“Why do you take them?” I say aloud.

And I know that once we know why, we will find the who.

The sound of pounding drags me from a deep and dreamless sleep. A hard rush of adrenaline sends me bolt upright. For an instant, I’m disoriented, uncertain about the source of the noise. Then I realize someone’s at the door. My mind registers that the doorbell didn’t ring. Back door, I think, and something else niggles at my brain. A glance at the alarm clock on my night table reminds me that 3:00 A.M. visitors are almost always the bearers of bad news.

Jerking the robe from the chair next to my bed, I work it over my shoulders and tighten the belt. I open the top drawer of the night table and snag my .38, cock it. Holding the weapon low at my side, I pad silently to the kitchen, sidle to the back door, and peer through the curtains.

John Tomasetti stands on the porch with his hands in his pockets, looking out over the backyard as if his being here in the middle of the night is the most natural thing in the world.

I turn the bolt lock and swing open the door. “Don’t tell me,” I begin. “You were in the neighborhood.”

He turns to me, hands still in his pockets, his face deadpan, and for a split second I’m terrified he’s come here with some dire news about the case. “Actually, I drove a hundred miles, against my better judgment and without telling my superiors, to sleep with you.”

I laugh, but it’s a nervous sound. “Well, that’s pretty subtle.”

“That’s me. Mr. Subtle.” His lips don’t move, but I see the smile in his eyes. “Pink robe goes nicely with that thirty-eight.”

Feeling only slightly self-conscious, I glance down at my threadbare robe, then open the door the rest of the way. “Tomasetti, you are so full of shit.”

“Yeah, but you’re still glad to see me.”

The truth of the matter is that he looks damn good standing there in that crisp shirt and those charcoal-colored trousers. Not a good key indicator for a prudent outcome to all this.

I motion him inside. “Is everything okay?”

“Definitely looking up.”

His presence fills the kitchen the instant he steps inside. It’s as if the air itself becomes charged with some electrical energy I feel all the way to my core.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he says. “I know sleep is tough to come by right now.”

“Sleep is always hard to come by when we’re together.”

“I was talking about the case.”

“That, too.” Before I turn away from him, I see his eyes sweep the length of me. Trying not to let that rattle me, I set my gun on the kitchen table and flip on the light.

“Anything new on the case?” I ask.