“Nope,” Kevin said, putting his hands over his ears and rocking harder. “No, I didn’t kill her.”

  “I think you did,” Michael said. “I think you killed her, and I think on September ninth when you left work—he glanced at the phone—make that didn’t show up to work at all, I think you killed Katherine Navarro too.”

  Kevin started humming under his breath, refusing to make eye contact with Michael. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he said in between hums. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Sure you didn’t,” Michael said. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. We’re going to charge you with murder. We’re going to match your DNA to the DNA found at the crime scene. We’re going to search your house, and unless you’re smart enough that you ditched the rings in a public trash can, we’re going to find them, and you’re going to spend the rest of your life somewhere you can’t hurt anyone else.”

  “I didn’t kill my wife,” Kevin said, still hugging his chest and rocking back and forth. “I didn’t kill those women. No sir.”

  Faith glanced at Turk, who sat next to her staring impassively at Kevin, where he had sat the entire time. Her doubts increased as they left the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  His wrist flexed and relaxed over and over as he squeezed the exercise clamp in his hand. It didn’t exactly reduce his stress, but it made it manageable.

  He shouldn’t have worn the ring. That was inexcusable. He put himself in danger, put his work in danger, all because he needed the ring with him. He should have left it at home. If that FBI agent and her dog had caught up to him and found the ring, then the game would have been over.

  That dog could be a problem. The FBI agent had quickly realized her mistake and pursued him, missing him by less than a minute. He had seen her run into the parking lot just as his van pulled out.

  His only hope was that they mistook him for Kevin. He didn’t look exactly like Kevin, but they were close enough in appearance that if she got only a brief glance of him, she might believe it was Kevin she was after. Kevin was a convicted murderer anyway with a history of mental illness. He fit the profile.

  Henry Levinson didn’t fit anyone’s profile of a killer. Henry Levinson was a stand-up guy. He kept to himself; he was kind, upbeat, and agreeable. He lived alone and showed no interest in anyone else after losing his wife. He wasn’t the kind of person to lie in wait and stab people in cold blood.

  He had fought very long and very hard to make sure that wholesome image remained the only image in anyone’s mind when they thought of him. He had fought hard and then he had fucked it up by wearing that damn ring.

  He tossed the hand clamp onto the bed and lifted his hand to look at the ring. He still wore it, and he knew when it came time to go after Gina and take the ring off, he would be devastated by its absence.

  Well, sacrifices had to be made. Besides, they didn’t know where he lived, and it was almost certain that Kevin would say or do something to make himself seem like their guy. He could leave the ring at home. It was safe.

  For now, he focused his attention on his latest stray, this Gina Norris.

  He was angry with her now. He’d gone online and researched her a little, at the library, of course, and not with his personal computer. He thought about seeing her social media, his eyes blazing with rage as he learned she was married still, not even separated. She had been flaunting her freedom, wearing no wedding ring on her finger, and sending out signals that she was available. It was evil enough to do that because of a divorce but sickening and enraging when a woman did such a thing while pretending the vows mattered.

  His own wife had never worn her wedding ring, the whore. It had been a sign of disrespect to him, a reminder that he wasn't worth honoring in such a way. He’d believed that for some time before he finally understood she’d been adulterous. He’d never caught her carrying on affairs with other men behind his back, not in flagrante delicto. He knew, though. He knew, and the betrayal and humiliation burned deeply inside of him to this day.

  In flagrante delicto. Caught in the act. Most people didn’t finish the phrase but simply said in flagrante or caught in flagrante. That was the problem. People never focused on the importance of doing things right. Worse, if he corrected someone, they would certainly react as though he were wrong for expecting someone to do things properly.

  He was wrong with his wife.

  Every time.

  Why couldn’t she see that he only wanted to help her? Didn’t she want to do things right? He only tried to help her, but every time he offered advice, she punished him for it—crying, shouting, deriding him, calling him names—all because he thought she might want to know if she was making a mistake.

  And he endured all of it. Because he loved her, and when you love someone, you make sacrifices. Like allowing them to disrespect you because of their own insecurities.

  But when she cheated? That was the final straw. That was the line. He couldn’t brook an insult like that. She had cheated, and he knew in his heart of hearts that she was no longer the woman he married. No, she never was.

  When he confronted her, she had laughed. Amused derision. He confronted her and asked her if it was true, and the whore had laughed at him.

  “That’s right, little man,” she said sarcastically. “I’ve just been out sleeping with every man I can find. Anyone will do as long as it’s not you.”

  She’d been remarkably easy to kill. He had anticipated a struggle, but she snapped in his arms like a twig. The elation he felt as his arm encircled her neck and he twisted to break it was unexpected. He’d expected to feel a measure of guilt or, at the least, some sort of unhappy resignation. He’d not expected to feel so good about killing her.

  He might have killed her faster had she not begged, the sound of her begging thrilled him enough that he wanted it to last. What might have been twenty or thirty seconds of effort, he extended into a few minutes, allowing her to believe she was getting through to him. He actually slightly relieved the pressure on her right before the end, savoring her body’s reaction of relief and then savoring the way she stiffened when he whispered, “Whore,” and snapped her neck.

  He heard another snap and jumped. He blinked, then looked at his hand and realized he had picked up the wrist clamp again and squeezed it so hard the spring had snapped. He tossed the broken pieces into the wastebasket next to his desk and began to dress. It was time to go to work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Faith sat and …

  Those old books would say she stewed. She sat, and she stewed, that was it. She sat and stewed; her mind clouded with questions. She had been certain that the suspect was the killer and forced herself to believe it regardless of Turk’s reaction. She’d forced herself to believe it regardless of the man’s vehement and ultimately believable denial.

  “He’s innocent,” she said.

  “Yeah. Sucks,” Michael replied.

  “I wonder if he’s innocent of his wife’s murder too.”

  He didn’t respond immediately. Faith studied his face. He agreed. She could see his eyes light up with the prospects of a new mystery but just as quickly grow dark with resignation. “Well, we’re not going back in time to figure that out,” Michael said, “and I don’t even know where we’re going moving forward.”

  In some ways, being proven wrong completely felt better than things being amorphous but her doubting her conclusions. Those ways didn’t feel nearly as better as the other ways that made her feel angry, hopeless, and frustrated.

  “Wait a minute,” she said.

  “Go ahead,” Michael replied.

  “No. I mean it literally. Wait a minute. Something’s forming.” She closed her eyes and fought against the inclination to force the conclusions she could feel working themselves out. If she tried to force them, she’d lose it entirely.

  Could he really have gotten away with killing his own wife without anyone suspecting?

  It seemed impossible.

  But that had to be the answer.

  But then again, stranger things had happened.

  “We weren’t wrong,” she finally said.

  “Well, then,” Michael said, “I guess everything I know about investigation is wrong, then.”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean, we weren’t wrong about the profile. The killer is killing wifey over and over, just like he killed his actual wife.”

  “Oh. And so, there’s another crazy head case released from prison for his wife’s murder and killing married people?” He shook his head. “You’re not making sense, Faith.”

  “He killed his actual wife but never got caught.” Michael didn’t seem to register what she said so she added, “The man killed his wife just like we predicted. First dead wifey. He got away with it, though, got a taste for it, and started killing her over and over again.”

  “You think we need to go after the first victim’s husband?”

  She shook her head. “No. Not that.”

  “Okay, let’s not play twenty questions. Just tell me what you mean.”

  “We need to take a different approach. We have the right profile, but we’re looking for men whose wives were murdered. We found the suspect so quickly that we assumed we were right. What we need to do is check the databases and background checks and all the rest of it. We need widowers who didn’t get charged in the deaths of their wives.”

  “Well, we already have the list, then.”

  “No, no,” she said. “I mean, deaths where they weren’t ruled a homicide. I mean, the guy got away with it completely and that’s what spurred him to do it again.”

  “So, suicides?” Covering up a murder was difficult and required careful planning. For some reasons, killers favored making a death appear as if it were suicide. The key, though, was to make sure that any evidence of foul play wasn't detected by investigators.

  Suicide was foul play.

  Suicide raised dozens of questions and always led to more investigation.

  “Yeah, maybe,” she said, “but probably accidents.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. You poison someone with their own medicine, you make it look like suicide. You slash their wrists or whatever. Accidents are harder. You have to … I mean, we look for jumpers, of course, because—”

  “Because people can be pushed off the balcony,” Michael finished. “So, we look for jumpers. We look for accidental falls too. And, of course, we look for other accidents, lots of trauma. Fires. Things that obscure the cause of death because there’s so much damage it can be anything.”

  “And when a body is burned to a crisp, the ME isn’t looking for other causes,” Faith said, “but let’s not look at this narrowly. Let’s be broad. Maybe a car accident. Drowning. Gas explosion. Who the hell knows? We need widowers, though, where the coroner assigned accidental death rather than homicide.”

  Michael nodded slowly. “Murder cover-ups are difficult and rarely successful, but in the right circumstances, they can be pulled off. It all comes down to planning and, well, and not being so perfect it’s obvious.”

  “Accidental death,” Michael said. He said it. He didn’t ask. Just like that, they were on the same page. “Harder to fake that than suicide.”

  “Yeah,” Faith said. She held up a finger, “but let’s not be too hasty with this. I mean, we don’t want to repeat the same thing like we did with homicides. In Tucson, the ME is going to rule a death homicide, accident, suicide, or natural. We need a list of accident, suicide, or natural for everyone in the profile’s age range but we focus on follow up efforts on accidents first, I think.”

  “We want to look at the homicides, too, just lower priority. We might have been right about that and just picked the wrong man.”

  “He was a perfect fit,” she said with a nod, “and perfectly wrong.”

  Michael nodded. “Well, we can narrow it down a little.”

  “How so?” Faith asked.

  “We can check the DOT office again. At some point, the man you saw on the street was parked there because Turk tracked him there. It’s possible he just cut through the parking lot, and Turk lost his scent in an oil patch, but I think we give him the benefit of the doubt and say our killer was there earlier today.”

  “Good idea,” Faith said. “Maybe one of the other employees or visitors matches the description.”

  “It’s worth a shot, at least.”

  They rejoined the detectives, and Faith shared the news.

  The two of them stared at her like she was insane. “Are you kidding me?” Travis said. “You were the one who fingered the guy.”

  “I know,” Faith said. “He matches the description of the man I saw, but he doesn’t seem to have any idea what we’re talking about. He’s giving me no sign that he knows why we’re talking to him.”

  “He’s not acting like he knows anything,” Derek said. “He’s clearly insane.”

  “I know,” Faith said, “but I feel like he would know enough to know if he killed our victims.”

  “Not necessarily,” Derek said. “I’m not a psychologist, but I know a lot of killers who are ruled insane say that they felt they were in a fugue or a dream. Maybe he didn’t know that what he was experiencing was real life.”

  “Still,” Faith said, “he didn’t react the right way.”

  “What the hell is the right way?” Travis said, throwing his arms up in frustration. “‘Gee, Miss Nice FBI Lady, I guess you’re right. I did murder those people. Time to put me away for the rest of my life.’”

  Faith sighed. “I know that this is frustrating. Believe me, I’m as frustrated as you are, but Turk didn’t react to him the way he did to the man I saw on the street.”

  “I thought we agreed it was the ring, not the guy, he reacted to.”

  “Yeah,” Derek said, “we know he ditched the rings. Turk didn’t smell it, so he didn’t jump on him.”

  Faith’s blood boiled. “Look, we’re going to investigate him anyway. Either I’m right, and he’s not our guy, or I’m wrong, and we’ll find what we need to put him away. I’m only saying we should keep looking for other leads.”

  “Well,” Derek said, “if you don’t mind, we’re going to pursue this lead. If you two want to find another lead, you be our guests.”

  “Fine by me,” Faith said. She looked at Michael.

  “I’m with my partner,” he said. “Let us know if you find the evidence linking Kevin to the murders.”

  “Sure thing,” Travis said, shaking his head, “at least you guys will be out of our hair.”

  Faith and Michael left the precinct. On the way back to their car, Faith said, “Michael?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you for trusting me.”

  He nodded and offered her a half-smile. “Hey, that’s what partners are for, right?”

  Faith returned his smile and said, “Well, I appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing,” he said, “but you better be right this time.”

  “Well, I have to be right eventually, right?” she said with a grin.

  Michael didn’t find that funny.

  ***

  Darla’s eyes widened in surprise when she saw the two agents return. This time, there was no tough-girl act. “Did you catch him?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” Faith said. “Kevin wasn’t our guy.”

  Darla’s eyes widened further. “He wasn’t?”

  “No,” Faith said. “We need your help.”

  “I mean, I don’t know what else …” Darla began.

  “Is there anyone else who matches the description I gave you?” Faith said. “Anyone at all. Employee, visitor, someone you saw out of your window?”

  “Umm, I wouldn’t know about the visitors,” she said. “Half of Tucson comes here. For employees, there really isn’t anyone. I mean, Henry, I guess, but Henry’s not the killing type.”

  “Tell me about Henry,” Faith said.

  Darla shook her head. “You don’t want Henry. He’s not your man. He’s … how do I put this? He’s soft. If you slapped him in the face, he’d be more likely to cry than slap you back.”

  “Can you give me his address, please?”

  “Sure, but I’m telling you …”

  “Yes, thank you, I heard you,” Faith said. “Can you give me his address, please?”

  Darla sighed, and a little of her earlier tough façade came back, possibly out of irritation at Faith’s demanding tone. “All right, if you want to waste your time,” she said, miffed.

  Faith didn’t respond. She didn’t care if Darla liked her or not. She just needed the address.

  “Okay,” she said after a moment. “1820 Montclair Drive.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “Wow. That’s in the Foothills. He must have inherited it from a great-aunt or something. God knows we don’t pay him enough to afford that.”

  “Thank you,” Faith said. “Keep your phone on. We might need more from you.”

  “I live to serve,” Darla said sarcastically.

  The three of them raced back to the car and punched the address into the GPS. The GPS said twenty minutes to their destination. With the lights and sirens, they could cut that to fifteen. Faith glanced at the clock on the dash. Four-thirty. Three-and-a-half hours since she had seen the killer on the street. More than enough time for him to have gotten away if running was his plan. She could only hope that he hadn’t already disappeared.

  They reached the address in twelve minutes thanks to some creative driving on Michael’s part. They leapt out of the car, and the minute Turk caught a whiff of the air in front of the large, two-story house they arrived at, he growled and sprinted toward the house.

  Michael and Faith immediately sprinted after him, drawing their weapons. There was no question now. Henry Levinson was their man.