Carina turned away, surprised at her anger and deep sadness. She wanted to throttle Angie, yell at her, ask her what in the world was she thinking? But Angie was dead at eighteen with no chance of learning from her mistakes.

“Excuse me, Detectives.”

Carina faced Sergeant Fields.

Sergeant Fields glanced at the screen and paled. He had a sixteen-year-old daughter. “The vic?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, my daughter has a MyJournal page. Just for her friends, but…I think I need to have a talk with her. Make sure she’s being safe.”

“Talk to Patrick and you’ll learn there’s no way to be a hundred percent safe,” Carina said.

“No way to be safe in anything these days,” Fields said. “I just don’t understand why a smart, pretty girl like the vic would put stuff like that out for every scumbag to see.”

“They think it’s a joke, or fun,” Carina said, still unnerved by what they’d discovered. It wasn’t that she was naive, she knew what people did online, in chat rooms, the child predators, the pornography. It was making the connection between Angie Vance, dead; Angie Vance, alive; and Angie Vance’s wild and reckless lifestyle. Her supposedly secret lifestyle.

Carina’s thoughts instantly brought down a veil of guilt. Angie hadn’t deserved what happened to her. Irresponsible, yes; but she was practically a kid, dammit, and she shouldn’t have had to suffer violence any more than any other woman who walked the streets of San Diego, saint or sinner.

“What’s up, Sarge?” she asked Fields.

He flipped open his notepad. “Daniels called to say that Thomas arrived home a few minutes ago. Diaz reported that he talked to Masterson’s employer and he took a week’s vacation at the last minute. Called in Sunday saying he needed the time. Guy’s ready to fire him, he does this all the time. And for Hooper,” he handed over a note, “Deputy District Attorney Chandler said your presence will be required in court-that would be the San Francisco Appeals Court-Friday eight a.m.”

“Aw, shit,” Will muttered. “Sorry, Kincaid. It’s that damn Theodore Glenn appeal. I swear, that guy should have been put out of my misery years ago.”

Theodore Glenn had killed four female strippers six years ago, before Carina and Will had been partners.

“I’ll be fine for the day,” Carina said.

“You can have Diaz if you need him,” the Sarge offered.

“Thanks, I might take you up on that.”

Nick arrived in San Diego after the lunch hour and rented a car. He hadn’t visited Steve in years, since before he was elected sheriff nearly four years ago, but remembered the location of his beachfront apartment.

A crime scene van was parked in front of the building, plus two marked cars and a sedan Nick pegged as unmarked police issue. Detectives.

He didn’t feel comfortable going into an unknown situation, but knowing Steve, he hadn’t called an attorney. Why is it that the innocent think they don’t need a lawyer? Truth is, even those with nothing to hide need someone to protect their rights.

His right knee protested when he stepped out of the car, but he hadn’t been on his feet much today so his joints weren’t unbearably sore. He leaned back into the car to retrieve his Stetson and put it on his head, then walked up the single flight of stairs to Steve’s apartment.

The door was open and Nick stopped just across the threshold.

An attractive female plainclothes cop approached him. Five-foot-eight, one-forty, muscle where there should be muscle, and softness where there should be softness. She carried her primary gun in a side holster, but a slight bulge at her back showed a secondary firearm. Nick liked women who knew how to pack.

Her dark, sun-streaked hair was pulled into a loose French braid, and fathomless brown eyes sized him up quickly. Nick could tell she was a cop by her eyes-they took in everything about him all at once, just like he did her.

“Can I help you?” Her tone was polite, her body alert.

“Yes, ma’am. Steve Thomas, please.” He took his hat off and held it at his side.

“Your business with him?”

“Personal.”

The subtle change from professional curiosity to frustration on the pretty detective’s face would have intrigued Nick if he weren’t concerned about Steve.

“Can I see your ID, please?”

“My ID?” He raised an eyebrow, reaching for his wallet.

Her eyes instantly darted to his waist and he realized just a second too late that he should have identified himself as a cop immediately.

“Put your hands up.” Her gun was out. Fast. He would have been impressed if he weren’t so irritated at having a gun aimed at his chest. “Hooper,” she called without taking her eyes off his.

“Hey!”

Nick recognized Steve’s voice. He emerged from the bedroom. “Stand back, Mr. Thomas,” the detective said without looking at Steve.

“He’s my brother. He’s a cop.”

Cautious belief crossed her face, and her partner, Hooper, approached.

“Left back pocket,” Nick told him, his hands still up.

“You’re a cop?” Hooper asked as he disarmed him and pulled his identification.

“Yes.”

Hooper opened his identification. “Nicholas P. Thomas, Sheriff, Gallatin County, Montana.”

The female detective holstered her weapon. “Next time identify yourself,” she snapped.

Hooper returned his gun and ID, extended his hand, and smiled amicably. “Will Hooper, Homicide. Quick-draw McGraw is my partner, Carina Kincaid. You’ll have to excuse her temper-she has both Irish and Cuban blood in her veins.”

Nick grinned as he shook Hooper’s hand. “Nick Thomas.”

Carina Kincaid glared at him. “Montana? San Diego is a wee bit out of your jurisdiction, isn’t it?”

“A bit,” he said.

“Care to share your interest in our investigation?” she asked pointedly.

“You know, Ms. Kincaid,” Nick said with his best Montana drawl, “my mama always said you catch more flies with honey.” He winked. For a second he thought she was going to throw a fit, then she relaxed, a half-smile turning up her lips.

Steve came over, clapped him on the back. “It’s good to see you, bro.”

“Let’s talk outside.” Nick motioned to the landing. He turned back to Carina. “If that’s all right with you, ma’am.”

She waved him off, shaking her head. But she wasn’t stupid. He saw her motion to one of the uniforms to keep an eye on Steve.

He walked Steve down to the far end of the landing to prevent the police from eavesdropping, intentionally or otherwise. The uniform tasked with babysitting stood outside the door, within eyesight, but not earshot.

“Thanks for coming, Nick, really. I owe you big-time.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” Nick had a million questions for his brother, but he started broad. “Tell me everything you know.”

“Not much.” Steve looked out onto the beachfront highway.

“Do they have a warrant?”

“No, I told them they could come in and look.”

“Just look? I saw a crime tech packing up your computer.”

“I’m innocent. I told them they could have anything they needed. Once they stop looking at me, they’ll start looking for the real killer.”

“You let them in without a warrant? They haven’t arrested you, correct?”

“No, because they don’t have anything on me. I didn’t kill Angie, Nick. I swear. I wouldn’t hurt her.”

“Why do they suspect you?”

“I dated her. She got a stupid idea in her head and got this restraining order against me. It looks bad, but it really wasn’t.”

“People don’t file for restraining orders for no reason, Steve.”

“She was mad at me after we had an argument.”

Nick frowned. Steve sounded like a petulant kid, not a grown man. “What kind of argument?”

Steve didn’t say anything for a long minute. Nick found himself studying Steve as if he were a perp. He shifted uncomfortably, not enjoying the position of thinking his brother, his older brother, his sainted brother, was a possible murderer. Steve wasn’t capable of it.