“The thing is,” said Bullard, “I have this contrary streak in me. I have a hard time walking away from a potential fight. I especially don’t like being underestimated by … what did you call them? ‘Arrogant, controlling little bastards’? I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t really know you or your allegiances. I must be a little bit nuts, talking like this.”

Gurney figured she knew exactly what she was doing. “You know that Trout and Daker can’t stand me,” he said. “Isn’t that enough reassurance?”

“I suppose it’ll have to be. You know where our zone headquarters is in Sasparilla?”

“I do.”

“Can you make it at nine forty-five tomorrow morning?”

“I can.”

“Good. I’ll meet you in the parking lot. One last thing: Our lab people took a close look at the victim’s computer keyboard. They discovered something. Her fingerprints—”

Gurney broke in. “Let me guess. Her fingerprints on the specific keys necessary to compose the Facebook message were slightly smudged in a way that her fingerprints on the other keys weren’t. And your lab techs consider the smudging consistent with someone tapping those keys with his fingers in latex gloves.”

There was a second of silence. “Not necessarily latex, but how—”

“It’s the most likely scenario. Because the only other way for the killer to have gone about it would have been to force Ruth to type the message herself as he dictated it. But she’d have been so terrified it would have created difficulties. He’d have felt exposed enough just extracting the password from her. The longer she was alive, the more risk he would have faced. She might have a breakdown and start screaming. Not a prospect he’d be comfortable with. This guy would want her dead as soon as possible. Less chance of uncontrollable outcomes.”

“You’re not shy about your opinions, are you, Mr. Gurney? Anything else you’d care to share?”

He thought of his summary sheet of comments and questions, the one he’d sent to Hardwick and Holdenfield. “I have some unpopular thoughts about the original case that you might find helpful.”

“I’m getting the impression you consider unpopularity a virtue.”

“Not a virtue. Just irrelevant.”

“Really? I thought I might have detected an appetite for debate. Sleep well. Tomorrow morning should be interesting.”

He hardly slept at all.

His attempt to get to bed early was disrupted by Madeleine’s return from her clinic meeting—eager to voice the perennial complaint of social workers: “If the energy devoted to ass covering and bureaucratic baloney were devoted to helping people, it could change the world in a week!”

Three cups of herbal tea later, they finally made their way into the bedroom. Madeleine settled down on her side of the bed with War and Peace, the soporific masterpiece that she seemed determined to conquer by persistently biting off small chunks.