Douglas gasped. The driver’s window was down, but the passenger-side window looked like a red-and-gray Rorschach inkblot had been smeared on it. Smeared with blood and brain. He looked down. Sprawled across the console on his side lay the body of Trevor Norwood. A red circle surrounded by burned flesh marred his temple, the mark of a pistol barrel pressed in direct contact with the skin.

“Jesus,” Douglas muttered. He searched Bradshaw’s face for a clue as to what he was thinking.

The director’s expression was as dead as Norwood. “Have you seen those bags before?” He cut his eyes back to the SUV’s interior.

Douglas looked again and saw two gym bags on the floor in front of the passenger’s seat.

“No, sir. Is it the missing money?”

“Yes. Do you know if Norwood was left-handed?”

Douglas pivoted to put his back to the grisly scene and closed his eyes. He didn’t conjure up an image of Norwood holding a pistol or even a pen. No, he saw Norwood raising a pint of Guinness at the Dubliner, toasting the team for a job well done, lifting the glass high in his left hand. Douglas opened his eyes. “Yes, definitely.”

“Good.” Bradshaw stepped away and signaled for Douglas to join him.

They walked side by side, and Bradshaw didn’t speak until they were out of earshot of the others.

“Do you know anything about Norwood’s personal life?”

“No. Other than he was divorced.”

“Girlfriend?”

“None that he mentioned. But he would be on his phone a lot. His personal, not his agency one.”

Bradshaw halted and turned to face Douglas.

“Did you ever overhear anything?”

The younger man looked away. “Nothing specific. Just snatches of his side.”

“Okay. So make an educated guess. Could it have been a girlfriend? Even a boyfriend?”

“Bookie,” Douglas whispered. “I think Norwood was a gambler. A serious gambler.”

“Umm. That can make a man desperate for cash.” Bradshaw stepped closer. “Where were you last night?”

The question caught Douglas completely off guard. “Me? I was…I was at a friend’s house.”

“Name?”

Douglas’s dark skin turned darker and his mouth went dry. “Cassandra Richards. Mrs. Cassandra Richards.”

“And the night Finch was killed?”

“The same.”

“And she’ll vouch for your whereabouts?”

“I don’t know, sir. She…she has a husband. He’s out of town a lot.”

Bradshaw’s eyes narrowed. “Not in the agency, I hope.”

“Oh, no, sir. I would never do that.”

“Yeah?”

“I swear. Sandy’s someone I’ve known a long time. Her marriage isn’t a happy one.”

Bradshaw said nothing.

“Do you want my resignation?”

“No. I want your eyes and ears on this case. You know how I learned you were out all night?”

Douglas shrugged. “I guess Ethel told you.”