I like the way he says my name. I want to say more, but the words aren’t there. I want to ask about the panic attacks. His job. I want to tell him I miss him. I want him to tell me he’s going to be all right. Instead, I tell him about Billy Zook’s inability to help us with the sketch.

“I talked to Deborah Kim when she got back.” He sighs. “Composite would have been a nice break.”

“Billy was the one I chased that night in the rain.” Across from me, my computer screen blinks into screensaver mode.

“If he’s a peeper, his being there makes sense.”

“Had the killers seen him that night, they probably would have killed him, too.”

“Right along with the others.”

I think about Billy Zook and all the ways his involvement might have played out. All the ways a composite sketch would have helped. I feel like I’m on the verge of some discovery—some breakthrough—but my mind hasn’t quite figured it out yet.

“What if Billy had identified the accomplice?” I ask.

“He didn’t.”

“Hypothetically speaking, what if he had?”

“Hypothetically speaking, we’d identify the son of a bitch and make the arrest.”

“What if the killer knew there was a witness?”

“Kate, are you going somewhere with this?”

“I’m not sure.” But my mind is spinning, taking me through some of the possibilities of what might have happened if Billy had been able to give us a decent composite. All the ways I could use the information to my advantage. “If Billy was a viable witness and the killer knew it, do you think it’s conceivable that Billy could be in danger?”

“It’s conceivable. Killers have been known to kill witnesses. But we’re playing what-ifs.” He pauses. “Should I be worried about something?”

“You’ll be the first to know when I figure it out.”

CHAPTER 25

At just before seven A.M., I’m in my office, sitting at my desk. For the last hour I’ve been trying to ward off a hangover headache with coffee, but I’m not having much luck. In the visitor chair across from my desk, Skid works on his shift report. Glock stands at the door, an apple fritter in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. Pickles drifts in, smelling like cigarettes and English Leather and looking like death warmed over. He’s not the morning type. Behind him, T.J. carries on a conversation on his cell. I can tell by the silly grin he’s talking to his girlfriend.

“I know you guys want to know why you were summoned here so early.” I glance at my watch. “Mayor Brock should be here any time.”

“Speak of the devil,” Glock mutters.