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bar printed on it or
other clue as to its origin, an unsigned birthday card with a
lipstick kiss. The last item was a small black velvet pillow with
the name Veronica embroidered on it in DayGlo pink thread. I picked
it up by its pink-ribboned hanger, and was assaulted with the same
image I’d seen when we met Cyn Lennox: Hands. Bloodied.
    Startled, I dropped the pillow so fast, it
went flying. Nerves jangled, I sat there for a few seconds waiting
to recover. God, I hated that flashes of insight could catch me off
guard like that—sour my stomach and make my muscles quiver. And I
was glad Richard hadn’t witnessed it.
    I took a couple more breaths to calm down
before retrieving the pillow, lifting it by its hanger with the pen
and replacing both items in the box before setting it aside,
too.
    The idea of checking all the shoeboxes was
not pleasant, but it had to be done. Methodically, I went through
every one of them, making sure I handled each item. No insight, no
creepy feelings. Each box held just as curious collections of
oddball items that could have meaning only for Walt—and none of
them with the emotional investment the first two had had. Had the
shoes been gifts to his lady friends? Why had Walt kept the boxes?
If the sparkly shoe I kept seeing was representative of the rest,
they were not cheap.
    I replaced the boring boxes, closed the
closet door and picked up the two interesting ones, tucked them
under my arm, and returned to the living room.
    Richard sat at the desk, Walt’s receipts and
papers spread out before him on the blotter. He looked up, zeroing
in on the boxes. “What’s so special about those?”
    “I’m not sure,” I lied. “But I think I’ll
take them home with me. Find anything worthwhile?”
    Richard scooped up the papers, replacing
them in the manila folder. “All his bills and receipts are
segregated into envelopes by year. You want the latest?”
    “Sure. I’m most interested in credit card
and phone bills.”
    “Looking for anything in particular?”
    “Yeah, a clue to his sex life. I think his
death may have hinged on that.”
    “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Richard
selected a couple of envelopes from the lower left-hand drawer,
pushed it shut and handed them to me. “This ought to hold you for a
while. You about ready?”
    “Yeah, let’s go.”
    Richard followed me to the door. “Brenda’s
making shrimp scampi tonight.”
    “With garlic bread?”
    “You got it.”
    I closed and locked the door behind
us. Richard trundled down the stairs without a backward glance, but
something tugged at my soul. I turned back to stare at the
featureless steel door. Find the
truth, something whispered inside my head.
    Walt or my conscience?
    I’d have to figure that out.
     
    # # #
     
     

CHAPTER 3
     
    Richard’s after-dinner Drambuie sat on a
Venetian tile coaster. He’d parked behind his grandfather’s big
mahogany desk, pouring over yet another book. But this wasn’t some
dry, medical tome. Fuzzy black-and-white photographs checkerboarded
the pages, with short paragraphs of text annotating each one.
Brenda brushed past me in the doorway, clutching the latest Tess
Gerritsen hardback. “Run for your life,” she hissed. “He’s parked
back on Memory Lane again.”
    Amused, I watched her make a beeline for the
stairs.
    I cleared my throat and stepped forward.
“That your high school yearbook?” I asked Richard.
    He didn’t bother to look up. “One of
them.”
    I entered the room and rounded the desk to
stand behind him. He tapped a faded color photo that had been used
as a bookmark. “Here’s Cyn Taggert—er, Lennox.”
    The now-buxom blonde had been a skinny
brunette with timid eyes some thirty years previous. Hard to
believe the little waif had grown into the hardened businesswoman
I’d met earlier that day.
    I hadn’t told Richard about the flash of
insight I’d experienced in Cyn Lennox’s office. On its own, it
meant nothing. Maybe Walt had once applied for