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Chapters (64)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright
  3. Contents
  4. CHAPTER1
  5. CHAPTER2
  6. CHAPTER3
  7. CHAPTER4
  8. CHAPTER5
  9. CHAPTER6
  10. CHAPTER7
  11. CHAPTER8
  12. CHAPTER9
  13. CHAPTER10
  14. CHAPTER11
  15. CHAPTER12
  16. CHAPTER13
  17. CHAPTER14
  18. CHAPTER15
  19. CHAPTER16
  20. CHAPTER17
  21. CHAPTER18
  22. CHAPTER19
  23. CHAPTER20
  24. CHAPTER21
  25. CHAPTER22
  26. CHAPTER23
  27. CHAPTER24
  28. CHAPTER25
  29. CHAPTER26
  30. CHAPTER27
  31. CHAPTER28
  32. CHAPTER29
  33. CHAPTER30
  34. CHAPTER31
  35. CHAPTER32
  36. CHAPTER33
  37. CHAPTER34
  38. CHAPTER35
  39. CHAPTER36
  40. CHAPTER37
  41. CHAPTER38
  42. CHAPTER39
  43. CHAPTER40
  44. CHAPTER41
  45. CHAPTER42
  46. CHAPTER43
  47. CHAPTER44
  48. CHAPTER45
  49. CHAPTER46
  50. CHAPTER47
  51. CHAPTER48
  52. CHAPTER49
  53. CHAPTER50
  54. CHAPTER51
  55. CHAPTER52
  56. CHAPTER53
  57. CHAPTER54
  58. CHAPTER55
  59. CHAPTER56
  60. CHAPTER57
  61. Dedication
  62. Acknowledgements
  63. Books by Jonathan Kellerman
  64. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I led Prema to the living room sofa, sat down next to her. Milo settled in a facing chair. His suit was one I’d seen for years, a baggy green-brown hopsack worn over a white shirt and a muddy blue tie that Prozac couldn’t fix.

One thing was different: He’d slicked down his hair. Two-hundred-forty-pound kid waiting for communion.

Prema said, “You look just like a cop should.”

Milo said, “You look just like a movie star should.”

“I meant that as a compliment, Lieutenant. I find it reassuring.”

“So taken.” His expression was unreadable. “What can I do for you, Ms. Moon?”

She turned to me.

I said, “Just go for it.”

She inhaled. “Okay … all right … Donny Rader smokes meerschaum pipes.”

“Does he.”

“Do you know what meerschaum is?”

“Some kind of carved stone.”

“It’s a mineral, Lieutenant. It washes up on the beach and people carve it into smoking pipes. Donny Rader has lots of carved meerschaum smoking pipes, I don’t know how many. He smokes weed in them, not tobacco. He’s a compulsive collector, loves things. To my mind, it’s just greed. Like cars: He’s got a dozen, maybe more, even though he hardly ever drives them. He has more clothing than I do.” One hand kneaded the other. “He collects women. But we don’t need to go there.”

“Sounds like your husband leads a busy life, Ms. Moon.”

She flinched.

I said, “There’s another collection.”

“Yes,” she said. “There is. He has a closet full of guns. When we were living together I made him lock them up in a big safe. That I paid for. For the children’s safety.”

“Where are the guns now, Ms. Moon?”

“At his place.”

“You don’t live together?”

“He lives in the adjoining property. I bought all of it years ago but I only use part of it.”

“You know about his gun closet because—”

“I saw it. Not recently, we don’t have much … I stay at my place, he’s at his.”

“When did you see the gun closet?”

Her chest heaved. “Maybe half a year, I really can’t be sure.”

“You went to visit—”

“Not a visit, an obligation. He needed to sign a tax form from our accountant. Our life is complicated, you can delegate a lot of things but at some point you still need to sign your name to papers. All the financial forms come to me because he’d neglect them.”

“So around six months ago—”