"You probably would, but you don't start there. You work up to it."

He saw that his son meant well, and nodded in acceptance. "Well, maybe I will."

"I'd walk with you if you wanted. You got to start doing something, Dad. Lose a little of that." He pointed at the belly. "They say walking is as good as running."

"For what? You believe that?"

Darrel had to break a smile. "No. But it's a start. But the weights…I mean, there's lots of things nowadays. You could join a club, even."

This brought an outright laugh. "Maybe I'll walk, okay. Really. I'll think about it. But a club is out, okay? If I'm going to be in that much pain, I don't want anybody else to see it." He sat up straighter in his chair, sucked his gut in marginally, then let it back out. "So is that why you knocked at my door? To preach me the benefits of working out?"

"No," Darrel said soberly. "I just happen to notice my old man's put on some weight and it's probably not doing him a whole lot of good, that's all. Maybe I'd like him to stay around a while longer, okay?"

"Okay."

"So what I came over for is Harlen."

"What about him?"

"Well, here it is Saturday and we're both scheduled off, which I've got no problem with if nothing's happening. Except now we're in the middle of this homicide and we've got witnesses to interview if we're going to get anywhere, which it seems like we might if we keep at it. But he's got his family and it's Saturday…I only just now talked to him."

"So what's your problem?"

"My problem is we're partners and I don't want to cut him out, but I want to go talk to some people."

"So call him again, tell him what you're going to do, and go do it."

"That simple, huh?"

His father nodded. "It usually is."

"Today's date is April 14, 2000, Saturday. The time now is twelve twenty hours. This is Inspector Sergeant Darrel Bracco, star number one six eight nine. I am currently at a residence at 2555 Lake Boulevard. With me is Mrs. Jamie Rath, DOB 6/12/58. This interview is pursuant to an investigation of case number 002231977."

Q: Mrs. Rath, how well did you know Carla Markham?

A: She was my best friend. I've known her since our girls were in kindergarten together.

Q: And when was the last time you saw her?

A: Last Tuesday. I went to her house when I heard what happened to Tim.

Q: How late were you there?

A: I left around nine thirty, quarter to ten.

Q: And who outside of the Markham family was still there when you left?

A: Dr. Kensing was still in the living room. But the rest of us left in kind of a knot.

Q: Did you know Dr. Kensing before that night?

A: I knew of him, but we hadn't met. I know Carla seemed surprised when he arrived.

Q: Why was that?

A: Well…it was just awkward. He and Mr. Markham didn't get along, and then him being the doctor that day. Of course, this is before I knew that Dr. Kensing had killed Tim.

Q: I don't think we know yet that he killed Mr. Markham.

A: Well, I do. And I think he almost expected Carla to thank him for getting rid of him. Except what Dr. Kensing didn't know is that they'd patched it up.

Q: You're saying that prior to his death, Mr. and Mrs. Markham hadn't been getting along, is that it?

A: That's fair to say. But then, just this last weekend,

Carla told me that they patched things up. Tim bared his poor little psyche-told her all about his affairs, his job problems, the incredible stress, the creep. So she was hopeful. Again. That's where they were on Tuesday, and it's why she couldn't believe he was gone, so suddenly. It was like whiplash.

Q: Did she appear depressed to you? Any suggestion she might commit suicide?

A: No way. I've known Carla for nine years, Inspector.

For the last two of those, she's been getting used to the idea of living without Tim. Why? Because she was going to leave him someday anyway. She knew that.

Q: But you just said they'd patched things up.

A: This time. But who knew for how long? Tim would fail again eventually-that's just who he was-and she'd wind up leaving him. She knew that, I'm sure, deep down. So it might have filled her with disappointment that he died, or even broken her heart at some level, but there had to be some relief there, too. And no way in the world would she kill herself over it.

Kensing walked up the six steps and pushed at the button next to the door of his old house on Anza Street. He still thought of it as his house and it made him sick to see how far Ann had let the place go. The once bright and appealing yellow paint had faded to a jaundiced pallor and was peeling everywhere. The white trim had gone gray. The shutter by the window nearest him hung at a cockeyed angle. The window boxes themselves had somehow misplaced even their dirt, to say nothing of the flowers he'd labored to establish in them. Back when he and Ann were good, they'd always kept the house up, even with all the hours they spent at their jobs. They'd found the time.

Now he looked down and saw that the corners of the stoop had collected six months' worth of debris-flattened soda cans, old newspapers and advertising supplements still soaked from the recent storm, candy wrappers, and enough dirt, he thought, to make a start of refilling the window boxes.

Where was Ann? Dammit, if she was still asleep, he was going to have to do something, although what that might be he didn't know. She should be awake at least to feed the kids. He pushed at the bell again, figured it must have stopped working, so he knocked. Hard. Three more times with his fist, shaking the door. He was turning to leave when he heard her voice.

"Who is it?"

"It's Eric, Ann. Open up."

"Didn't you get my call?" she asked. "I called two hours ago."

"Hi, Dad," his nine-year-old yelled from inside.

"Terry, you be quiet!"

"Hi, Ter. Hi, girls. You there?"

He heard sounds from both of them, Amber and Caitlin.

"Stop that!" his wife yelled at the girls, then talked again through the door. "I left a message telling you not to come." This was one of Ann's favorite tricks. Although she knew that Eric had a cell phone and beeper, she'd only call at his condo and leave a message he wouldn't get. Then she could be mad at him for being unreachable.

"Well, I never got it. Did you try the cell?"

"I didn't think of it. I thought you'd be home."

"Well, it was a nice morning. I went out for breakfast."

"With your girlfriend, I suppose."

He didn't feel the need to answer that. Instead, he tried the knob. "Come on, Ann. You want to open the door?"

"I don't think so. No."

"Well, that's going to make it a little tough for me to take the kids out to the ball game, isn't it?" His schedule allowed him only rare visits with his children during the week, so he made it a point to take them on weekends. Ann, burdened by her life, as well, had always before been happy to pass them off to him. Until now.

"Ann? What's this about?"

"You can't see them."

He kept his voice under control. "You want to open the door and we can talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about. You go away or I swear to God, Eric, I'll call the police."

"Ann, let's not do this in front of the kids. Just open up."

"No! You're not coming in. I'm not letting a murderer take my children."

The crying started. It sounded like Amber, the middle one, first. But the others immediately took the cue from her. Ann's voice, shrill and loud, cut through them all, though. "Stop that! Shut up, all of you! Stop it right now!"

"Ann!" Kensing pleaded through the door.

"Mom!" His son, Terry, hysterical. "I'm going out with Dad! You can't stop me."