9:41 a.m.

Omaha Police Department

What else do we have?" Grace asked Pakula over really bad cheap coffee at his desk. Maybe it only tasted bad because she kept remembering the smell of Kramer's Starbucks.

"Shoe print is a size twelve Nike Air. Darcy might have the breakdown of those pebbles tomorrow." He met her eyes and held her gaze as he said, "So, what if they match the ones from your backyard?"

"Just one more reason to believe it's Barnett."

"Why would he snoop around your house?"

"Are you kidding? He shows up in the courtroom, outside my dry cleaner's, at the same grocery store I shop? He's trying to freak me out."

"Yeah, but how can he freak you out by sneaking around your backyard if you don't know he's there?"

"Look, Pakula, I'm not making this up."

"Hold on. I'm not saying you are. All I'm saying is if he gets a rush by showing up and having you see him, then why sneak around your backyard? Why not pull in to the driveway or something like that?"

"So what are you saying, Pakula?"

"Are you sure he wasn't inside?"

Grace stared at him. It wasn't possible, was it? She didn't want to think about Jared Barnett walking through her rooms, touching her things.

"We need to catch this bastard," she said. "What about the manhunt? Last I heard on the news they had found the Saturn."

"Yup. Crashed in a field off Highway 6. A farmer had his pickup stolen about the same time. Didn't see it taken. It was gone when he came home. They must have made their way through the storm and the field and took the pickup before the roadblocks got set up. We've got an APB on the pickup. They won't get far."

"Okay. Great. So we'll probably have him by the end of the day. If it is Barnett, he won't be getting out of jail free this time." Grace shoved aside her coffee and stood up to stretch. The mess on Pakula's desk was worse then hers; she couldn't remember having ever seen its surface. "What about the receptionist?"

"Upgraded to critical. She's not conscious. Doctors aren't sure if she'll regain consciousness. Doesn't sound good."

"I need to get back." She crumpled her foam cup and tossed it into Pakula's wastebasket. For once it wasn't overflowing. "Oh, here's something that might cheer you up. Max Kramer wants to plea-bargain a client who just happened to recognize our convenience-store robber."

"Well, isn't that convenient, indeed. Who's his client?"

"Carrie Ann Comstock."

"You gotta be kidding. That crack whore couldn't remember and identify her own mother if she saw her robbing a store."

Grace shrugged. "Probably, but I'm curious to see who she's willing to finger."

Pakula's phone interrupted them, and he held up his hand, a familiar gesture Grace knew meant, "Hold that thought."

"Pakula."

"Yeah," he said and waited, nodding at first then shaking his head. "Holy crap." He tapped a pen against a notepad on his desk, so hard Grace expected it to snap. "No, I'll meet you out there."

He slammed the phone into its cradle.

"That farmer's pickup? Turns out his stepson and a friend took it without his permission. Who knows where the bastards are by now. We're back at square one." He grabbed his jacket from the chair's back and threw it over his arm. "I'll talk to you later." He headed for the door but stopped and came back, standing directly in front of Grace. "I'm gonna have a black and white checking your neighborhood. I'm just telling you so if you happen to see it, you don't go busting my balls about it, okay?"

He headed out the door, without waiting for a response, without letting her thank him.