Wayne didn’t get it. The husband was always the primary person of interest, and as suspects went, Jason Jones was perfect. Conspicuously lacking in credible background information. Suspected by his own wife of dubious online activities. Known to disappear for long periods of time after midnight, in a job that didn’t really provide a concrete alibi. What the hell was Sergeant Warren waiting for, a pretty package with a bow on top?

Jason needed to be arrested. Because then Wayne Reynolds could finally sleep at night. God knows in the past few days he’d been frantically purging his personal computer as well as his Treo. Which was ironic, because he of all people knew he’d never get the electronic devices one hundred percent clear. He should buy a new hard drive for his computer, and “lose” his Treo, preferably while running over it with his lawn mower. Or maybe he could flatten it with his car? Toss it into the harbor?

It was funny, outsiders always assumed law enforcement officers had an advantage—they worked in the system, meaning they knew exactly what sort of misstep might trip a guy up. Except that was the problem. Wayne of all people knew how hard it was to cover one’s electronic tracks, and, being fully aware of such things, he understood just how hard his own actions would be scrutinized under a microscope.

He’d spent three months going on walks with Sandra Jones, nothing less, nothing more, but if he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself labeled as her lover and placed on administrative leave, a subject of internal investigation. Especially if the forensic computer expert “lost” his Treo, or “replaced” his home computer. That sort of thing simply wasn’t going to play.

Which made him wonder why the BPD hadn’t cracked open the Jones computer yet. They’d had it nearly twenty-four hours. Figure five to six hours to make a forensically sound copy, then getting EnCase up and running …

One to two more days, he figured, and sighed. He didn’t think his nerves could take one to two more days.

Let alone what such a long period of time might mean for Sandy.

He tried not to think about it. The cases he’d worked on before, the crime-scene photos he often viewed in his line of work. Suffocation? Stabbing? Single gunshot wound to the head?

He had tried to warn Sandy: She never should have gone away on the February vacation.

Wayne sighed heavily. Consulted the clock again. Decided to stay a little later at the crime lab, do a bit more work. Except then his Treo buzzed. He looked down, to find a message from his sister’s e-mail address.

He frowned, clicked open the message.

Five forty-five P.M. Wayne read his nephew’s startling confession.

And started to sweat in earnest.