"Easy tiger," Dub said as he rubbed Glynis's shoulder.

"All right." Glynis took a long breath. "All right. She was miserable, and he wouldn't give way on anything. He wouldn't consider counseling, and nixed therapy for her when she got depressed. She didn't have any money of her own by that time. Everything was in his name. When she came to realize divorce was going to be the only way, she'd come in here a couple times a week, more if she could manage it. She'd do setup, darkroom work, digital manipulation, anything we needed, and we paid her in cash."

"She met someone. She wouldn't say how or where or who, but she was happy." Dub pulled out a blue handkerchief, handed it to Glynis so she could wipe her eyes. "The light came back into her."

"When did the light come back?"

"About six months before she died. She called him Lancelot, her pet name for him."

"How'd they contact each other?"

"She bought a preloaded cell phone. His idea, right, Dub?"

"Yeah, she said that he knew how to do what had to be done. Listen, the men responsible for what happened to her are in prison. What's the point of dragging this out now?"

"It's going to help us on another case. Anything you can tell us about the man she was involved with could help."

"Well, I think he had a place on the west side where they'd hook up." Glynis glanced at Dub, got a nod. "I saw her the day before it happened. She was flying. She said she'd decided to move out, to get a di vorce. As soon as that was done, she and Lancelot were going to get married. She was going to take what money she had and move to Reno, establish the residency requirements for the divorce. She wanted it fast. She always wanted fast."

"Anything else that you know about him, anything she said about him? However minor a detail."

"I think he worked out-seriously. She talked about how he was really built, and worked at it. He was giving her tips on getting stronger physically."

"Blue eyes," Dub remembered. "She bought him a shirt one day, said it matched his eyes. Blue rugby style. Nice. And he cooked."

"That's right, that's right. She said how sexy it was to watch him cooking dinner. I remember it surprised me, because he didn't seem the type."

"Why not?"

"Everything else she said, or the impressions I got, said ultra machismo. To be honest, I was worried about her. We both were. He seemed like the polar opposite of Joshua, and we wondered if she didn't fall into all this as a kind of reaction. Hot-blooded, tough, physical. Blue collar."

"Why do you say blue collar?"

"Sometimes she called him her blue knight. Maybe it was the eyes, though. But I got the impression he was a working stiff, you know." Or maybe the blue was the uniform, Phoebe thought.

"He was really pushing her to leave Joshua. He didn't like the idea of her sleeping with another man, even though sex had become a nonissue between Angie and Joshua. She said it made Lancelot crazy to imagine it, and I think she liked that part. It made her feel sexy and vital again. But it felt like another kind of manipulation to me."

"She needed a breather," Dub said. "Some time to get Angie back.

But this guy, he made her feel like a goddess, like she was indispensable and indestructible. Nothing bad would ever happen to her when he was with her. He'd promised."

"But it did," Glynis said softly. "The worst happened."

"He never contacted you after her death?"

"No."

"Where are her cameras?" Phoebe asked.

"I don't know. She kept them at the mystery man's. She had two, and for a while I checked eBay, the pawnshops, the secondhand stores. Just in case he sold them. It'd be nice to have them back, those pieces of her."

"You'd recognize them?"

"Yeah, at least if I had my hands on one of them I would. She painted this little pink rosebud on the bottom of her equipment. Like a signature. Pink roses were her favorite."

"Pink roses like on the grave where Roy was chained." It was energizing, Phoebe thought, to have that much confirmed. "Lancelot's our guy."

"Yeah. Now we just have to find a blue-eyed hard-body who can cook and lives on the west side. Or did three years ago."

"Add in cop. How does the cop from the west side meet the sad princess from Gaston Street?" Closing her eyes, Phoebe tried to think it through. "She did charity work, attended snazzy events. A lot of cops moonlight as private security. And let's see who's turned in their papers in the last three years-cops between thirty and forty because he's going to be young, and he's not going to have time to pull tours while he's planning his revenge."

"If we're walking down the right road, she would've had that second cell phone on her when she went into the bank. Her personal effects would've gone to the husband."

"Yeah." Missed that step, Phoebe realized, and nodded appreciatively at Liz. "You're right, and if so, he'd have checked the incoming and the outgoing. He'd know. Better let him simmer first, take this other angle. Then we'll go back on him."

Phoebe glanced toward the eastern sky as she got into the car. The storm wasn't going to wait much longer.

Chapter 27

"It could be other law enforcement, it could be military, even paramilitary," Phoebe said. "But everything points to cop to me. Gary Cooper-sheriff. He doesn't lose, not Grace Kelly or his honor. That's the way it was supposed to be. But on what could symbolize a wedding day, the day Angela Brentine was reclaiming her independence, taking the next step toward becoming her lover's wife, she's killed in a gun battle. Killed by the bad guys, sure, but also-in the subject's mind-because I stood by-the townspeople-and didn't take action, or didn't allow action to be taken. Guilt by cowardice is part of the theme of the movie."

"You were neither guilty nor cowardly," Dave said.

"To him, I'm both. And he's obsessed about this for three years.

Plenty of time to work it all out. Lancelot not only cuckolded the allpowerful king, but was Guinevere's champion. He saved her when

Arthur could or would not. This guy sees himself as the hero, more importantly, Angela's hero. And he can't accept the failure, or the fate.

There has to be blame. I'm to blame.

"Next, the grave where he killed Roy. Jocelyn Ambucean was a young bride-to-be. She died days before her wedding, drowned in the river during a storm. She was, it's said, running away to Tybee Island and her lover rather than go through with the marriage arranged by her father. He likes the symbols-angel watching the grave-Angela-the grave of a woman running toward true love, the pink roses. He likes giving me clues. He wants, at the end of it, for me to know why. I have to know why for it to matter enough."

"I'll get the names for you."

"Joshua Brentine. He's not going to want to admit his wife was cheating on him. It's insulting and demeaning. His pride is worth a lot more to him than the lives of two strangers, or anyone else who might be a target."

"Admitting isn't the same as confirming." Dave cocked his head. "If he believes you already know."

She smiled. "No, it's not, thank you for reminding me. I believe I can make him think I have more than I do."

"I'll call down, see how long it'll take to get the information you need."

"Thank you. I'm just going to call home while you do that, let them know I might be late."

She stepped out, had barely pulled out her phone when Dave stuck his head out of his office door. "Computers are down in Human Resources. New system, apparently. Could take a few hours."

"Well, Jesus, aren't there paper files?"

"And going through those doing a search like this would probably take longer than waiting for technology to flip back on. Go on home, see your family, get some dinner. They're going to let me know as soon as they're back up."