He came in the side door of the house, which led him directly into the kitchen. He took off his sport jacket, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves. Then he removed his weapon from his belt holster and put it in a lockbox in the laundry room, as was his usual routine.

He returned to the kitchen, opened the fridge and reached for a lite beer. He didn’t know that drinking lite beer was really doing anything for him in the calorie department. Used to be he’d have only one beer when he got home, but now he often had two. He uncapped the bottle, put it to his lips, and drew on it for several seconds.

He couldn’t help but feel relieved that Trevor was not home.

He opened the fridge a second time and wondered about dinner. Should he start something? Maureen usually cooked supper, but she worked all day the same as he did. But if it were up to him, they’d be eating steaks with baked potatoes smothered in butter and sour cream. He knew Maureen would have something healthier in mind. In fact, the fridge was filled with clear plastic containers of salad.

Oh joy.

He decided the best action for now was inaction. He took his beer with him to the kitchen table, sat down, and reached for Maureen’s iPad, which was sitting there.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Craig Pierce.

Some things, once seen, could not be unseen.

The man had suffered horrific injuries, and yet, by the end of their discussion, Duckworth was feeling no pity for him. If ever a case proved that victimization did not confer sainthood, it was Craig Pierce.

But Pierce had given Duckworth something to think about. If he and Brian Gaffney had both been set upon by the same person—or persons—why were the horrors visited upon Pierce splashed across the Internet, but not what was done to Gaffney?

Clearly someone was trying to make a point with Gaffney. But the man with the tattooed message on his back claimed not to know what it was about. And Duckworth was finding it hard to believe that what had been done to the man had anything to do with Mrs. Beecham’s dead dog. Although he had a feeling something funny was going on at that old lady’s house that had nothing to do with Brian Gaffney.

Wait, he thought. Maybe—

He heard a car pulling into the driveway, the engine dying. When the door to the kitchen opened, and Maureen stepped in, Duckworth got up to greet her. He walked over, beer in hand, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“Hey,” he said. “I was going to start dinner, but I thought—”

“Oh, stop,” she said.