I waited for three cars to pass, then stepped from beneath the fig tree and crossed the street. Mrs. Marx might be leaving for the rest of the day or only running out for a bottle of milk, but either way I didn't hurry. I walked down their drive as if I were an old family friend, continued along the side of their house, and went directly to the kitchen door. The locks didn't take long, a Master deadbolt and the inset knob lock, six minutes top to bottom. I called Pike again when the tension bar slid home.

I'm good. I'm going in.

I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the door. I listened for a moment, then stepped inside. The house was cool and smelled of scented soap, but I didn't like being there. I wanted to see what I needed to see, then get the hell out. I crossed through the kitchen, listened again, then hurried directly to the office.

A mahogany desk was angled in the corner, facing built-in cabinets, the closet, and a small TV. The unmistakable three-ring navy binder of a murder book sat on his desk. It hadn't been on his desk last night, but now it was, as if he had looked at it this morning before leaving for work. The handwritten label on the spine read Trinh.

His desk and the area around the murder book were immaculate, with a desktop PC, a cordless phone, and a short stack of papers beside the keyboard. I fingered through the papers, but found nothing related to the case. Folders inside the desk drawers were labeled for personal things like insurance policies and utility bills. I went to the closet, and there was the rest of it. The box Munson gave to Marx was on the floor. Several thick folders held together by rubber bands were stacked on top, and two more murder books were on the floor beside the box. Repko and Frostokovich.

I felt a twinge of sadness when I saw them.

Hello, Debra.

I photographed the box and the murder books, then snapped a wider shot to establish the material was in the closet. I dragged the box into the room, put the murder books on top, then took more pictures from angles that included Marx's desk and personal possessions, and the Trinh murder book on the desk. I wanted undeniable proof the missing files were in Marx's home.

When I had enough pictures, I opened Sondra Frostokovich's murder book. I was reading the first page, all good to go and work my way through the entire thing, when my cell phone vibrated.

Pike said, Marx and Munson just passed, inbound. Thirty seconds.

He didn't waste time with more words. I had been in the house less than eight minutes, and now I was done. I had wanted to read through the material, photograph those things I found incriminating, and leave the files undisturbed to buy myself more time, but now I couldn't play it that way. It was a lot of paper but I took it. The box was only half full, so I shoved in the loose folders and murder books, and carried it into the bathroom adjoining Marx's office.