He had almost forgotten what it was like to do his job the right way, but he was feeling pretty good about sealing up the Alex Lopez case tight, even though the perpetrator had taken his own life. There was no doubt that Steve Thompson was the guy. It had taken Decker days, but he finally found the cabdriver who had picked Thompson up from the Cross Sound ferry and dropped him off near the piers at Montauk. The news had not yet gone public, but Wichita police were probably a day or two away from naming Alex Lopez as the person who had killed Richard Mullaney—and divulging the circumstances surrounding the shooting. If Carter had to guess, the news would encourage other women Mullaney had abused to come forward. This morning, Melanie Locke had announced a “pause” in her Senate campaign events for “personal family reasons,” but he had a feeling she’d find some way to spin to her favor the coming revelations about her deceased husband. He had no idea whether the WPD would be looking at felony murder charges against Tara King, but that wasn’t his call to make.

When he pulled onto his street, Mrs. Stansfield threw him a cheerful wave from her front path. He stopped at the curb and rolled down his window. “You’re back. I was wondering if I was ever going to see you again.” The couple had come home from Hawaii only to leave again for Palm Beach three days later. When Carter saw a Sold banner added to the For Sale sign outside their house, he realized how much he was going to miss his neighbors.

“You’re not quite rid of us yet, but, boy, it’s going to be hard to say goodbye to this house. And to you, young man.” She pulled a stack of mail from her mailbox and began flipping through it. “Junk, junk, catalogue, junk.” She paused on a white letter-sized envelope and then held it up in his direction. It was addressed by hand to Homeowner. “Probably someone trying to buy the house and cut out the realtor. You wouldn’t believe how shady people are out here with the real estate.”

She split the envelope open with her thumb and pulled out another envelope, folded in half and tagged with a Post-it note. “Well, this is weird,” she said.

The Post-it note read, “Please give this to Hope Miller. She works for your realtor and doesn’t have a mailbox.”

39
Tuesday, June 29, 1:10 p.m.

Lindsay heard the sizzle of melting butter. “I can’t believe you’re making me a tuna melt.”

Hope looked up from the stovetop, one hand on her hip, the other holding a spatula. “You said you were craving one.”

“I meant from the deli.”