“And Balentine is…?”

“Amy’s second husband. Drowned in his own swimming pool when Gavin was twelve. Man was rich as hell, and Amy inherited the works.”

“Sounds like she hit a jackpot. Was the drowning investigated?”

“They ruled it accidental. Amy said she and Richard were having drinks by the pool one night, two lovebirds celebrating the sale of one of Richard’s companies. She got a little tipsy and went to bed, while Richard stayed up to finish his cigar. In the morning she found him floating in the pool. His blood alcohol was a point two six. Apparently, Balentine liked his Scotch.”

“Signs of a fight?”

“An injury to the back of his head. They found blood at the edge of the pool along with a wicker footstool that had been knocked over. The theory was that he stumbled, tripped over the footstool and fell, hitting his head on the concrete. Then, groggy and drunk, he tried to stand up and fell in the pool. It’s plausible, but…” Matty shrugged.

“But it’s bullshit.”

“Gavin called it in. I listened to the 911 tape; if it was bullshit, he put on one hell of a show.”

“Why do I get the feeling that Gavin offed his stepdad?”

“Who knows?” Matty said. “He was only twelve, but the old man was drunk, so it wouldn’t have taken all that much effort. Honestly, I wouldn’t put anything past that evil son of a bitch.”

Niki pulled the car into the driveway of a redbrick colonial with a black wrought-iron fence. The house rose two stories, with white pillars, black shutters, and enough ivy climbing its face to tell a story of old money. Now it was the home of Amy Spencer.

She had been visibly nervous when they’d talked to her the first time, exhibiting the kind of tics that liars often show: fidgeting, delayed gesturing with her hands, looking away at key points as if trying to find an answer, and filibustering—rambling on and on when just a word or two would do. They had gone there to ask a few simple questions about Gavin and his Ford Bronco, but after that first meeting, the detectives agreed that something about the woman was off.

“Why, hello, detectives. I wasn’t…expecting…Um, come in.”

Amy wore an outfit that probably looked great on the mannequin at Forever 21: a loose V-neck sweater over skinny jeans, and a pair of Chelsea boots, an ensemble that seemed as mismatched on her as rhinestones on a work glove. Her desperately youthful clothing seemed designed to draw attention to the obvious augmentation she’d done to her fifty-one-year-old frame.

“Sorry to bother you again,” Niki said, “but we just had a couple follow-ups.”

“If you’d called, though, I could have had coffee ready.”

“That’s okay,” Niki said. “This won’t take long.”

Amy showed the detectives to the same room where they had convened on their last visit, a room that held a leather chaise across from two matching Queen Anne chairs. Niki and Matty sat in the Queen Annes while Amy struck a pose of nonchalance on the chaise.