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home’s footprint was narrow but deep. A yawning two-story foyer complete with a massive blown-glass chandelier—Venetian, she was guessing—set the stage for a gracefully sweeping staircase straight ahead and a great room with a beautifully restored historic fireplace to the left. Off the great room, stretching toward the back of the home, she spotted the beginning of what she guessed would be a state-of-the-art kitchen, complete with granite, Sub-Zeros and custom cabinetry.
    Not a fussy house, Tessa decided. Nor an ultramodern one. Warm neutrals punctuated by unexpected splashes of color. Some contemporary art, mixed with obviously antique furniture. A home meant toimpress, but not overwhelm, where one could entertain business cronies as well as the local kids with equal success.
    Which made the scene in the foyer all the more disturbing.
    Vomit. A large, watery pool, five feet inside the front door, near the far right wall. Confetti. Bright green, a million little pieces, each of which would bear a serial number of the Taser used to fire the cartridge. Bitch to clean up, Tessa knew from personal experience, having spent time at the academy both shooting Tasers and being shot by them, and she still had the burn marks on her hip and ankle to prove it.
    Yellow evidence placards were currently placed around the scene, identifying confetti and vomit, as well as a few traces of black scuff marks, probably from the bottom of someone’s shoe. Tessa bent down to examine first the confetti, then the scuff marks more closely. Confetti was probably useless to them. On the one hand, the whole purpose of the serial-number-stamped bits was to be able to trace an incident back to the Taser in question, just as a slug could be traced through its rifling marks to a specific gun. In Massachusetts, however, Tasers were illegal for civilian use. Meaning whoever had fired this weapon had most likely purchased it on the black market and forged the paperwork accordingly.
    The scuff marks interested her more. Not enough tread pattern to guess about make and model of shoe. She would guess, however, either a black-soled tennis shoe or work boot. Justin Denbe’s? His attacker’s? Already she was forming her list of questions, as well as a growing sense of dread.
    For just one moment, Tessa couldn’t help herself. She was standing in her own kitchen, fresh off patrol, duty belt snug around her waist, trooper’s hat pushed low on her brow, reaching for her Sig Sauer, slowly removing it from its holster, dangling it in the space between herself and her husband… Who do you love?
    “House has a state-of-the-art security system,” D.D. announced crisply. “According to the housekeeper, it was not activated when she arrived at five thirty this morning. She doesn’t use the front door, but enters via the rear garage into the lower level. Given that Justin Denbe is extremely security conscious, standard operating procedure involves punching in a key code to raise the outside garage door, then a second code to unlock the inner door leading from the garage into the basement. The garage door was lowered and secured; the inner door, however, was open. Then, she came upstairs and spotted the kitchen island.”
    D.D. hugged the front wall as she headed left into the main area of the house, bypassing the pool of vomit, the pile of Taser confetti. Tessa followed in D.D.’s footsteps, careful to limit their own evidence trail as they headed toward the kitchen.
    Her own home that morning had been a modest three-hundred-thousand-dollar single-family dwelling in the middle of a working-class area of Boston. And yet, what had happened in her modest kitchen, versus what had happened in the great foyer here…
    Violence, the great equalizer. Cared nothing for money, class, occupation. One day, it simply found you.
    The kitchen was vast, stretching back forever to the rear of the home. It was also meticulously clean, and surprisingly empty. Tessa shot a quick