Rivers wasn’t so sure, and as Knowlton swung the door open, the dog shot out, a black-and-brown streak that leapt across the porch and down the few steps to start running in wide circles through the snow in the front yard. Yipping excitedly, snow clumps flying, the shepherd tore from one end of the yard to the other.

“Guess he’s got a little energy to burn off,” Bobby remarked as they stepped inside. “I shoulda taken him home with me. I kept thinkin’ James would be released any time and would want the dog here.” He snapped on some of the interior lights, and in the wash of illumination, Rivers eyed the room again.

The front of the home was split by a staircase, living room on one side, dining room on the other. The living area was filled with a mismatch of comfortable furniture in no particular style: leather recliner, short sofa, two easy chairs now toppled over; they had been, it seemed, situated around a fireplace with a raised hearth, one corner of which was still stained with blood.

Cahill’s blood, he presumed.

Lab tests would prove it out.

The house was just the way the police had left it, swept by the crime-scene team, fingerprints taken, electronics removed, trace evidence collected, digital photos snapped, blood samples already sent to the lab and currently being checked for DNA. A faint odor of ash from the last fire hung in the air.

“Man, you guys really know how to trash a place,” Bobby said, surveying the disheveled shelves and layer of fine fingerprint dust. “Don’t you all ever clean up after yourselves? James is gonna be pissed.”

A messy house was the least of James Cahill’s problems.

Knowlton adjusted his hat on his balding head. “Isn’t all this overkill? I mean it’s not like anyone’s dead, right?”

“We hope not.” But Rivers had learned long ago to be thorough. No one was known dead, that was true, but this had been their one chance, before Cahill returned from the hospital, to search his house top to bottom. Better safe than sorry.

“I kinda feel like I’m steppin’ on someone’s grave. I mean, I know nobody’s dead—er, we think not—but still, seems a little weird, if ya know what I mean.” Knowlton glanced back through the open door, and Rivers followed his gaze to the yard. The shepherd was still racing through the snow, tail tucked, tongue lolling. “He’s just showin’ off. Probably lonely. I’ll take him back to my place till James gets back.”

Rivers turned back to the mess that was the living room. “Let’s go over what happened again.”

“All right.” Then in a louder voice over his shoulder, “Come on in, Ralph! The party’s over!”

Rivers and Mendoza stepped away from the entry as the dog bolted back inside and Knowlton slammed the door shut, sealing out the cold.