Montecino sneered—her wrinkled mouth had no problem with that—and finally took a step away from him. He fetched an unsteady breath and held her gaze, breaking it only to blink.

“I’m not famous like you.” She all but spat the f-word. “But I closed my share of high-profile cases—got my name in the L.A. Times on more than one occasion.”

Luke had never been to Tera Montecino’s home. He had no idea where or how she lived, but an image popped into his mind at that moment: a small, lonely apartment, an alcove dressed with police commendations and framed cutouts from the Times, a retirement watch in a display case, next to a novelty mug with i see guilty people printed across the front.

“You were the one I always wanted, though,” she said, jabbing her finger at him. “And you were the one that got away.”

“No.” Luke shook his head. “I lost everything.”

“You didn’t.” She narrowed her eyebrows. “But I have all kinds of time on my hands now. I’m my own boss, without any departmental red tape or bureaucratic bullshit holding me back. And I’m going to use that newfound time and freedom to find out what happened to Lisa Hayes.”

“By harassing me?”

“By getting to the truth,” Montecino vowed. “And when I do, when you’re wearing an orange jumpsuit and eating slop with a paperboard utensil, then you’ll know what losing everything feels like.”

Luke swallowed hard, uncomfortable in the heat, but more uncomfortable in Montecino’s presence. He dragged sweat from the back of his neck and looked at her.

“A good cop will keep an open mind,” he said. “I learned that when researching my role for Out of Midnight. So I’m curious: Does any part of you believe I didn’t kill my wife?”

Tera held her thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “I have this much doubt.”

“Okay,” Luke said. “Some doubt, then.”

“Not enough to make a difference,” Tera said, and sneered again. “Occam’s razor: the simplest explanation—”

“Yeah, I know how it goes.” Luke sighed and gave his collar another tug. “Believe me, I want an explanation more than you do, whether it’s simple or not.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Just let me know if I can help.” He stepped around her, jangling his keys as he headed for his car. “This isn’t the best time, though. I know you’re not great at reading clues, but . . . the suit, the cemetery . . . I’m actually at a funeral right now.”

“Floyd Tallent. Pancreatic cancer. Eighty-one years old. The funeral ended”—she checked the time on her cell phone—“sixteen minutes ago. And talking of death, a little bird tells me you tried to kill yourself a couple of months back.”