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Five
    Remy stepped out of the shower, water dripping from his body and soaking into the terry tub mat. He grabbed a towel from the rack and dried his thick hair with it before wrapping it around his waist.
    His cell phone rang as he reached for his toothbrush. He rushed back to the bedside table, grabbed it and checked the caller ID. Sylvia Shriver. Same last name asCharlie’s late partner. He quickly took the unexpected call.
    “Remy Comeaux here.”
    “I’m Syl, Doyle Shriver’s wife. I hope I didn’t call you too early.”
    “Not at all. How can I help you?”
    “Charlie Gibbons called me a few minutes ago. He told me he’d talked to you and that he might be closer to finding out who shot Doyle. But he cautioned me not to mention his seeing you to anyone.”
    There was a quake in her voice when she said her dead husband’s name. Clearly, making this call wasn’t easy for her.
    “Charlie and I talked,” Remy said, surprised that Charlie had told Sylvia about their meeting. “I’m not sure I said anything that would help.”
    “Perhaps he was just trying to reassure me. I cry every time I talk to him.”
    Maybe Remy had grown too cynical. Perhapsthe guy did just have a heart.
    “After I talked to Charlie, I looked you up on the internet,” Syl said. “You have an impressive reputation. I’d like to hire you to help me find Doyle’s killer.”
    “You have Charlie for that.”
    “I’m not sure that’s enough. Do you think you could possibly find time to stop by my house this morning?”
    “I’ll make time.”
    “Just one other thing,” shesaid. “If you talk to Charlie, please don’t mention that I called. I’ll explain when I see you.”
    He’d hold her to that. “I’ll need an address.”
    She gave him that and the directions. He was ringing her doorbell in under a half hour.
    An attractive woman with short blond hair and striking blue eyes ringed with the dark circles of tears and grief opened the door. A toddler clung tothe hem of her white shorts.
    “I’m Remy,” he said.
    “I’m Syl.” She rested her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Toby.”
    “Good morning, Toby.”
    Toby hid his face behind his mother’s leg as she motioned Remy inside.
    “Could I get you some coffee?” she asked.
    “Coffee would be great.”
    The toddler finally let go of her shorts and stood staring at Remy.
    Syl tookhis hand. “Come with me, Toby. I bet Grandma has your Cheerios all ready for you.”
    Remy looked around. The room was cluttered with blocks and toy cars. A playpen that held colorful teething rings and a pacifier was set up in the corner. Apparently, the second child Charlie had mentioned was even younger than Toby.
    Children who’d grow up without a father. The idea that Lee could be behindDoyle Shriver’s death was so revolting it turned Remy’s stomach.
    Remy took a seat on the sofa and stared at the dozens of snapshots strewn about the coffee table. The same man appeared in all of them, some with him in his NOPD uniform. Many were of him and Syl. Some included the kids. In all of them Doyle looked as if he were a man with everything to live for.
    Remy imagined Syl goingthrough the photos, trying to hold on to them so tightly that she could will Doyle back to life. He understood the feeling of hopelessness far too well.
    That didn’t mean he had any idea what to say to her that might help. He hadn’t wanted to face any of his friends for months after Carlotta’s death.
    “Milk or sugar?” Syl called from the kitchen.
    “Just black.”
    She returned withtwo mugs and set them both on the coffee table in front of him.
    “If you’re considering taking the case, I have something you should see.”
    “You should realize going in that involving me might unleash an avalanche of complications.”
    “I don’t care what it unleashes as long as there’s justice for Doyle.” She disappeared again, and when she came back, she handed him a manila folder.
    “I found this two