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who have never had the money would think that would be a motive, all right. I despise people.”
    “I hope that’s not true,” Holt said. “Because, ultimately, you may have to depend on people for your life, Miss Linneker.”
    “I told you I didn’t want to talk to you. Go away and leave me alone.”
    “I’d like you to answer one question before I go. You mentioned Shayon wrangling with your father. Would that have been about two months ago — about the first of December? Is that when the trouble began?”
    Tara hesitated and then said, “Of course not. Father didn’t approve of my — of Del and me, but there wasn’t any trouble. On December first or any other time. Now I wish you’d go away.”
    Holt rose and brushed off his trousers. “It’ll be dark soon. I’d be glad to walk you back to the house.”
    Tara turned her head away from him and didn’t reply. After a moment, Holt said a polite goodbye and trudged back across the sand to the stairs. He ascended them slowly, grateful to escape the grisly aroma of the little cove. He looked back once, but Tara was not watching him. Instead, she gazed out across the water at the lumber yard on the far shore, now solely hers. Holt wondered at her thoughts. Grief? Despair? Or something else?
    The rain still hadn’t developed into anything significant, which might be an omen or might not. He didn’t know quite what to make of the sullen brooding girl. She had decided to lie to him about the December first date; he was sure of that. How much of the rest of her story was false? All of it? Holt found himself feeling sorry for her, guilty or not. Then he sighed. Tara didn’t seem to care one way or another, so why should he?
    The cop was squatting under a palm tree, smoking a damp cigarette. “See everything?” he asked as Holt passed.
    “No,” said Holt truthfully. “Not yet.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    I T was already quitting time so Holt didn’t bother to go back to his office. But on his way home, he detoured to stop by the little restaurant across from the Civic Centre. Van Dusen was sitting at the bar, having his usual supper, a martini and a shrimp cocktail.
    Van Dusen had a first name but no one remembered it except the clerk who made out the pay cheques. He was chief investigator for the district attorney’s office, a chubby bachelor of forty-plus with a horseshoe of curly brown hair encircling his otherwise naked scalp. He gave the impression of being just a good-natured nonentity but Holt knew better. Van Dusen had held his job through three different administrations simply because he came close to being an indispensable man.
    Van Dusen kicked out the adjoining stool so Holt could join him. “Out celebrating the Buccio case, Mitch? Pull up a chair.”
    “Haven’t got time, Van. I was hoping I’d catch you. The chief talk to you?”
    “Two-Gun? No — should he have?”
    “We’ve got the Linneker murder in our lap.” Van Dusen grimaced. “I know — I feel the same way. But we’re going to have to give it the old college try if only to keep Adair happy.”
    “I’ll buy you a drink and you can tell me about it.”
    “Let’s make it coffee tomorrow morning. Right now I’ve got to get home and tell Connie our vacation is off again.”
    “I forgot you were a poor married man,” said Van Dusen, grinning. “Okay — in the morning, then. If you don’t show up, I’ll check the hospitals.”
    Holt snorted. “Don’t give me that bachelor logic,” he said. “You’ve been watching too much television. I don’t know a single husband who’s honestly scared of his wife.”
    He was still chuckling over Van Dusen’s defensive views of marital disaster when he arrived home and drove into his garage. His wife was sitting cross legged on top of his workbench, a rifle in her lap. He couldn’t help a swift recollection of Van Dusen’s forecast. “Hi, hon. What’s with the gun?”
    Connie Holt came forward to receive his kiss, still holding the