped back to the Judge; how could it not, when what had happened to him was the reason Cahill wanted to check out the Lankfords? Tomorrow would be four weeks since the murder; every Wednesday was a sad anniversary. She didn't know if she would ever be able to live through another Wednesday without remembering.

  “There's nothing new on the case, is there?” she asked, though she thought he'd tell her if there was. But maybe not; he kept most things about his work pretty close to his chest.

  “No. We're not giving up, though. There had to be a reason, and sooner or later we'll find out what it was. Someone will talk, let something slip, and it'll get back to us. Or someone will get pissed and give us a call, tell what they know. We're still talking to people, showing that picture around, trying to shake some memories. It'll come. Sooner or later, it'll come.”

  CHAPTER 19

  HE COULDN'T BELIEVE IT, WHEN HE HEARD, AND OF COURSE he did hear; Mountain Brook was a small town, and people knew people; someone always talked. She had gone to work for those nouveau riche Lankfords, with the ghastly house that proved just how nouveau their riches truly were. He received a nice little letter from her, politely telling him she had taken another position, but by the time the letter arrived, he had already heard the news.

  He held the letter in his hand, staring at her neat, firm signature. He had read it over dozens of times since receiving it, though the words never changed. He thought he could almost smell her on the paper, a light, fresh scent that hit him with a shaft of pain, because she should be here. She should be with him. Every day the pain of her absence became more acute, as if something vital in his life was lacking. It was intolerable.

  He rubbed the sheet of paper over his face, seeking comfort in knowing that she had touched this, had sent it personally to him.

  How could she do this to him? Didn't she know—? No, of course not. She couldn't know, he reminded himself. He mustn't get angry with her, because, after all, she hadn't yet met him. As soon as she did, she would know how perfect their lives would be together. She probably felt sorry for those nasty Lankfords and would try to bring a touch of class to their tacky lives. It was a useless effort, but his Sarah was a valiant creature. She would try, and keep trying, until her heart broke at the futility of it.

  He actually knew the Lankfords, because, after all, business was business. He'd never been to their house, though; perhaps it was time he visited. Getting an invitation wouldn't be difficult; they entertained with vaudevillian gusto, as if they had no idea of the pleasure of solitude, or quiet.

  What a wonderful idea, visiting the Lankfords; he would be able to see Sarah close at hand, because obviously she would be overseeing everything. Perhaps she would even be introduced to him. One didn't normally introduce the servants to the guests, but Merilyn Lankford was just gauche enough to do it. Not that Sarah was an ordinary servant; in her own way she was queen, but the world she ruled was always behind-the-scenes. She deserved to have his world to rule, rather than that monument to tackiness.

  For Sarah's own sake, not to mention his, he had to get her out of there. He had to act, the sooner the better. He mustn't be careless, though. This would require planning and thought, and no small degree of skill. He looked forward to the challenge.

  People were creatures of habit; they wore their little rut of routine in the fabric of their lives; then they stayed in the rut because it was easier than climbing out. According to psychologists, it was fact that most people preferred what they knew, even if it was horrible, to the uncertainty of the unknown. Women stayed with abusive husbands, not out of hope, but out of fear of being on their own. It was the great unknown. Only daring souls, or desperate ones, broke out of their ruts.

  People tended to follow the same patterns day after day, week after week. The same people would be at the same place at roughly the same time. Cahill didn't expect the man in the photograph to show up and use the same pay phone at the same time of night; but maybe, just maybe, someone would be in the Galleria who was in the habit of being there then and had been there the night Judge Roberts was killed, and had noticed . . . what? Something. Anything.

  None of the store clerks had noticed anything, but then they were trained to watch what went on in their stores, not out in the mall concourse. But what about the people sitting on the benches, strolling around, the clutch of teenagers giggling and trying to act cool, the young woman slowly pushing a baby stroller back and forth with her foot while she ate a cinnamon roll? Were they there every night? Every Wednesday night? What was their routine?

  At about the same time of night the call had been made, on a hunch Cahill went to the Galleria and stopped every shopper he met in the area of that particular pay phone and showed them the photograph. Did anything about this man ring any bells? Did they know someone who resembled him? Was it possible they'd seen him before, here in the Galleria?

  He got a lot of funny looks, no's, and shakes of the head. Some people merely glanced at the photograph before saying, “Naw,” and walking on. Some people took the time to study it before handing it back. No, he didn't look familiar. Sorry.

  Cahill kept at it. Nothing was breaking in the case; there were no rumors, no one was dropping a dime to get back at someone—nothing. The wall they'd hit was high and wide. They had the slug that killed the Judge, but not the cartridge. They didn't have any prints that scored a hit on AFIS; they didn't have the murder weapon; they didn't have a witness; they didn't have a motive. They didn't have shit.

  He was getting angry. No one should be able to commit murder and walk away. It happened, but it offended him on a deep level, in that part of him that made him a cop.

  He stopped a twenty-something guy who had a black- lipsticked girl hanging on him like a window-unit air conditioner. They both had attitude, but they looked at the photograph anyway. “I dunno,” the guy said, frowning a little. “He reminds me of somebody, but I can't place him, y'know?”

  Cahill kept his own demeanor and voice neutral. He could be a badass when he needed to be, but tonight he'd deliberately been very low-key so if anyone had anything to say, he or she would feel comfortable talking to him. “Is it someone you've seen here in the Galleria before?”

  “Naw, it ain't that. Hey, I know! He looks like my banker!”

  “Your banker?”

  “Yeah—William Teller!”

  They walked away laughing. “Cute,” Cahill said under his breath, turning away and not letting himself respond to the smart-ass, but the guy had better hope they never crossed paths if he was doing something he shouldn't—and he looked like the type who would.

  Cahill worked the shoppers until the announcement came that the mall was closing. This had been another dead end, but if he kept coming back, kept showing the photograph, maybe sooner or later something would pop.

  The house was dark when he got home. He sat in the driveway for a minute staring at the windows. “Shit,” he muttered. Coming home to a dark house had never bothered him before, but now he wanted to punch something because he didn't like this worth a damn. In just a couple of weeks he'd gotten so accustomed to having Sarah there that not havi