While Brady fielded phone calls in his office, Conklin and I sat across from each other in the squad room, pecking at our keyboards.

If Revenge was a cop, the clues were in the paperwork. Conklin and I worked a page at a time, comparing hundreds of time sheets with the four drug dealers’ times of death, stamping our feet at square one.

Up to a point, the premise was valid — separate out the cops who were off duty when all four shootings went down and check their alibis.

But the flaw in the premise was obvious. A cop’s being off duty when a dealer was killed was not a smoking gun. We were using a very large-holed sieve. It was all we had.

Conklin said, “This guy Jenkins fits the time frame.”

“I know Roddy Jenkins,” I said.

“He’s a crack shot.” “He’s a candidate.”

By noon, Conklin and I had a list of a dozen cops whose time sheets showed that they were off duty when the four drug dealers were killed. Three of those cops had worked in Narcotics at one time in their careers. Stick a gold star on each of them.

I forwarded our list of cops to Brady, who wrote back saying he would have their personnel jackets pulled. Just then, my intercom buzzed.

It was Clapper, calling from the compound. I put his call on speakerphone.

“What’s new, Charlie?”

“We’re still sifting the dirt in the yard, but we’re done with the main house,” he told me. “We found nothing in there. No blood or decapitated bodies, no additional index cards. Prints are the Worleys’. I told Janet that they could go home.”

“How’d she seem to you?”

“Wired. Chatty,” Charlie said. “Her daughter is back from the wilderness. They’re going to do some housecleaning. And Janet is in a swivet about the mess we left. Another citizen complaint.”

Chapter 18

JANET WORLEY WAS FLUSTERED when she came to the door.

“Yes? Oh. Right. Come in. I expect you want to speak with Nicole.”

Conklin and I went with Janet through the front rooms to the kitchen, where Nigel Worley was cleaning fingerprint powder off the stove.

Janet said, “I can tell you Nicole knows nothing. She wasn’t even here.”

“We understand,” Conklin said. “We want her impressions and so forth.”

“She’s in her flat. Nigel, ring her up, will you?”

I said, “Mrs. Worley, what can you tell us about Harry Chandler?”

“Would you like tea?”

“No, thanks,” I said.

We took seats at a kitchen table with a view of the evidence tent in the garden. Water from last night’s rain dripped from the canopy onto the bricks.

Janet said stiffly, “What do you wish to know about Mr. Harry?”

I told Janet Worley to tell me about his personality, his character, and she did. He was honest, she told me. He was rich, of course, but according to Janet, Harry Chandler was very normal for such a famous person.