I glance back at the squad room. “I’ll find him.”

Bob’s phone rings. “Let me know,” he says as he picks up the handset.

Chase is sitting at his computer, drinking a cup of black coffee that looks like mud, and he jumps when I call his name. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Just inputting my notes.” He tucks his phone in his pocket, saves his file, and swivels in his chair. We head down the hall and turn into my office.

Chase sits across from my desk and draws a deep breath. “Dr. Gaines said time of death was between one and four a.m.”

I hang my jacket on the back of my chair, pull out my notebook, and sit. “Okay,” I say. “After the party, the wife said he was going to work out in his office after everybody left around eleven-thirty.”

“Uh huh. And he was wearing the clothes he had on at the party, so somebody came along afterward and killed him a couple hours later.”

“And broke into the filing cabinet, went through his desk,” I add.

“Yeah.”

“What else?”

Chase scrolls through his phone. “He did have some defensive wounds after all, just some small cuts on his right hand. Dr. Gaines said he might’ve made a grab for the knife, but she said the neck wound was pretty much instantly fatal. The guy didn’t have a chance.”

“So the perp came at him from behind?”

“That’s what the doc said.”

“Whoever did this walked up behind Dr. Bradley, slit his throat, then went through his stuff, looking for something.” I lean back, drum my fingers on the desk. “Any chance it could’ve been the wife, you think?”

Chase shakes his head. “Dr. Gaines thinks the perp was a man, or maybe a tall, strong woman. Mrs. Bradley’s not very big. And she said the angle of the cut makes it likely the perp was as tall as, if not taller than Dr. Bradley.”

I’m five four, and Mrs. Bradley and I were about eye to eye. “How tall was Dr. Bradley?”

Chase thumbs through his phone. “Six two, one hundred seventy-six pounds.”

“Okay. Pretty safe to say she’s low on the list, unless she hired someone.”

“And she seemed genuinely distraught.” Chase’s eyes are soft, as though he’s on Mrs. Bradley’s side, defending her honor.

“Yeah.” I sigh. There’s still tons to slog through. Talking to Bradley’s patients alone will eat up hours of police work. I glance at my phone. “Let’s run over and talk to the neighbor before the Pearsons get here.”

* * *

According to Mrs. Bradley, Mrs. Murray is an elderly widow who has lived in the house next door for more than fifty years. And the house looks it. Long neglected, the porch sags, and the windows are dirty, not a total mess, but you don’t have to look too close to see the decay. The house is an aberration in the otherwise pristine neighborhood. After we ring the bell two or three times, she answers the door, a huge German shepherd at her side.