“Sir, I am sure. I’ve never shifted my attention from that side of the residence. And I don’t think he jumped off that two-story deck in back.”

Milo said, “He could still be in the bathroom, Frank.”

Gonzales said, “And my mother-in-law could be my best friend—okay, try him again.”

Two more attempts; nothing.

Gonzales said, “I’m heading out to the harbor-side, see if I can spot him in there.” Glancing at Entell.

She said, “I’m sure he’s there, sir.”

“Hell,” said Gonzales. “Maybe he did jump off the deck, he’s one of those, what do you call ’em—rappellers.” He mimed a hand-overhand routine. Scowled. “Or someone helped with a ladder.”

“Williams,” said Milo.

“For all we know they’re still asshole buddies.”

Unzipping his jacket, Gonzales exposed his own service gun, keeping it holstered but touching the weapon as if for reassurance. “I’m going back there, check out the walkway. You take Lieutenant Sturgis with you and do the easy part, Sheila.”

Entell said, “What’s that, sir?”

“The front door. I’m thinking no one’s going to answer it.”

Entell led but as we neared Corey’s door, Milo insinuated himself in front of her and motioned for me to stand back. He rang the bell. Repeated. Knocked, did it harder. His third knock was enough to ease the door ajar. Vertical light slashed the darkness, clean and bright as a scalpel. Televised blather filtered through the crack.

A sultry woman’s voice bandying words like “performance” and “enhancement.”

Milo stepped back and took out his Glock. Faint snap as Sheila Entell freed her weapon.

Milo said, “Just stay there, Alex.” He toed the door open another inch. “Mr. Corey? Lieutenant Sturgis.”

More light, more throaty salesmanship from the woman on TV. “We love you guys, but we really love you bigger.”

Milo pushed the door another few inches. Waited. Got the opening wide enough for entry. Staying Entell with a palm, he went in, gun-first.

Seconds later: “Oh, damn.”

Richard Corey slumped on his sofa, facing his flat-screen TV. Bowl of popcorn to his right, five empty beer bottles arrayed neatly near his feet.

He wore a gray terry-cloth robe and nothing else.

The top of his skull was caved in, more damage to the back than the front. Diagonal wound. I pictured a full-force swing from above. Someone behind him.

Bone fragments created a jagged halo. Brain matter was a pied clot of rust and white.

His mouth gaped. Any skin free of gore resembled gray plastic.

A retractable, black polycarbonate billy club, the kind police departments call batons and order in bulk, sat on the kitchen counter, caked with dry blood. The weapon was laid precisely atop a dish towel, displayed proudly. Blood stained the sofa and the carpet, spattering and splotching the ceiling. Lots of fine-spray castoff on the ceiling. Red in some places, browning in others. Jackson Pollock gone murderous.