Just after midnight, Jack thought he heard a knock at his front door. He was dressed in nylon jogging shorts and a T-shirt, foamy toothbrush in hand, preparing for bed. He rinsed his mouth and walked to the living room. It was dark, lighted only in places by the dim glow of an outdoor porch lamp that shined through the open slats in the draperies. He went to the front door and listened. Then he heard it again. A knock with rhythm.

DUH, duh-duh-duh-duh, DUH…

He stood in silence, waiting for the final DUH, DUH. Instead, there was a flurry of pounding, the signature psycho knock, and Jack thought he knew who it was. He turned the deadbolt and opened the door.

He barely got a look at her face before she burst across the threshold, threw her arms around his neck, and planted her lips on his. He was startled at first, but the passion was contagious, and in a moment he was kissing her back. Finally, she stopped for air.

“Hi, Jack.”

“Hey, Rene,” he said, breathless. “How you doing?”

Her expression turned serious. “It’s been three months since you came to see me. I work in a West African country so full of AIDS that I’m afraid to even think about sex.” She grabbed his ass and said, “How do you think I’m doing?”

“I’m thinking maybe you’d like to come in?”

She closed the door with a hind kick, her eyes never leaving his. Jack looked away, scratching his head. It was a little overwhelming, especially since his mind had barely shut off from tomorrow’s trial preparation. But that was Rene. Even after a transatlantic flight, she was drop-dead gorgeous. At least in Jack’s eyes.

He walked to the couch and sat on the armrest. “It must be six weeks since I even got an e-mail from you. I’m pretty surprised to see you.”

“I’m sorry about that. But first things first, okay? I’m presenting at a pediatric AIDS conference in Los Angeles tomorrow. My connecting flight leaves at six A.M.”

“Not much of a window for good, quality vertical time.”

“No. So lighten up, would you? A lot of guys would be envious of you right now.”

“A lot of guys think the perfect woman is a twenty-year-old stripper with no gag reflex.”

“Are you saying I’m not perfect?”

“No, I’m saying…” Jack paused.

There were two white columns at the entrance to Jack’s living room. Rene tried to look at least half serious as she pressed her body against the nearest column, then wrapped her leg around it like an erotic pole dancer. “So I’m not twenty anymore. But two out of three’s not bad.”

Jack chuckled, and so did she. It was a nice combination, someone who could crack you up and turn you on at the same time. “Come here, you.”

She went to him, nuzzling up to his neck.

“How long you been traveling?” he asked.

“Seventeen hours.”

“How about a shower?”

“I’m wearing a thong.”

“How about a quick shower?”

She kissed him about the face and said, “How about you shower with me?”

“Hmm. Very tempting, honey. But there’s absolutely no way we’ll get out of there without having sex, and sex in my teeny-tiny shower stall rates right up there with sex on a coffee table. Alluring in theory, but what the hell’s the point when there’s a perfectly good mattress twenty feet away?”

“You’re such a putz.”

“I know. It’s a gift.”

“Get your ass in the shower.”

He smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

35

Jack was staring at the final witness for the prosecution. After a night with Rene, he was barely able to keep his eyes open. But it didn’t take long to figure out that the prosecutor had saved the best for last.

Lieutenant Stephen Porter was the lead NCIS investigator on the case against Lindsey Hart. Motive had already been established: Alejandro Pintado and Dr. Vandermeer had painted Lindsey as an unfaithful wife who would gladly make herself a widow, if that’s what it took to get off the naval base and inherit her husband’s family money. The medical examiner had confirmed her opportunity to commit the crime: he placed the time of death before Lindsey left for work, though Jack had chipped away at his guesstimate. The final leg of the murder triangle was the means, which it was the investigator’s chief function to establish.

“Did you consider the possibility of suicide?” the prosecutor asked.

Porter sat up straight, though he was already quite rigid. He was alert, nicely groomed, and smartly dressed in his naval uniform, the antithesis of the typical chain-smoking, burned-out homicide detective on the civilian side. “Yes,” he said. “We considered it. But the fact that the victim’s gun was found with the safety on suggested that it wasn’t suicide. Kind of hard to put on the safety after you kill yourself.”

That drew a reverberation of mild amusement from the crowd.

Torres said, “Did you observe any blood-spray patterns or other evidence to indicate suicide?”

“No, and that’s an important point. When someone takes his own life by firing a bullet into his head at close range, you would normally expect some back spray of blood and other matter onto the victim’s own hand. I saw none with naked eye when I arrived on the scene, and I would add that no microscopic traces were noted in the autopsy report.”

“What about fingerprints? If you are going to rule out suicide, it seems you would want to find some fingerprints on the gun that don’t belong to the victim.”

“We did find one extraneous fingerprint on the handle near the trigger.”

“Did you establish a match for that fingerprint?”

“Yes, we did, with the FBI’s assistance.”

“Can you please tell the jury whose fingerprint it was?”

“It was the right index finger of Lindsey Hart.”

Just that quickly, the prosecution had made its key points: Oscar Pintado’s death was not a suicide, and a fingerprint from Lindsey’s right hand-her firing hand-was on the gun. The only way for the defense to explain it was to put Lindsey on the stand. But they had a long way to go before the explaining would come, if it was to come at all. Lindsey didn’t have to take the stand in her own defense, and Jack wasn’t sure he wanted her to. So he needed to do some serious damage control before they broke for the weekend.

“Lieutenant Porter,” Jack said as he approached the witness, “I’d like to hear more about this lack of back spray that you mentioned. First, let me make sure I understand this. Back spray occurs when a bullet is fired into the victim from extremely close range, correct?”

“That’s right. It’s generally referred to as a close-entry wound.”

“Meaning a few inches or less?”

“Inches, or perhaps no separation at all between the gun and the victim’s skin.”

“We all agree that Captain Pintado suffered a close-entry wound, do we not?”

“No dispute on that.”

“And we also agree that there was no back spray on Captain Pintado’s hands, which weighs against a finding of suicide.”

“That’s correct.”

Jack paused, then took a step closer. “What about Lindsey Hart’s hands, Lieutenant? You didn’t find any back spray on her hands, did you?”

He shifted in his chair. “No. But it’s organic matter. All it takes is soap and water, and no more back spray.”

“There was none in her hair, on her face, or on her clothes, was there?”

“None that we found. But there was plenty of time for her to shower, change clothes, even dump the blood-stained clothes in the hospital incinerator when she went to work that morning.”

“Lieutenant, are you familiar with blood reagents, such as Luminol or Florescein?”

“Yes. Those are chemicals that react with blood.”

“They can pick up traces of blood that may have been washed away or that are otherwise invisible to the naked eye, isn’t that right?”

“Basically. Luminol turns it green, and Florescein makes it glow under UV light.”