“See, that’s your problem,” Oliver said. “You’re listening to your conscience. I can tell you from personal experience, Deck, that no good ever comes from that.”

BY TWO IN the morning, the body had been removed, the scene had been dusted, evidence had been taken, and a padlock was placed on the apartment. Decker didn’t need to wait with his two crack detectives but decided to do so anyway. Before he had been called down, he had managed to eat some dinner, although it was tense with the two kids picking at their food. When Marge phoned him the news of Crystal, he was shocked, but part of him was relieved to get away and do something productive.

“See you in the morning,” Decker said. “I’ll be in around eight.”

“Take care.” Marge jingled the keys. “I’d like to go by Mandy Kowalski’s place.”

Oliver checked his watch. “Do you not know what time it is?”

“I’m not going to bang on her door. I just want to check if her car is in the lot.”

“The lot is gated. How do you propose to get in?”

“So I’ll peek through the bars. Look, Scotty, she lied to us about having coffee with Adrianna in the cafeteria. Now Crystal’s dead. I just want to see if her car’s there.”

“You want me to go with her, Oliver?” Decker volunteered.

“Nah, I’ll go,” Oliver grumped. “We’re just having our usual spats. I mean, who needs sleep anyway?”

“Sleep is highly overrated,” Marge said.

“Since when have you become such a night owl?”

“Since my daughter moved out. It’s sometimes hard for me to sleep. I keep wondering about her.”

“But you adopted her when she was a teenager. You lived without her for years.”

“That was then and this is now. I can’t help it if I worry.”

Decker said, “Kids are like heroin—an injection of pain when they’re around, but even when they’re not around, it’s like that next fix. You just can’t stop thinking about ’em.”

WHEN THE CLOCK struck six, Decker gave up. Through the curtains came the hint of light dulled by gray overcast. He slipped out of bed, put on his robe, and decided to start the coffee. Get a little solitude before the onslaught, but it wasn’t meant to be. Gabe had beaten him to the sunrise. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, sitting at the breakfast table, his laptop open but off to the side. He was reading Decker’s morning paper. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Decker answered—a bit sullenly, he decided. Or maybe he was just weary.

“I took the liberty of making coffee. You want a cup?”

“Thanks. I’ll get it. How’s your hand?”