Phil and Neil both nodded. Phil rose to standing, shaking Adeline’s hand, then introducing her to Neil. D.D. wasn’t surprised by the uncertain look on the doctor’s face as she regarded their youngest squad mate. With his lanky build and mop of red hair, Neil appeared perpetually sixteen. Came in handy when interviewing suspects, however. They rarely took the veteran detective seriously until it was too late.

Then the doctor’s gaze took in the easel-size flipchart, divided into three columns, one for each victim. She didn’t pale, as much as her expression set. Clinical. Already distancing herself from the graphic details listed there.

“So.” D.D. couldn’t help herself. “What’s up, Doc?”

“Is that coffee? I would love a cup of coffee.”

Phil did the honors of pouring. When D.D. had tried it earlier, she’d missed the mug. Shooting a firearm one-handed, okay. Pouring coffee one-handed, not so great.

“You call your sister, or did she call you?” D.D. asked. She took a seat in one of the kitchen chairs Neil had dragged into the room, then indicated for Adeline to make herself comfortable on the sofa.

“She contacted the warden with her request to speak with me first thing this morning. I assumed it was to wheel and deal. Shana had heard of the latest murder and was willing to offer up additional information in return for a furlough from prison life.”

“Not gonna happen,” D.D. said. “Didn’t you mention that to her yesterday?”

“Can’t blame a girl for asking. Anyway, that wasn’t . . . exactly how the conversation played out.”

“Okay.” D.D. sat forward, waiting expectantly. Neil and Phil did the same.

“Shana claims she hasn’t been in contact with the Rose Killer or anyone else. No secret network of spies or adoring fans beyond the prison walls. She would need inside support to pull off such a feat, and as she put it, she has no friends. We all know that.”

D.D. frowned. Certainly not what she’d been expecting. “Denial, of course, is in her own best interest. How does she explain knowing what she knows?”

“The powers of observation.”

“Say what?”

“Thirty years in solitary. She’s had nothing better to do than observe her fellow man. She’s not a criminal mastermind. She’s Sherlock Holmes.”

Phil made a disparaging noise in the back of his throat. “How’d she know the magic number?” he asked with clear skepticism.