“Not that computer,” Holly says. “It was older than dirt.”

“Had a good look around, didn’t you?” Izzy says. “Did you check the medicine cabinets while you were investigating?”

This is too much for Hodges. “She was doing what you should have done, Isabelle. And you know it.”

Color is rising in Izzy’s cheeks. “We called you in as a courtesy, that’s all, and I wish we’d never done it. You two are always trouble.”

“Stop it,” Pete says.

But Izzy is leaning forward, her eyes flicking between ­Hodges’s face and the top of Holly’s lowered head. “These two mystery men—if they existed at all—have nothing to do with what happened in that house. One was probably running a con, the other was a simple peeper.”

Hodges knows he should stay friendly here—increase the peace, and all that—but he just can’t do it. “Some pervo salivating at the thought of watching an eighty-year-old woman undress, or seeing a quadriplegic get a sponge bath? Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Read my lips,” Izzy says. “Mom killed daughter, then self. Even left a suicide note of sorts—Z, the end. Couldn’t be any clearer.”

Z-Boy, Hodges thinks. Whoever’s under Debbie’s Blue Umbrella this time signs himself Z-Boy.

Holly lifts her head. “There was also a Z in the garage. Carved into the wood between the doors. Bill saw it. Zappit also begins with Z, you know.”

“Yes,” Izzy says. “And Kennedy and Lincoln have the same number of letters, proving they were both killed by the same man.”

Hodges sneaks a peek at his watch and sees he’ll have to leave soon, and that’s okay. Other than upsetting Holly and pissing off Izzy, this meeting has accomplished nothing. Nor can it, because he has no intention of telling Pete and Isabelle what he discovered on his own computer early this morning. That information might shift the investigation into a higher gear, but he’s going to keep it on the down-low until he does a little more investigation himself. He doesn’t want to think that Pete would fumble it, but—

But he might. Because being thorough is a poor substitute for being thoughtful. And Izzy? She doesn’t want to open a can of worms filled with a lot of pulp-novel stuff about cryptic letters and mystery men. Not when the deaths at the Ellerton house are already on the front page of today’s paper, along with a complete recap of how Martine Stover came to be paralyzed. Not when Izzy’s expecting to take the next step up the police department ladder just as soon as her current partner retires.

“Bottom line,” Pete says, “this is going down as a murder-suicide, and we’re gonna move on. We have to move on, Kermit. I’m retiring. Iz will be left with a huge caseload and no new partner for awhile, thanks to the damn budget cuts. This stuff”—he indicates the two plastic bags—“is sort of interesting, but it doesn’t change the clarity of what happened. Unless you think some master criminal set it up? One who drives an old car and mends his coat with masking tape?”