Maybe, maybe either he or Ava would make a move before they were both collecting Social Security, but she wasn't putting money on it. "Sykes is solid, and that's why I want him tugging on the tactical team. Liz Alberta. She's SV, I know, but she's got a good ear. But I don't know what her case load is, or-"

"I'll find out, see if it can be worked. Take ten minutes, call home. You'll feel better, clearer in your mind.".

"You're right. You take five, call yourself, it would do the same for you."

They met Sanchez in Forsythe Park, and stood in the shade with his wise-eyed horse. The thick air of the morning had turned oppressive, so the rich brown hide of the horse gleamed damp.

Close to MacNamara House, Phoebe thought. Close enough that in uniform, mounted on his pretty horse, he could watch her home without anyone noticing.

Sanchez stood about five-feet-eight by Phoebe's gauge, with a tough, scrapper's build. There was a little hook-shaped scar under the corner of his left eye, and a hard, stubborn line to his jaw.

Was the man in the ball cap, the whistler, taller? She thought by an inch or two. But had she paid enough attention to be certain?

"She didn't care about the car," Sanchez said, speaking of his sister.

"She just wanted to get Marissa out. She fought them because she wouldn't leave her baby, so they put a knife in her and left her bleeding to death on the street."

"You were in Germany when it happened?"

He nodded at Liz. "They gave me hardship leave, let me come home for her funeral. My mother, I thought it would kill her, too. And my brother-in-law, he was like a dead man for days."

"You were only nineteen when it happened. You were training as a weapons specialist."

"I thought I'd make the army a career. See the world, fight the fight. But after Philli… I finished my tour and came home."

"And joined the mounted unit about two years after."

"That's right." His eyes narrowed. "What's this about, Lieutenant MacNamara? The one who put that knife in her, he's still in. Have you come to tell me he's getting out?"

"No. Can you tell me where you were last night, Officer Sanchez? Between eleven and three?"

"I could," he said evenly. "I'd want to know why. I'd want to know why you're asking me where I was around the time a man was blown up in Bonaventure."

"I'm asking you because a man was blown up in Bonaventure."

"What does it have to do with me?"

"Let me ask you this first. You didn't say how your niece was spared that day while your sister was killed."

"I told you, the bastards killed Philli because she fought them. Cops caught up with them at a garage; they'd locked themselves in with Marissa. Cops surrounded the place, got them to let the baby go and surrender."

"Who got them to surrender?" Phoebe asked him.

"The cops." His horse tossed its head at the impatience in Sanchez's voice, and automatically he stroked a hand over its cheek to soothe. "The cops saved her life. Men like that? Men who'd kill a mother trying to protect her baby? What's to stop them from doing the same to a little girl? Cops saved Marissa. It's why I'm a cop."

No possible way this is the guy, Phoebe thought, and when she ex changed a look with Liz, saw they were in agreement. "I was the hostage negotiator in the crisis situation with your niece."

"You?" Some of his color drained, then poured back again, deeper, darker. "I didn't know there was a negotiation." His voice had thickened. "You didn't ask for details?"

" I… when I got here… everyone was in shock, in mourning. It was like a blur. Then I had to go back, finish my tour. When I was discharged and came home, I didn't want to know. I didn't want to look back at that. I wanted-I wanted-"

"To be one of the ones who saved lives, who helped people in trouble."

"Yes, ma'am," he managed after a moment, and nodded to Liz. "You asked where I was last night. I stayed the night at my girlfriend's apartment. Here." He took out his pad, his pencil. "Here's her name, her number, the address. Is there anything else you need to know?"

"This is fine. Thank you, Officer Sanchez."

When she took the paper, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet. "Marissa's ten now. She's ten years old now. Here's her picture." He flipped it open, and Phoebe looked down at a dark-haired, darkeyed little beauty. "She's gorgeous."

"She looks like her mother." He put the wallet away, held out a hand. "Thank you, from my sister."

"Life's a strange ride, isn't it?" Liz commented as they walked the wide path back to Phoebe's car. "You changed the direction of his life. Never met him, never spoke to him before today, but he's doing what he's doing, maybe is what he is, at least partially, because of what you did one day five years ago."

"Maybe. It's just as true that due to someone's perception of what I did some other day, two people are dead."

Liz followed the direction of Phoebe's gaze toward the house on

Jones. "Do you want to go in, check on them?"

"No. Let's go talk to the husband, just to tie this one up. Then we'll try Brentine."

Delray was a quiet, gentle-eyed man. After five minutes, Phoebe decided he'd have a hard time squashing a spider much less killing a man in cold blood.

She had a much different impression of Joshua Brentine.

He kept them waiting twenty minutes in the reception area of his river-view offices. Clouds the color of angry bruises roiled in from the northeast, Phoebe noted. A wicked storm was just waiting to happen.

They were ushered in by Brentine's glossy, narrow-hipped assistant to an office with a wide view of the river that had been furnished more as an elegant parlor than a place of big business.

The mix of elegance and power reflected the man, to Phoebe's mind, who looked as if he'd been born wearing a perfectly cut suit. The burnished hair waved back from a high, aristocratic forehead; the hawksharp brown eyes didn't mirror the smile his mouth offered.

"Ladies. I apologize for keeping you waiting." He rose from behind an antique desk, gestured to a seating area with curved settee and wingbacked chairs. "My schedule is well packed today."

"We appreciate the time, Mr. Brentine. I'm Lieutenant MacNamara, this is Detective Alberta."

"Please, sit. I'm forced to admit I have no idea why I've warranted a visit from two of our city's most attractive public servants."

"The bank robbery which resulted in the tragic death of your wife has come up in a current investigation."

"Is that so?" Settling back in his chair, he looked politely puzzled. "How so?"

"I'm not able to divulge the details of an ongoing investigation. According to the information in the file, you weren't in Savannah at the time of your wife's death."

"That's correct. I was away on business. In New York."

Phoebe glanced around the office. "You must travel extensively, given the nature of your business."

"Yes, I do."

"And the bank where your wife was killed. Am I correct in saying that wasn't the bank you used, at that time, for your professional or personal businesses?"

"No, it wasn't. I don't understand why this has anything to do with something current, Lieutenant."

"We're just confirming details, and I certainly apologize for the necessity of bringing up a tragic event that caused you such grief."

But you don't appear to be touched by that, Phoebe thought. Not like poor Falk, reliving the death of Brenda.

"Witness statements agree that Mrs. Brentine did have an account in the bank. That, in fact, she came in that day to withdraw all her funds and close that account. Maybe you could tell us about that, Mr. Brentine, as it was over three years ago. We haven't yet been able to access the bank records on that transaction."

"Tell you what?" He rolled his shoulders. "Angela had a small, personal account of her own. Mad money, you could say. A few thousand dollars. Some terrible twist of fate had her deciding to bank that day, at the very time of the robbery."