The Hunter's Daughter

By Sheri Wilson and JJ Huffman

A series of ghastly murders are rocking the small resort town of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. Detective James Wolfe struggles to stop a brutal killer while battling small-town prejudice and intolerance. The murder victims in each instance are attorneys and other members of local law enforcement. When Wolfe’s partner is violently killed, he gets teamed up with Detective Kelly Simpson, and the duo race from grisly murder scene to scene, desperate to uncover the identity of the killer or killers. Simultaneously, Wolfe does his best to balance his responsibilities as a divorced father of an impressionable twelve-year-old daughter with those of a homicide detective.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662479977

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The Hunter's Daughter

Sheri Wilson and JJ Huffman

Copyright © 2022 Sheri Wilson and JJ Huffman

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-7996-0 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-7997-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Part 1

The Hunt Begins

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part 2

The Hunter's Daughter

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Epilogue

The Sadist's Web

About the Author

Part 1

The Hunt Begins

Prologue

November 9

His breath clouds the frigid air as he quietly closes the rear door of his blue SUV. He steps away and hangs the rifle over his right shoulder so that he can bury his hands deep in the camouflage-patterned wool jacket he's wearing. His pants, also wool, are a simple olive green, the fabric silent as he walks along the rough path likely made by deer through the tangled bushes. His face, neck, and head are covered by a dark brown ski mask. Only his eyes are exposed to the brisk morning air. The dark gray boots on his feet dig into the soft layer of leaves covering the ground.

The hunter stops for a moment and looks around. He visibly relaxes and listens to the myriad of predawn sounds that are enveloping him. Taking a deep breath, he continues his hike, focusing on the trail ahead of him, stepping carefully to avoid the broken branches littering the frozen earth.

Suddenly, he slows and veers right, pushing into the brush, trekking just a few yards through the thick bushes. He quickly reaches an area that he has cleared out, the twigs and branches cut away to create an opening in the wild growth. Dropping down to his knees and then to his stomach, he slips the rifle barrel into a gap made in the brown leaves and thick limbs. He looks through the high-powered scope to be sure nothing is blocking his view of where the beast he has been hunting beds down at night. Once he's satisfied that he has a clear line of sight, he eases up and looks at his watch. The sun will be coming up in fifteen minutes or so, and soon after that, his prey should show itself.

He thinks back to the previous mornings he's spent here waiting and watching for the right moment. Each time, the animal had managed to outwit him, moving around before the sun had risen enough to ensure a clean kill shot. He knows that patience is key and is a required element of any successful hunt. He smiles to himself. He has a good feeling about this morning. The heavens are clear and cloud-free, and he can just begin to see the sky growing light from the early morning sun. He's facing west so the glare from the rising sun won't blind him and should light up his target just enough to sight in and end this contest. He looks through the scope once more to gauge how well he can see down into the valley. He's thrilled when he realizes that he can see well enough to sight in when the creature shows itself. Now it's just a waiting game and a matter of staying focused on that piece of land, biding his time until he sees the movement that will indicate its presence.

The hunter forces himself to relax, taking deep breaths of the clean air and loosening his tense muscles. He's ready to do what needs to be done. There's no turning back.

Motion grabs his attention and causes his eyes to widen. The hunter carefully examines the origin of the movement so that he can be sure it's the same creature he's been after this past week. After a quick inspection, he's satisfied it's the very beast that has eluded him on more than one occasion. He watches as it lifts its head and seems to smell the cool morning air. He positions his finger on the trigger and watches as his prey walks toward him. They are over two hundred yards apart, but the powerful scope makes it seem as if they are no more than fifty feet away from each other. He can almost convince himself that he and his prey can look into each other's eyes and face off as God had intended. But that's not how it works in the real world. Instead, he's hiding in the bushes up on a hill 220 yards away while his target slowly steps in his direction, mistakenly thinking he's safe and unobserved.

The hunter carefully adjusts his scope for distance and the trajectory the high-speed projectile will take at this elevated position. Now he waits anxiously for the moment it stops moving. He'll only get one chance to bag this trophy. As it slows, his finger tenses on the trigger, ready to squeeze. The brute stops and turns to the side. Aiming at its head, the hunter smoothly pulls the trigger, releasing a copper-jacketed lead bullet moving at more than 2,300 feet per second. As he watches through the rifle scope, the bullet enters near the back of its skull and blows out brain tissue, hair, and bone. For a split second, his prey stands there, not seeming to know that he's dead, but events quickly unfold.

The animal that had been calling itself a man abruptly drops the steel coffee cup he had been carrying as he walked to his car. The cup hits the pavement of the street, and the lid flies from it, black coffee stippling the dead man's tan dress slacks. In slow motion, he falls to his knees as if he is praying for the forgiveness of his sins, though the hunter is sure God isn't listening to the dead man's pleas for salvation. For a moment or two, he's balanced upright, his head bowed in supplication, but gravity soon has its way with the body. It lands face-first on the hard black asphalt, his nose breaking from the force.

The hunter, shaking with the rush of adrenaline, stares for another few seconds to make sure his target is dead. Blood runs down his prey's face, dripping and mixing with the steaming puddle of coffee. Satisfied that he has succeeded in his goal, he rises up and reverses his early morning journey, heading back to his vehicle. He knows he has less than five minutes before the area is going to be swarming with cops, so his steps are sure and rapid. He reaches his SUV and quickly stows his rifle in the back seat. Seconds later, he hops behind the wheel. He forces himself to stay calm as he drives away, knowing deep in his heart that he has done what needed to be done. He pulls onto the main road and disappears into the traffic long before police sirens pierce the stillness of the deathly quiet Coeur d' Alene morning.

Chapter 1

It's about time you got here! shouts Detective Xander Jones. I thought I was going to have to call in someone from the second-string team.

Zip it, Z! I'm supposed to have today off. You're lucky I even answered my phone. Detective James Wolfe climbs out of his emerald green Chevy Camaro, closing the door behind him. His dark brown hair looks like it might still be damp, though it's cut short enough that it should dry soon. Wolfe's long-sleeved dark blue button-up shirt is roughly tucked into his light-colored pants. Both garments look like they were thrown on in a hurry.

James, I sure as hell don't know why you think no one gets murdered on your birthday, Jones says with a crooked grin.

What I shouldn't assume is that you can handle an investigation without me, Xander. It's okay. I'm here to hold your hand now. Detective Jones's crooked smile slowly slides off his face as Wolfe chides him. Wolfe suddenly goes silent for a moment. Hey, I'm sorry, Z-man. I woke up thinking I had a relaxing day ahead of me, and instead I'm spending my morning at yet another crime scene. I'm in a shitty mood, and it's not your fault. I apologize. Wolfe runs his fingers through his hair and takes a deep breath. What do we have here?

Jones pauses for just a few seconds and then plasters his trademark grin back on his face. First of all, happy birthday, buddy. I'm sorry you had to come in. You'll understand why in just a few minutes. His bushy cop's mustache gives his round face an almost comical look. He turns and begins to walk down the street toward a white home at the end of the short cul-de-sac. As Wolfe follows his partner's five-foot eight-inch frame, he looks closer at the house he's walking toward. It's a spacious two-story building on a large plot of land. The trim is a pale light blue, and the perfectly cut grass is bordered by flower beds which are raised up in the front of the lawn. Both the driveway and walk are cobblestones lined by more flower beds. It's the beginning of winter, so nothing is growing, but he thinks he can make out the trimmed stalks of rosebushes along the front of the residence. In between the detectives and the house is a newer black Lexus parked on the street in front of the home. Most of the activity is on the other side of the car. He can just barely see the medical examiner's hat over the top of the vehicle.

Who's the vic? Wolfe asks in an offhand manner.

That's why we had to call you in, buddy. It's Michael Miller. He was shot this morning on the way to his car, Jones says over his shoulder as he's walking.

Michael Miller, the defense attorney? That Michael Miller? Wolfe asks in surprise.

Jones just nods to confirm Wolfe's inquiries. Just then, they walk around the car, and the medical examiner stands up.

Good morning Jim… Xander. Justin Merrill takes a step away from the body and motions for the two cops to follow him. He's dressed in carefully pressed black slacks with an equally dark button-up shirt. A gray vest is wrapped around his wide chest, and a brightly colored tie adorns the entire outfit, seemingly out of place next to the black and gray. On his head sits his signature white fedora. A toothpick sticking out from behind his right ear completes the look. Watch out for the coffee. The word coffee comes out with a distinct accent, showing the ME's upstate New York roots.

Wolfe looks down at the body as he passes by it. The corpse is lying on its stomach, face flat to the pavement. The large area missing from the skull leaves little doubt as to the cause of death. There is a surprisingly small amount of blood around the mangled head, although he can see where some of the sticky fluid has mixed in with the puddle of coffee the dead man's face is lying in. About ten feet from the remains of Michael Miller, the ME stops and grabs ahold of the toothpick resting behind his ear.

It's no mystery. Somebody blew Miller's brains all over the fucking street, Merrill says in a matter-of-fact manner, popping the toothpick between his teeth.

Wolfe anxiously looks around, hoping nobody overheard the foul language coming from the brusque public servant. Satisfied the three of them are far enough away from everyone else, he risks a question. Is that gunshot wound to his head the only injury?

Well, I haven't flipped him over yet. I'm still taking photos, and I was waiting for you guys to show up. From what I can tell so far, it looks to be a one-shot shit show. I don't see any other artificial holes in his body. I'd say it's one and done.

Jesus Christ! Jones hisses through his teeth.

Any idea what time it happened? Wolfe asks no one in particular.

Nine-one-one was called shortly after nine this morning. A neighbor walking her dog came across the body. The mutt wasn't on a leash and was licking blood off the victim's face, Jones explains. No one so far admits to hearing anything this morning. Uniforms are still going door to door along this street, asking the usual questions. I talked with the old lady who was walking the dog. She didn't know much. Michael's partner is inside the house. I spoke with him for a few when I first arrived. He's torn up pretty bad, so I decided to give him some time to get it together. I couldn't understand what he was trying to say in between the tears and snot rockets.

Thomas Stuart is here? Wolfe asks, surprise showing on his face. When did he get here?

"Not Miller's law firm partner. His partner partner. Michael is, or was, gay, Jones says in a hushed voice. His boyfriend was here with him last night. I think he stays here off and on."

"Shit! I heard that but didn't know how much truth there was to it. It's not a big deal where I'm from, but deep red state Idaho is still a little behind the times. Wolfe looks directly at Jones. No offense, buddy. There's a huge difference between northern Idaho and Seattle, Washington. Over there, he never would have had to hide his sexual preference."

Hey, Jones says, his hands up in a surrender pose. I'm pretty liberal. To each their own, I always say.

During this entire exchange, the ME had been quietly listening, chewing on the unfortunate toothpick between his teeth. You're gonna find out anyway. Mike and Tony were married last month. They went to Anaheim to have it done. It may be legal here now, but they didn't want to make a scene. That, and most of Tony's family is from that part of the country. It was kept pretty hush-hush.

And how, my bald friend, do you know all this? Jones asks, his grin extra crooked. Something we should know about you?

Fuck off, Xander, Merrill spits out. You know I get way more pussy than you do. One of my assistants knows both Mike and Tony, and the subject came up shortly after their wedding. She knows I'm not a homophobic asshole, so she felt free to discuss it with me. I respected everyone's wishes and have kept my mouth shut. So when you talk with Tony, keep in mind that he just lost his husband. I'm sure he's devastated.

I'll keep that in mind, Justin, Jones says in a subdued tone of voice. How long before you're done with the body so that we can take a look?

Why don't we head back over there now? Hold on just a minute though. Merrill walks over to what looks like a giant tackle box and opens it up. He reaches in and grabs a couple of small clear baggies. As he walks over to where the detectives are waiting, he unwraps the contents of the packages. Here's some plastic booties to go over your shoes. I'm not sure how much of what's on the ground is coffee and how much is blood.

Each detective slips the shoe covers over their feet and, out of habit, reaches into their own pockets for latex gloves. Once everyone is protected, Merrill leads them back over to the body sprawled on the pavement, avoiding the more concentrated puddles of coffee.

So far, my guess is that the vic was on his way to his car when he was shot. The bullet entered the left side toward the back of his skull. The slug expanded on impact and took out most of the bone and brain back there. It all but severed his brain from his spinal cord. He never felt a thing. Merrill pauses for a moment as he looks at the gaping hole in the back of the blood-covered head. It's fucked up, but there are worse ways to die.

Can we flip him over? Maybe see if he was hit somewhere in the body. Jones looks to Merrill, waiting for a reply. After we take a quick peek, we'll walk around and see what we can find.

The ME squats next to the remains and carefully reaches under it, one hand at the chest and one under its hips. With a grunt, he lifts and rolls the corpse gently over onto its back. All three men can tell right away that there are no other bullet holes in the stiffening body, with coffee the only substance marring the clothes.

Satisfied? Merrill asks the detectives.

Yeah, we're gonna look around for a bit and take another stab at the vic's partner. Jones stands up and continues speaking. If you notice anything important, don't hesitate to yell out.

Merrill just nods and goes back to work.

Wolfe rises up from the squatting position he was in and carefully walks away from the body, avoiding anything that could be evidence on the ground. When he reaches a clear spot, he stops and looks around, trying to get a picture in his mind of the sequence of events that had transpired earlier that morning. Jones just stands there watching him, waiting to see what the younger detective comes up with.

Where's the rest of his head? Wolfe wonders out loud, mostly talking to himself. He begins to walk slowly in the direction of the house, closely examining the ground at his feet. As soon as he reaches the walkway, he stops dead in his tracks. I've got what looks like brain matter here. He points up the path leading to the front door. And here. He turns to the ME. Hey, Merrill, you may wanna look over here. Wolfe takes a step away from the walkway and follows it farther up to the house. Yeah, we have a full splatter pattern all along here. Take a look at this, Z-man.

Detective Jones walks through the grass of the front lawn to get to where Wolfe is without walking in the spatter of the brain, bone, and blood. Well, we know where the rest of his dome is now, Jones quips. Now we just need to find the bullet that did the damage.

The slightly round police detective stands there with his hands on his hips, looking along the cobblestone pathway as if the bullet will magically present itself.

What caliber do you think the shooter used? Wolfe asks absently.

It's gotta be something sizable. It took off a good chunk of his noggin. Either that or a high-powered rifle round. We need to find the lead that did this. Then we'll know more. I have a forensic team on the way to gather all the evidence, and they're bringing a metal detector to find the bullet. If we can figure out where the shooter was at, we can figure out who the asshole is.

I suppose it's a good time to talk to the husband, Wolfe says.

How do we know he's not the wife? Jones jokes. Hopefully, he's calmed down. I couldn't get shit outta him before.

Just keep in mind that he just lost a loved one. You don't want to have to go back to sensitivity training, Wolfe cautions his older colleague.

Yeah, yeah. You can call me Mr. Feelings, Jones says sarcastically.

Just don't be an ass, warns Wolfe. With that said, he carefully walks along the lawn toward the front door, paying close attention to where he's stepping. Jones is right on his heels as they climb the front steps to the thick wooden door. As Wolfe reaches up to press the doorbell, he notices he's still wearing the latex gloves and shoe covers. He points to them, and he and his partner strip off the booties and then the gloves, turning one of the gloves inside out with the rest of the protective gear trapped inside. Looking around for a place to get rid of the trash, they give up and stuff the filled-up gloves into their pants pocket. With that accomplished, Wolfe again reaches out and presses the doorbell. A chime sounds, reminiscent of a church cathedral, an eight-note melody playing inside the house. Thirty seconds go by before they hear someone approaching the door from the inside. The deadbolt clicks loudly, and the door begins to swing open. After just six to eight inches of movement, it stops, and a pale face peers out between the heavy door and the jamb.

Jones quickly speaks. Hello, sir. I was hoping we could sit down and talk a little more. I know this is a terrible time, but my partner and I have questions we need to ask you. We'll be as brief as possible. Can we please come inside?

The man's lip quivers for a moment, and then he opens the door the rest of the way. He's standing there in a loose red T-shirt and gray sweatpants. White socks cover his feet. He's shorter than both of the detectives. Wolfe guesses he's around five foot four inches without shoes. The bagginess of his clothes makes assessing his weight next to impossible, though his face is thin with high bony cheeks. His blond hair is cut long with curls at the ends hanging past his ears.

As long as you keep it short, the man blocking the door says, his muted voice cracking. I'm not feeling well. He steps away from the door to allow the detectives inside.

Thank you, sir, Jones says, his voice soft and polite. Wolfe and Jones step inside and follow the small man into the entryway.

Wolfe's eyes are immediately drawn down to the off-white carpet. Two small brown footprints lead into the home. They stand out on the otherwise pristine floor. He points down to the stains to bring them to Jones's attention, and both men edge around them so as not to disturb the dark marks. Wolfe looks ahead and can see that there are no other blemishes on the carpet near the door. Wolfe stops so that Jones can pass by him, pulling out his cell phone as Jones crosses between the victim's partner and himself. He quickly drops a pen from his pocket in between the prints and takes a couple of pictures, stooping to retrieve his pen as he slips his phone back into his pocket. The whole process takes only seconds, and he's back in line following the other two men deeper into the home before he's noticed.

They arrive in an extravagantly furnished living room, the couches and chairs upholstered with fine soft leather. Most of the furniture is charcoal black, except the coffee and end tables. Those are polished stainless steel with glass tops. Hanging on the walls are framed works of art. Wolfe can't tell if they are originals or printed reproductions, but they look very expensive in either case. The walls are painted a soft gray, and the room has the feel of an upscale art gallery.

The detectives are led to the couch, and they both sit down, the smaller man they were following choosing a plush recliner facing the couch. For a moment, they just look at each other over the coffee table, both sides settling into the comfortable furnishings.

Jones breaks the silence. "I'm sorry, but my partner and I have some necessary questions we need to ask. To remind you, I'm Detective Jones. This is my partner, Detective Wolfe. I understand you and the deceased were recently married. I'm sorry for your loss. Would you prefer to be addressed as Mr. Miller?"

He shakes his head. I didn't take Michael's last name. We were worried about what his clients would think. You can call me Anthony.

Jones smiles and nods. Thank you, Anthony. What is your full name? I just need it for the interview paperwork, he explains.

Anthony Vasco Simon Vasquez. Would you like me to spell that?

No. That won't be necessary. Okay, Anthony, let's get started. Jones pulls out a small voice recorder from his shirt pocket and, after touching a button on the side, sets it on the glass tabletop between them and Anthony. I'm Detective Xander Jones with my partner, Detective James Wolfe. We are with the Coeur d' Alene Police Department investigating the death of Michael Miller. It is 10:55 a.m. on November 9. We are sitting with Anthony Vasquez, the husband of Michael Miller, in their shared home. Jones pauses for just a moment.

Is recording this really necessary? Anthony asks, staring at the digital apparatus.

It's no different from if I was wearing a body camera. It's really for your protection, Jones explains, shrugging off the other man's concerns. Before Anthony has a chance to further question the need for the recording device, Jones continues, When did you become aware that Mr. Miller had been shot?

Anthony takes a deep breath as if preparing to submerge himself in a deep pool of water. I was in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee this morning around nine o'clock. I woke up after Michael had left for work. I had plans to go jogging around Tubb's Hill later this morning. While—

Jones interrupts, Were you going jogging alone or with someone?

I was going by myself. He looks at Jones for a moment and then switches his attention over to Detective Wolfe. As I was saying, while I was fixing my coffee, I heard a scream that came from the outside. Our backyard is rather large and fenced in, so I was sure it had come from the front. I slipped my shoes on and went out the front door. Mrs. Larson was standing at the end of our drive with her poodle, Poco, in her arms. He pauses his tale, and his face contorts, his eyes clamping shut as if he's trying to unsee something in front of his face. He gasps in air, and his mouth closes, his jaw seeming to lock shut. Anthony's hands are on his lap, his fingers curled into fists. Jones and Wolfe wait patiently for the distraught man to regain his composure.

When a full half minute passes with no sign of a continuation, Wolfe gently reminds him that they are there. Could you see your husband from your front door?

Anthony's eyes pop open. At first I didn't know what I was seeing. Mrs. Larson was standing there, and I could tell she was on the phone. Then I noticed Michael's Lexus still parked down on the street. He had left for work, so the car shouldn't have been there. I just stared at it, trying to figure out what it was doing there.

Did your husband always park on the street? Why not park in the garage? Wolfe asks.

After we were married, we brought my belongings over here from my apartment. We put most of the boxes in the garage. My Honda is parked on the empty side. We were in the process of making room in there so that he could park in the garage again before it snowed. Maybe if he hadn't been parked on the street, he'd still be alive. He asked me to put some of it in storage, but I refused. It's my fault Michael's dead. He brings his left hand up and covers his mouth as if he's trying to stop the words that are coming from his lips.

Far from feeling that he's hearing a confession, Wolfe quickly asks another question. He's afraid if they pause too long, no matter what they try, the agitated man will go from an anxiety attack to full-blown hysterics. Do you work, Mr. Vasquez?

He looks at Wolfe with confusion in his eyes, like he's trying to understand the question. My job? I did work. I was a clerk at the courthouse over in Spokane. That's how Michael and I met. I recently resigned and was trying to get on over at the County Courthouse. I thought I had secured a position, but Judge Landry found out about Michael and me, and he's been stonewalling my hiring. He's a homophobic bigot that revels in the fact that there are no laws in Idaho keeping employers from using sexual orientation as a reason to not hire. No one who works there wants to cross him out in the open. They are quick to say that it's not fair but just as quick to look the other way.

Sensing that the man sitting across from him had settled down, Wolfe switches back to the more sensitive questions. At what point did you become aware that Mr. Miller had been killed?

As Anthony opens his mouth to speak, the doorbell rings. The church bells cause the already tense witness to jump noticeably. As he rises from the chair, he quietly apologizes. I'll be just a moment. Excuse me, please. He quickly leaves the room to answer the door.

Jones reaches down and picks up the recording device, touching a button to pause it. Looking to where Anthony Vasquez had disappeared to, he lowers his voice to address Wolfe. What do you think?

Without hesitation, Wolfe replies, At first his answers seemed rehearsed, mechanical even. As soon as you interrupted him, it seemed to throw him off, like he lost his place. I don't know. Shock does funny things to people. What did the lady with the dog have to say?

Her and her mutt went for their morning constitutional at nine o'clock this morning. The dog came upon the vic first, and when the old lady came around the car, she saw the body. Her precious poodle was licking blood from the corpse's face and head. That's when she screamed. She said she rushed to her dog and picked it up, careful to avoid touching the dead body. She backed out of the gore and called 911. She said the dispatcher advised her to head back home for her own safety. I asked, and she said she didn't see anyone else out there. She went home and locked her door, not opening it until I showed up.

Most of that lines up with what Vasquez is telling us. What do you make of the stains on the carpet? Wolfe looks in the direction of the front door to confirm that they aren't being listened to. It looks to me like coffee.

My guess is that at some point, he was down by the body and picked up some coffee on his shoes. That was one of your next questions, wasn't it? Jones grins conspiratorially at his partner.

It's where I was leading, Wolfe confirms. He again looks to the hall that leads to the door. I wonder what's taking him so long.

As if in answer to his question, Vasquez walks back into the large room, closely followed by another man. Wolfe looks at the tall thin man and immediately recognizes him as Thomas Stuart, Miller's partner in the law firm they shared. Wolfe and Jones both stand as the two men entering the room approach them. The towering lawyer reaches them first, and they trade handshakes in silent greeting.

Jones is the first to speak. Good morning, Thomas. It's crappy circumstances to meet in. How are you holding up?

I was shocked when Anthony called me this morning. Michael and I have worked together for almost five years building our firm. Lady Justice lost one helluva warrior today. Stuart's face is devoid of emotion, many years of bitter courtroom battles teaching him to remain stoic. I felt my place was here showing support to Michael's spouse in this tragic time.

Jones moves to sit back down, and Stuart loudly clears his throat, stopping Jones before he sinks back into the lavish sofa. Anthony tells me that you were questioning him. I have advised him to hold off on answering any more of your inquiries until he and I have had a chance to talk. I'm sure you understand. Stuart stands there with a smile on his face, looking at them like he had done no more than commented on the mildness of the weather.

Wolfe's jaw drops, and Jones's face gets tight. They both look to Vasquez. Wolfe can't help but plead with the small and visibly nervous man. Are you serious? We're trying to figure out who killed your husband. Why would you possibly not want to help us out?

Vasquez looks at Stuart with panic in his eyes, and the attorney answers for him in a smooth and practiced voice. If you'll excuse us. My client isn't prepared to answer any more questions at this time. Please contact me if you'd like to set up a time for a formal interview after he and I have had a chance to confer. I'll walk you out. He stares at the detectives until their shock wears off.

Jones reaches down for the recorder, and they turn to leave the room. The attorney slips behind them and follows all the way to the front door. They step outside, and he tersely wishes them a good day as he closes the door firmly behind them.

The walkway has been roped off with police tape. Yellow markers have been spread out to indicate the locations of various pieces of evidence. A young woman in loose zip-up coveralls is slowly walking around with a metal detector in her hands and headphones over her ears connected by a tightly spiraled black cord.

Let's get out of here, Jones says, a touch of anger in his voice.

What do you suppose that was all about?

That's what happens when lawyers show up to a perfectly good interview, Jones says with disgust.

They follow the forked path to the driveway and use it to reach the street below, not speaking to each other as they walk.

When they reach the street, Jones turns to Wolfe. I suggest we let the forensic team do their job. Let's go get some lunch. Wanna meet me at Jimmy's?

Yeah, I could use a burger and a shake. I skipped breakfast.

Jones's smile returns. Good. See you down there. With that, he walks toward the department sedan, the thought of a Jimmy's Down the Street burger and fries on his mind.

Wolfe turns in the direction where his Camaro is parked and sees someone leaning against it, waiting for him to walk over. He sighs and trudges to his car, steeling himself for a confrontation. He's not in the mood to argue with a persistent newspaper reporter. Forcing a smile on his face, he lifts his hand in a friendly wave. Manny. Hey, buddy, how's it going?

Manuel Cisneros flashes his bright white smile, the gleam contrasting against his dark skin. His long black hair cascades down his back, and at first glance, you can't tell if he's Native American or of Mexican descent. Even in this cold, he's wearing jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt that is showing off his muscular arms covered in tattoos.

Detective Wolfe, how's life? I hear a lawyer got shot. What can you tell me?

It's still early in the investigation, Manny. We'll be sending out a press release later today. How 'bout you unlean your butt off my paint job and wait for the official word?

The perpetual smile grows even wider as the upbeat reporter pushes himself off the rear quarter panel of the emerald green sports car. I'll do that. You have a great day, Detective. He's strolling away with a happy bounce in his step when he suddenly stops. Oh! Hey, Detective, happy birthday.

Wolfe shakes his head and smiles as he gets into his car, not at all surprised that the star reporter for The Spokane Press knew what today was.

Chapter 2

Sarah! Get your skinny butt in here and help me with dinner! Wolfe yells from the kitchen. "It's my birthday. You should be cooking for me instead of the other way around." He smiles as he hears her bedroom door open and her sock-covered feet running down the hall, announcing her arrival.

I'm trying to finish your present, Dad! she shouts down the hallway. You need to be patient. Sarah slides into the kitchen over the white linoleum floor. She's wearing purple jogging shorts with gold stripes and a violet T-shirt. She shuffles over to her dad and wraps her skinny arms around his waist, her head only reaching up to his chest. I'm almost done wrapping it. She looks up into his face, her chin resting on him. Five more minutes. Okay?

Wolfe looks down into his daughter's eyes, the glow of adoration lighting up his rugged face. He reaches up and smooths down her long brown hair, the curls spreading out from her head. Sarah's soft brown eyes look at him expectantly.

"Five minutes and then you're cutting cucumbers. Sushi was your idea, after