Homicide investigations always started with those closest to the victim. Coutinho already knew Eleanor’s current boyfriend, and Kim knew of him.

Again, it was complicated. What Coutinho knew for sure was the name the man was using.

Jerry Wyatt.

He was also as sure as he could be without evidence that the man’s real identity was something else.

Gustav Trondheim. The name that Big Island pakalolo dealers used to terrify their subordinates when they got out of line.

“You don’t like the way I do business? Go work for Trondheim.”

Never mind that no one seemed to know the man.

Coutinho had been keeping his suspicions to himself. Nobody knew what he thought about Eleanor’s new man, not his partner, and not even his wife.

But Jerry Wyatt, or whoever he really was, had changed that with the butchery he had left.

2

He had been holding Lucy for an hour. His lower back had stopped protesting and gone numb, but he knew it would retaliate when he tried to get up from the sofa. His shirt front was soaked with tears. Some of them might be his.

He had no plans to move.

Her body, rigid against him, relaxed and fell away. He reached as if to catch her, but she laid a hand against his cheek.

“Thank you for telling me. I couldn’t have taken it from anyone else.”

“I’m sorry you had to hear it at all.”

“I know you shouldn’t talk about it, but just tell me one thing, and I won’t ask anything else. Do you have him?”

“Not yet. We will.”

“I know. And I’m going to work the evidence.”

Lucy must have read the doubt on his face, because she said, “I have to. For her.”

“Will they let you?”

His name on a case usually made the crime lab in Honolulu route the evidence to another technician. A defense attorney might make an issue of pillow talk.

“They will if you let Harlan be the lead.”

Lucy was one of the few people in the world allowed to use Kim’s first name.

Coutinho dared a smile.

“He’ll love bossing me around for a change.”

Her mouth twitched. It wasn’t much, but for now it would do.

3

Kim was taking it well, considering, but he was also making it clear that Coutinho had some fences to mend. It couldn’t wait, because their tiny office was too small for uncleared acrimony. Their desks butted up against each other. It made a good metaphor.

“I didn’t really know anything. I still don’t. It’s all suspicion.”

“I get the difference,” said Kim. “I’m a detective.”

“I know. But it was hard enough for me to keep him from knowing what I was thinking. I didn’t want anybody else to have the same problem.”

“Lucy’s onto you,” said Kim. “Guaranteed.”