At the far end of the shed, the door opened to the yard between the house and outbuildings. Knowlton paused to light up just as he stepped outside, the lighter clicking and the smell of smoke tinging the air. The dog took off, scaring up two crows who cawed their indignation as they fluttered to the high skeletal branches of an apple tree, knocking off clumps of snow and a few stubborn leaves.

Outside, Knowlton shot a glance at them. “You have somethin’ more to ask?”

“Yes.” Mendoza was a little irritated; it showed in the tight corners of her mouth. “Other than the women, did Cahill have anyone he didn’t get along with? Coworkers? Employees? Boyfriends of the women he dated?”

“It’s not like we’re all one big happy family,” Knowlton admitted, “but no, I don’t know anyone who was out to get him.” He squinted through the falling snow. “Anything else?”

Rivers shook his head. “Not now.”

“Good.” He held up both hands, almost in surrender, then turned and strode through unbroken snow to the barn.

“You gonna let him walk off like that?” asked Mendoza.

“You got any more questions?”

“No. Yes. Like none that come to mind, but a million.”

“Then we’ll catch him later.”

Mendoza scowled as she watched Knowlton and the dog disappear into the barn.

“Well, that was sure worth our time.” Her breath came out in a fog.

“Maybe.”

“And maybe not.”

“I’ll meet you in the Jeep.” Rivers tossed Mendoza his keys. “I’ll just be a second.”

“Whatever.” She was already opening the gate leading to the parking area.

Rivers went back through the woodshed, taking in the dust and disuse of a place where he suspected rats and squirrels and whatever could get inside had nested. An axe had been left in a battle-scarred stump that was obviously used as a splitting block.

Rivers walked through the long back porch as he retraced his steps, and in the mud/laundry room he noted the work boots beneath a bench and ski jackets hung on hooks. Nothing out of place.

At least not where the cops had left well enough alone.

One of the jackets was stained and frayed. Well worn. Rivers walked to it, found a pair of work gloves that were nearly worn through stuffed in the pockets. Favorites. Stiff with sweat. Without a second thought, he slipped the pair into a pocket of his own coat and headed back inside.

He made his way through the kitchen and dining area that Cahill had obviously used as an office, then walked into the living room, where he stared at the cold fireplace, the blackened bits of logs, and the thick ashes in the firebox, the smell of burnt wood barely discernable. His gaze focused on the corner of the hearth, on the stained bricks and discolored mortar.