She followed the cop out. I followed her out. Aggravated by my disobedience, she turned and glared, but didn’t say anything. Outside, the trunk on the nurse’s car sat open, a couple of detectives standing over it. I looked inside, and Marta did, too. Lying on her side in a fetal position was a petite Asian woman, fortyish, with a bullet hole between her eyes.

“Beverly Ocampo, RN,” one of the cops told Marta. “The hospice nurse. ID’s in her purse.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Marta muttered. “Then who’s that in the back of the squad?”

“Good question,” he said.

Marta turned to me, all business now. This wasn’t some random slip off a boat. There was Darby’s body in a box, now an innocent woman shot to death and stuffed into the trunk of a car. “What the hell’s going on?”

* * *

The paramedics came out of the house without Stella. We watched as Ron Symonds walked toward us. He searched our faces and stopped before he got close to the car. “What is it now? What’s happened?”

We stood there, the cops, Marta, me. No one said anything; nobody wanted to. The Symondses had grown close to Ocampo. She was their nurse, the one Stella wanted when the end came, and now she was gone. I unstuck myself from the spot, headed for him. He didn’t need to see inside the trunk.

“Let’s go back inside.” I walked him toward the house. “How’s Stella?”

“Alive. They wanted to take her in, to check her out, but there wouldn’t be much point to that. What’s going on with that car? Who was that woman?”

Inside again, I asked for more ice, anything to keep him busy, his mind off the Ford.

“We don’t know yet. She isn’t talking.”

He searched my face. “This was Spada, like you said.”

Before I could answer, Marta walked in, all pistons firing. Her eyes were hard; her face was hard. The body in the trunk had done it; the fake nurse had knocked the brakes off the wagon, and Marta was now all in. We exchanged a look. There would be a time for Symonds to hear the news of Beverly’s death, but now wasn’t it.

Marta drew closer. “Mr. Symonds, when was the last time you saw Nick Spada?”

He looked at Marta, then me, before answering. “About a week ago. He brought roses. So you’re saying he definitely did this?”

“Can your wife communicate?” Marta asked.

Symonds eyed her cautiously. “Why?”

“I’d like to ask her a few questions.”

“She’s dying, for God’s sake. What is wrong with you people?”

Marta said nothing. What could she say?

“If she dies without telling the police what they need to know,” I said gently, “then Spada walks.”