Harriet and Frankie continue to put the pieces together.

The house – at 1450 Sycamore, in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, a suburb of Philadelphia – is owned by a Dan and Muriel Stine.

Dan loves fishing, the stock market, and, despite his apparent conservative sensibilities, the glam bands of the 1980s – Poison, Mötley Crüe, Warrant, Winger.

Muriel also plays the stock market with her own money from her own accounts. Beyond that, the house doesn't contain nearly as much information on Muriel. It's because they are divorced. Six months now. They have a daughter, an eight-year-old named Rebecca. Frankie finds the papers in the office.

"Dan still lives here," Harriet says. "Muriel has moved on to greener lawns."

"This place really gets to you," Frankie says.

"It does no such thing."

"You're lying to me."

"Keep looking. Ingersoll will want useful information."

Gaynes' modus operandi isn't that he cons people out of these houses, just that he cons people into telling him where they live. He meets them at a convention, a restaurant, a bar. They're working. They're away from home. Ashley comes, breaks in, lives here until they come back, and that's that. That's his trick. On the one hand, it's simple. On the other, it's too simple. Ashley thinks himself better than he is, perhaps.

Harriet cannot find out where Dan – the owner of a local sporting goods franchise – has gone. Maybe to visit a mistress. Maybe to find out how soccer balls and Pilates equipment are manufactured. Harriet doesn't really care. This place is like a crime scene, but the fingerprints she seeks aren't those of Dan Stine.

Harriet decides to check upstairs.

Halfway up the carpeted steps, she smells it.

Decay.

Real, this time. Not metaphorical.

She calls to Frankie. Like dogs, they sniff around.

Master bathroom, second floor.

The shower curtain is closed. The toilet seat is down. A little glass pipe, its bulb end darkened with carbon, sits atop it. The stink is terrible in here.

"Fuck. He's dead," Frankie says, mumbling behind the arm he's got pressed to his mouth and nose. Harriet doesn't bother. The smell doesn't disturb her. Not like the smell of cut grass. Or potpourri. Or a roast in the oven. "Stupid prick got into the product and fucking ODed. Holy shit."

Behind the shower curtain, a shadow. Harriet pulls it back.

A body lies in the tub. Plastic bag over the head. Dried blood clinging to the inside of the bag at the back of the head.

Frankie blinks. "Someone killed Gaynes."

"It's not him," Harriet says. "It's Dan Stine."

"How do you – ?"

"I just know." She holds her breath, then tugs the bag off the head. The back of the head is a ruined mess. "Gaynes hit him with something. A pipe, a bat, a crowbar. I didn't see any blood, but I bet you'll find it downstairs. Or outside. But the hit didn't finish the job. Hence, the bag. While Stine was down, Gaynes suffocated him with the bag. Maybe he did it in the tub, or maybe he just brought the body here."