The second photo was one of Rothwell hitting a tee shot. The lady looked like she knew what she was doing.

As she was standing there a bearded man in khaki pants and a golf shirt walked by.

"Checking out our local golf legends?" he asked with a smile.

Michelle pointed at the two photos. "These in particular."

The man looked to where she was indicating. "Oh, Donna Rothwell, right. One of the best natural swings I've ever seen."

"So she's good?"

"Good? She's the best female golfer over the age of fifty in the entire county, maybe the state. There are even some pretty good thirty- and forty-year-olds she can consistently beat. She was an athlete in college. Tennis, golf, track, she could do it all. She's still in remarkable shape."

"So her handicap is low?"

"Nearly nonexistent, relatively speaking. Why?"

"So she'd have no trouble qualifying for a tournament here, I mean based on her handicap?"

The man laughed. "Trouble qualifying? Hell, Donna's won just about every tournament she's entered as far back as I can remember."

"Did you know Sally Maxwell?"

The man nodded. "Beautiful woman. Damn shame what happened. You know, you sort of look like her."

"She was a good golfer?"

"Oh, sure. Nice game. Better putter than on the fairways, though."

"But not in Donna's league?"

"Not even close." He smiled. "Why all the questions? You interested in taking on Donna, scoping out the competition? You're a lot younger than she is, but she'll still give you a challenge, I bet."

"I might be taking her on, but it won't be on a golf course." Michelle walked off, leaving the man to stare puzzled after her.

She walked out into the parking lot and headed to her SUV.

She whipped her head around because she thought she heard something. She used her thumb to pop off the leather support on her holster. Michelle gripped the butt of her gun and tensed to pull it. But she reached her truck safely and climbed in.

A half hour later she got to the house. She drove past, parked down a side street, and climbed out. Donna Rothwell's big house was set back from the street. There was a gate out front and a windy drive up to a front motor court. As she walked along the street, she found a gap between the hedges. The house was dark, at least in front. It was large enough to where any lights in the back rooms would not be visible from where she was.

Michelle checked her watch. It was nearly ten o'clock.

Why had Rothwell lied about such a seemingly trivial point? She'd told her and Sean that Sally Maxwell had played with Doug Reagan in a local amateur charity tournament because Rothwell's handicap was too high and she couldn't qualify. But apparently she was a far better golfer than Michelle's mother had been. It was a stupid lie. She could only assume that Rothwell must've been counting on the fact that Michelle, not being a local, would never find out it wasn't true.

But why lie in the first place? So what if her mother had played with Doug?

Michelle stopped. A footfall, some breathing other than her own; the slap of skin against metal. Gun metal. This was stupid. She wasn't going to break into Donna Rothwell's place, giving the woman an excellent reason to have her arrested. And she wasn't going to stay out here waiting for someone to get the drop on her.

She got back to the SUV and called Sean, relaying what she'd learned about Rothwell.

"Bobby and I will meet you at your dad's place," he said. "Get there and stay put."

She reached the house and parked in front. She glanced in the garage window. Her dad wasn't home. She used her spare key to let herself in.

As soon as she closed the door behind her she sensed it. She pulled her gun, but a second too late. The blow hit her on the arm. The Sig clattered to the floor, discharging as it hit and the round ricocheted off the stone tile. Michelle grabbed her injured arm and rolled as something heavy fell close to her.

Then she felt something smash next to her head. She leapt up and kicked out with her leg, but caught nothing but air. Someone screamed and another blow hit Michelle painfully on the leg. She cursed, ran toward the living room, and threw herself backward over the couch. She at least knew the layout of the house.

When the person came at her again, she was ready. She ducked the blow, came up, and delivered a snap kick to the attacker's gut, followed by a jab to the head. She heard a loud grunt as though the air had been driven right out of the attacker's lungs. Someone hit the floor. Michelle leapt forward to take advantage of this when whatever weapon the person had been holding flew up and caught Michelle on the chin. It was metal. She tasted blood. She moved to her left and tripped over the coffee table, falling hard. Her arm and leg killing her and now her chin throbbing, she sat up.

Michelle felt the presence right on top of her, smelled something hot.

Shit, it's my gun. They've got my gun.

She dove behind the coffee table, braced for the shot.

It rang out, but she felt nothing. There was a scream, high-pitched and terrified. Something clattered to the floor and someone fell next to her.

The lights came on.

She sat up, blinking rapidly.

When she saw him, she gasped. Doug Reagan was lying by the door with a gunshot wound in his chest.

And next to her was Donna Rothwell on her knees, holding her bloody hand and sobbing in pain. Michelle's pistol was next to the woman. Michelle quickly grabbed it.

Then she froze again.

He was standing by the front door, next to where Reagan was, his gun out, a wisp of smoke floating off the muzzle.

Frank Maxwell came forward and put out a hand to help up his daughter. "You okay, baby?" he said anxiously.

CHAPTER 63

I TOOK THE PHOTOS of the license plates because I knew there was a party going on next door. I got the list of the people at the party and then compared it to the owners of the cars on the street that night."

Frank Maxwell put down his cup of coffee and sat back.

It was the next morning and they were at police headquarters. Donna Rothwell had been arrested for the murder of Sally Maxwell and the attempted murder of Michelle Maxwell. She had been taken to the hospital to have her hand wound treated from where Frank Maxwell had shot her. Doug Reagan was in the hospital in stable condition with a hole in his chest from when Michelle's gun had dropped and accidentally discharged. He was expected to fully recover, if only to be charged along with Donna.

Bobby Maxwell said, "How'd you get the car records?"

"I have a buddy at motor vehicles."

"You found Mom dead in the garage and you just went out and started taking pictures?" Michelle said incredulously.

Frank Maxwell's gaze swiveled to his youngest child. "She'd just been killed. No pulse, pupils unresponsive. There was nothing I could do to bring her back. The body was still warm. I knew the murderer was still in the area. I wasn't in the shower. I was in the living room. I heard a sound in the garage and then a door slam."

"You didn't tell the cops that," Bobby pointed out. "Hell, Pop, you didn't tell me that."

"I had my reasons. Anyway, I could've just called the cops and then sat crying next to her body, but I know how critical it is to get an early jump on a homicide, and I didn't plan on wasting a second of it. I ran to the garage side door and opened it. I didn't see or hear anyone. I ran up and down the street but saw nothing. I also didn't hear a car start up so I figured that the perp was either on foot or hadn't driven off yet. I heard the sounds coming from the pool party next door. I debated whether to go there, tell them what had happened, and see if anyone was there who didn't belong there, but I opted for a different approach.