 
YOU'RE WELCOME

A KILLER'S RIPOSTE

### A MIKE RIDGELAND MURDER CASE FILE

### Smashwords Edition

BOOK CANVAS

Copyright © 2018 by G. G. Baker. Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved.

Published by BOOKCANVAS at Smashwords

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

Chief Editor: Mike Valentino

Copyediting: Black and White Editing

Book cover concept and design: A. Rivers

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

BOOKCANVAS and its design are trademarks used under license by G. G. Baker.

Contact Information

www.ggbakerbooks.com

www.bookcanvas.com

Table of Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Prologue

Part 1 Ridge

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Part 2 Alex

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Epilogue

Aguilla Island

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

"Nothing ever happens without the support and encouragement of others" G. G. Baker

I would like to thank the following people who were instrumental in helping this novel see the light of day.

Book Canvas Publishing

The most talented team I have ever worked with

Mike Valentino

Editor-Ghostwriter.com

Proof Reader, Devon Cunningham

Black and White Editing

John Barnes

Good Friend / Avid Reader / Fellow Toastmaster

Rheid Schloss

Award winning speaker / Writer / Recovering Engineer

Janeen Smith

Technical Consultant

Diana Hutchinson

Trebuchet Group

K. Uyeda

A friend with an eye for detail

Flora Winterer

With her brutally honest opinion

And last but certainly not least, my patient and thoughtful wife...

Nancy

FOREWORD

Dear Reader,

Prepare yourself. This book is utterly unputdownable, one that made me ignore the attention of friends and loved ones, a very long to-do list, and my usual bedtime. I simply could not be away from You're Welcome and its compelling characters and action for long. Watch out Mitch Rapp and Harry Bosch -there's a new man in town: Detective Mike Ridgeland!

My great uncle, Maurice Crain, a well-known literary agent back in the day (To Kill a Mockingbird, Old Yeller, Cheaper by the Dozen, among others) always said that an author must craft his story with a paintbrush, not a shovel; otherwise, the reader will lose interest. That came to mind as I was deep into GG Baker's latest book. Not only was my interest piqued with the plot's surprising twists and turns, but it made me examine within my own conscience the nuances of right and wrong. And in today's climate of "me too" and "times up" this novel brings redemption and some closure to those women that have to live with abuse. That's evidence of a "paintbrush" indeed.

I also must say that You're Welcome played out in my head as a movie, where I could see every character and scene clearly. I hope, not only that Greg turns this story into a series, but that some Hollywood hotshot is smart enough to recognize its big screen potential. What a "killer" blockbuster it would make!

Please write more, GG

Kerry Whitaker-Townsend

Contributing editor:

CBS This Morning,

Family Circle Magazine,

TV Food Network,

Home Shopping Network,

Ford and Wilhelmina Modeling Agencies

INTRODUCTION

You're Welcome is a novel about the razor thin line between justice and the law. This gripping novel about unsolved crimes and calculated revenge forces the reader to ask the question, 'What is the right thing to do?' Is our legal system an effective deterrent to crime or simply a criminal laden revolving door? Is the legal system stacked with self-serving attorneys, pretentious judges, and incompetent investigators that are only interested in preserving the judicial machine, or are the courts really interested in the real victims of crime. You're Welcome goes beyond simply pitting the court system against an innocent victim of abuse, it involves one of its key defenders of the law having to decide what is right and what is legal.

Mike Ridgeland is a decorated detective with the Denver PD and a former member of the elite United States Air Force Para-Rescue team. His uncanny ability to see beyond the obvious and into the inconceivable has led him to suspect that a series of accidental deaths are not simply accidental. His investigation becomes an ethical debate when he discovers that the victims of the murders are far from innocent.

His internal struggle is further complicated by the two people in his life that he respects the most. His girlfriend, Doctor Audrey Nichols. And his best friend, Professor Paul Hill. Doctor Nichols is a beautiful and talented physician who operates a clinic in the heart of downtown Denver. She is dedicated to practicing medicine without regard for the guilt or innocence of her patients. Professor Hill mixes his extensive knowledge of the law with a fanatical belief of how the law should be applied. Hill's intelligent and witty interpretation of the law challenges Detective Ridgeland to constantly question if his investigation is based on legal jurisprudence or moral clarity.

You're Welcome will have you caught between the desire for Detective Ridgeland to solve a string of murders and the true victims right to justice.

PROLOGUE

About Thirty Years Ago

The suffocating misery that permeated every corner of the family's depressed life could not be summed up by mere words. No amount of colorful description or vivid imagery revealed just how low a life could sink. The sounds and smells of despair could not be described. They must be felt. And the result was always the same, pain, both emotional and physical.

Broken whiskey bottles and crushed beer cans littered the roadside like the remnants of a drunken brawl. The narrow ruts carved through the weeds didn't really qualify as a road. It consisted of two-wheel grooves running over jagged rocks and around muddy potholes. The road ran past a collection of abandoned farm equipment and scattered garbage tangled among the weeds. The rusted farm equipment sticking out of the weeds was beyond repair. The mangled scrap metal would have required a mechanical engineer to identify their original purpose.

The road opened into a clearing and came to a stop in front of a run-down old shack. The dilapidated structure looked like it would collapse under a strong gust of wind. The only thing keeping the shack from toppling was a stone fireplace at the north end of the structure. Every other support leaned and twisted like they had surrendered years ago. Loose boards and a sagging roof gave the shack a sad mournful look, like it was breathing its last breath as it cried out for help.

In front of the shabby little building, the shattered remains of an ornate bird bath lay in a broken heap in the middle of the gravel yard. It looked like a fallen sentry. At some point in the recent past, the woman that lived in the shack made a feeble attempt at giving the old place some dignity. She had bought the used bird bath at a garage sale for two dollars and placed it ceremoniously in the center of the drive. Any visitor would have to make a wide circle in front like they were driving up to a mansion for a Sunday visit.

Her meager attempt at dignity and pride was destroyed less than one week later when the woman's husband came home drunk. He crashed into the yard ornament without even slowing the old truck. To add insult to injury, he left his truck sitting atop the debris when it rolled to a stop.

The following day, the husband offered a feeble attempt at an apology, but she knew it was a lie. The night before when she heard the crash, she immediately jumped out of bed and peered out the ragged curtains. She watched as he fell out of the old truck and stumbled to his feet laughing and cursing. His spiteful words were still ringing in her ears. He screamed at the pile of rubble just before he stumbled up the front steps,

"That will teach her to waste money on worthless junk."

The front of the shack was as dismal as the road leading up to it. Decaying boards and rotted plywood scarcely covered the front porch. The front door was a patchwork of secondhand plywood and peeled paint. It was held in place by a pair of rusty hinges and a latch that looked like it was about to fall off. There were two wooden chairs sitting on the front porch, held together by rusty nails and a twisted length of baling wire.

Inside the house, the only evidence that it was inhabited was a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. The pungent stench of burnt scraps and cigarettes seeped through the paper-thin walls and into the night air like fumes from a landfill.

There were only two rooms in the small shack, the main living area and a tiny bedroom, barely big enough for a queen-sized bed. The only heat came from an antique wood stove in the kitchen. The furniture looked like it should have been thrown away years ago, including a kitchen table that teetered on wobbly legs. The table was surrounded by three wooden chairs that didn't match. One of the chairs had a stack of old phone books piled up on the seat like a poor man's high chair.

In the living room, there was a ragged recliner with an equal number of rips and cigarette burns across the lumpy cushion. The arm rests and seat cushions were covered with frayed towels and a threadbare old blanket.

A black and white television was perched on a stack of plastic milk crates. On top of the television were rabbit ear antennas covered with tin foil. There was a shrunken couch with more rips than the recliner. It sat flat on the floor and stank of rotted food and rat feces.

One piece of furniture however, looked strangely out of place in the dilapidated old house. It was an oak and glass coffee table placed directly in front of the tattered couch. The coffee table appeared to be worth more than everything else in the house combined, like a Picasso hanging in a root cellar.

The coffee table was acquired late one summer night at the pleading of the woman. She was sitting in the passenger seat of the pickup when she spotted the coffee table sitting alongside the road. There was a handmade sign leaning against the front legs of the piece of furniture, it read, FREE.

Her husband grumbled something about not needing that "damned coffee table," but soon succumbed to the woman's pleading. This was partially due to the momentary expression of joy in her pale brown eyes, but mostly because he wasn't drunk yet. Besides, the price was right.

Shortly after the coffee table found its way into the shack, a dog-eared copy of Better Homes and Gardens found its way onto the polished oak and glass table. The magazine's cover featured a glowing picture of a magnificent Colonial house surrounded by a white picket fence and exquisite flowers. A house that the woman prayed repeatedly that she would live in someday.

Despite her depressing surroundings, she clung to her dreams of having nice things and enough to eat. She dreamed about new furniture and nice clothes. She dreamed about a husband that treated her like she was somebody and a good education for her only child. She dreamed about friendly neighbors and fancy garden parties. But mostly, she dreamed about moving out of the dilapidated old shack and into that stunning Colonial house on the cover of the magazine.

That dream came crashing down one fateful night. The woman's small, terrified child was curled up into a tight ball behind the tattered couch. Tiny hands were covering tiny ears. They were trying to block out the screaming and crying. The ear-piercing sounds were coming from the other side of the mangled piece of furniture. The violence and cursing crept around the edges of the couch and slipped between the tiny fingers.

Violent words and crying merged with the crash of a ceramic figurine shattering against the living room wall. The figurine struck the wall just above the hiding spot of the terrified child. Remnants of the figurine rained down on the child's head like a miniature glass snowstorm.

The woman's husband stumbled home drunk, again. He was pissed off at his lousy job, his piece of shit truck, his stupid boss, and his miserable life. The woman was standing at the front door when the lights from his truck fell on the front of the house. The headlight beams slipped between the cracks in the walls like the twin beams of a Mack truck.

She stood stone-faced and unyielding in the doorway. This same scene had occurred dozens of times and she vowed to herself that this would never happen again. It turned out she was right, it never ever happened again.

Just when it seemed that the violence couldn't get any worse, it did. There was a blood curdling scream and the sound of breaking glass. This was followed by a tremendous thud that the child felt vibrate across the floor boards. Then, there was nothing.

After a few moments, the child loosened the pressure against her tiny ears and listened very closely. What came next was a stumbling rush of footsteps across the living room floor, followed by the bang of a slamming door. The terrified stowaway knew he was gone. It was now safe to come out from behind the couch.

The first thing the frightened child saw was a broken body lying on her back in a pile of shattered glass and splintered wood. The pieces of broken glass looked like miniature ice cubes. They reflected rainbow colors onto the walls and across the ceiling. The broken glass and fragmented wood was almost unrecognizable. Mommy was lying in the remains of the only piece of furniture in the ram-shackled house of which she was proud.

She was staring up at the ceiling like she was looking at the colorful reflections. Her eyes were open, but the child knew she wasn't really looking at the ceiling. There was a dark red puddle of something under her hair. It was the color of blackberry Kool-Aid. The child ran to the bathroom, maybe a Band-Aid would help.

One week later

A small group of grown-ups were standing on a grassy hillside in a misting rain. They were staring at the large pink box that was covered with flowers. All the grown-ups were dressed in black. Most of them were crying. Nobody would look at the small child. The child looked from face to face at the people standing around the pink box. The malicious man that caused his wife's death was nowhere to be found. He had not been seen since the front door had slammed.

A lot had happened since the front door slammed shut. That night a big square truck with flashing lights took Mommy away. A very nice colored lady with a bright yellow dress took the child to a house where an older couple lived. There were other children that lived with the old couple.

The child never saw Mommy or Daddy ever again.

Part 1: RIDGE

Chapter 1

The detective stood at the edge of the train platform. He was staring at the remains of what used to be a human. As he looked down at the gruesome scene, he pulled a pack of gum from his suit pocket. He unwrapped two pieces of gum and popped them in his mouth. Without taking his eyes off the railroad tracks, he folded the wrappers into perfect squares and slipped them into his coat pocket. Without realizing it, this little routine was becoming a habit, a prelude to contemplation.

The detective's firm jaw slowly chewed the gum. His eyes narrowed and he studied every detail surrounding the scene. What he saw could barely be considered human. The remains were more like human shrapnel, bits and pieces of flesh, bone and blood. The human debris was splattered across the front of the train and down the tracks.

He was sure the remains were that of a man. There were a pair of men's shoes laying near the edge of the tracks. The expensive loafers were side by side in the dirt and pointing directly at him. It was as if the man was lying on his back when the train hit. He was literally knocked out of his shoes. That was the first thing that struck the detective as odd. Why would someone be on their back if they had fallen off the train platform? Wouldn't he have landed face down on the tracks? Wouldn't he have made some desperate attempt to scramble off the tracks? Why wouldn't he have made some attempt to save his own life? Was he frozen with fear, unable to move?

"Poor bastard," he muttered out loud, looking down at the gore. He felt sorry for the guy; it seemed like a hell of a way to go. He also felt sorry for the coroner's staff who would be responsible for cleaning up this mess. He was certain that the coroner would not ask family members to try and identify the body. Although they found the guy's bloody wallet, they would need to confirm the victim's identity. He would be forced to use fingerprints and dental records. That is, if they could find his teeth and his fingers weren't too mangled.

It was a little out of the ordinary for a detective to show up at the scene of what seemed to be an obvious accident. But for the last six months, this detective had paid very close attention to the police radio. He was alert to calls that came in to police dispatch, especially calls that involved three specific details: a relatively obscure male, a victim dead at the scene, and a cause of death that was out of the ordinary. He paid little attention to natural causes of death like heart attack and stroke. He also dismissed car accidents and suicides as a cause of death. Some of the patrol officers were used to seeing Detective Mike Ridgeland poking around in places they didn't typically see a detective. Detective Ridgeland would show up unannounced and quietly survey the scene. He might ask a question or two, or he would simply spend a few minutes looking around and leave without a word.

The older patrol officers would occasionally ask him what he was looking for. Detective Ridgeland would smile and give them the same response,

"Just keeping my skills sharp, in case I get busted down."

The officers would just laugh. They were sure that Detective Mike Ridgeland would never see the inside of a patrol car ever again.

He had interviewed all the people standing on the train platform. Generally speaking, most of them provided the same story. One minute, the guy was standing on the train platform, and the next thing they knew, he was lying on the tracks. No one had really seen anything. A couple of the riders mentioned that the guy was reading the morning paper. It seemed to the detective that most of the potential witnesses were still in shock. He doubted that they would recall anything of importance. Train platforms were a lot like elevators. People in elevators worked very hard at not making eye contact with other riders.

The only witness that offered anything out of the ordinary was a twenty-something skateboarder with spiked hair and a couple dozen tattoos. He said that he didn't see how it happened, but he had caught the eyes of the man just before the train hit him. The skater said he looked terrified.

Detective Ridgeland was rolling that idea over in his mind when he heard someone approach him from behind. He turned around to see a uniformed cop that looked like he was straight out of the police academy. The young officer was trying to keep his focus on anything but the bloody mess on the tracks below.

He did not recognize him; however, he did recognize the light tinge of green at the edges of the kid's face. It was clear that he was not prepared for the grisly scene in front of him.

"First crime scene?" asked Ridgeland.

"Yes sir."

"Call me Ridge," he said with a relaxed smile.

"Yes sir." The kid was still gulping nervously.

"Yeah, it's always a little disturbing when the chalk marks around a victim are in six different places," Ridge said.

Ridge smiled and leaned in real close like he was sharing a secret,

"First time I ever walked up on a crime scene this bad I puked all over the Chief's shoes. He has never let me forget it."

They both chuckled, which seemed to loosen the mood a little. Ridge stepped toward the rookie and placing his hand on the kid's shoulder, said,

"Come on, let's get out of the way so the coroner can do his job."

As they walked to the back of the platform, Ridge asked the rookie if he had gotten the names and addresses of all the witnesses.

"Yes sir, I mean Detective Ridge."

"Just Ridge," he reminded the younger man.

Ridge fished the pack of gum from his suit coat pocket, eased a stick out, and offered it to him. The gum served two purposes. First, it helped kill the smell of death that was hanging in the air. Second, Ridge did some of his best thinking while chewing on his double helping of spearmint gum. He used to chain smoke Camels for that, but he had given those up five years ago.

The young cop took a stick of gum and studied Ridge like a statue in a museum. The detective's intense gaze was evidence of what was on his mind. He waited, and after what seemed like an hour, Ridge looked at him with curious eyes and asked, "What do you think a guy about to jump in front of a train was reading in the morning paper?"

The rookies quick answer was, "The Obituaries?"

Ridge burst out laughing and slapped him on the shoulder.

"Go on kid, finish up and get out of here."

### Chapter 2

Ridge was not thinking about the guy on the tracks. He was thinking about three other cases that he was working on. There were three accidental deaths that seemed a little too deliberate and a little less accidental. He was asking himself if he had been a cop so long that every case had become suspicious.

His heightened suspicion clearly annoyed most of his superiors. It seemed to him that the moment a cop became an administrator, they lost their ability to ask questions, to analyze, and to think.

According to Ridge, one of the signs of a great cop was the ability to never stop asking questions. Not just random questions but specific and probing questions. The problem was that now Ridge had more questions than he had answers. He knew what would help him sort out the questions. He reached into his coat pocket, grabbed his cell phone, and hit speed dial. The conversation was short and to the point.

"Want to grab a beer tonight? Okay, see you there." Ridge hit the button to hang up the call. He already felt better.

### Chapter 3

Detective Michael Ridgeland was in his late thirties. He had coal black hair and the slightest tinge of gray just below his temples. He was just over six foot two and just under two hundred pounds. He had a muscular frame, barely concealed by a well-cut suit. He looked more like a Wall Street broker than a cop. He had never bought into the rumpled detective look. Ridge had light brown eyes that appeared to be brimmed by faint gold rings. His eyes seemed to be penetrating without being threatening, unless he wanted to be. On more than one occasion, friends and co-workers confessed to him that he stared at them like he knew exactly what they were thinking. Ridge did nothing to discourage this perception. He had a tight angular face that was firm without being hard. And his mouth had a relaxed confident expression that radiated a calm, buoyant smile.

At nineteen, Michael Christopher Ridgeland walked away from a full ride scholarship at the Colorado State University School of Engineering. He hadn't left college for all the normal reasons, like too much party time and not enough class time. He traded his scholarship for a shot at becoming a member of the Air Force Combat Rescue Operations Team, commonly referred to as the PJ's.

The price of membership into this elite team was an intense two-year training program, referred to as Superman School. The school included extreme training in combat, skydiving, infiltration and ex-filtration methods. There were also advanced courses in rock climbing, open and closed-circuit diving operations and, most importantly, advanced medical training in life saving. During those two years, he learned the latest methods of triage and emergency techniques to save lives and rescue people from extreme situations.

Ridge made the decision to join the Para-Rescue team while eating lunch in the CSU cafeteria. He was sitting with his college girlfriend, Andrea. They were between classes and catching up on the week. Ridge and Andrea didn't attend any classes together since they were enrolled in separate programs.

Andrea, a leggy blonde, had grown up on a ranch just outside of Livingston, Montana. She was enrolled in the CSU Veterinary School of Medicine, and her heart was set on being a large animal veterinarian. She loved all animals but her real passion was for the animals that were the lifeblood of the ranch; the cattle and horses that the ranch families depended on for their livelihood.

They were laughing at some of the more pompous professors when Ridge overheard a conversation between two ROTC recruits. One recruit was telling the other about an instructor at the Para-Rescue school. Apparently, the instructor would run laps in full battle gear holding a cement block. He would perform this grueling exercise during his down time, in the swimming pool....... underwater. After overhearing the story, Mike said to Andrea, "That is old time tough." His decision to apply to the Para-Rescue program was immediate and unwavering.

This decision did not ingratiate him to Andrea, but she understood his passion and dedication. This is one of the things that had attracted her to him. They parted ways with tears and promises to stay in touch. The letters and phone calls had become less frequent over the years, but they still kept in touch. Ridge had a standing invitation to visit Andrea on her Ranch in the Big Sky State.

### Chapter 4

Ridge was already working on his second beer when he spotted his drinking buddy. The man weaving his way through the crowded bar had a conspiratorial smile on his whiskered face. He was a tall, gaunt man in his mid-fifties with a long gray ponytail and sharp blue eyes. His tan suit coat and a dark green turtleneck sweater belied his chosen profession. Ridge's drinking buddy was Professor Paul Hill, a law professor at Denver University. Despite the glaring difference between the two men they had become the best of friends. And with most great friendships between men, it had not started out that way.

They met when Ridge enrolled in a class on legal ethics at Denver University. Hill was the professor, and from the first day it was obvious to him that Ridge was a cop. It was evident in the questions Ridge asked as well as the papers he submitted. Ridge had been a model student. He spent the first few weeks of class sitting in the back row taking notes and asking some very pointed questions.

This abruptly ended one afternoon, when the Professor threw out one of his infamous philosophical bombshells. He suggested to the class that a homeowner should be tried for murder if he shot and killed an intruder breaking into his house. The remark elicited the response he was hoping for from the exact person he hoped to get a rise out of, the token cop. Looking back, Ridge didn't realize he had come out of his chair until after he was on his feet and standing in the aisle.

"Excuse me, professor, are you suggesting that the second amendment does not apply to a homeowner?" Ridge asked in a clear, deliberate voice.

Professor Hill gave Ridge a mocking smile.

"No, I am suggesting that the intruder's life was worth more than any object the homeowner has in his house."

"Including the man's wife and children?" Ridge intoned forcefully.

The argument escalated from a simple disagreement to a full-blown battle. The rest of the class became increasingly uncomfortable. Their elevated voices even attracted a few curious onlookers from the hallway. The entire class watched in shock as the two men worked their way towards each other. The professor made his way up the stairs as Ridge came down the stairs. The two men stopped face to face on the same step in the middle of the auditorium. It was a surreal scene that astonished everyone in the lecture hall.

To the onlookers, the victor of the conflict was apparent. The student was clearly getting the best of the teacher. The professor's position was all theory and didn't appear to be rooted in reality. The cop's argument was filled with common sense and practical experience.

The debate reached its climax. The professor's face turned a deep shade of red and the veins on his neck were bulging. He looked to be on the verge of a major heart attack. The one thing that really provoked the professor was the demeanor of his opponent. Even though Ridge had argued his position with passion and force, his face had remained calm and impassive. When the professor reached the end of his academic rant, he resorted to the only defense left to him.

He shouted at Ridge, "You, ignorant flatfoot."

Ridge snapped back, "Ambulance chaser."

Except for a couple audible gasps from the class, nobody said a word or moved a muscle. The two men glowered at each other for a long minute. The painful silence was broken when a slight smile started to creep across the professor's face. Ridge saw the smile as well as the humor behind the professor's deep blue eyes. The two men burst out laughing at the same time. The professor slapped Ridge on the shoulder and said,

"Come on flatfoot, I'll buy you a beer."

The two men headed toward the door. They were still laughing, much to the amazement of the entire auditorium. The students at the back of the room thought that they heard the professor mutter something about "Class dismissed". The two men disappeared out of the auditorium. That was the moment, Ridge and Hill became instant best friends.

### Chapter 5

"Hey flatfoot," said the professor in his best Harvard voice.

"Hello ambulance chaser," Ridge said, as he handed his friend a cold beer.

Ridge suggested they grab a table. Hill knew that this was a sign that there was more on Ridge's mind than having a couple of beers.

They found an empty table in the back of the bar. The secluded table gave them relative privacy and a comfortable noise level to talk. They settled in and exchanged a steady stream of insults and invectives.

Hill asked Ridge how many innocent victims he had beaten to a pulp recently. Ridge asked Hill how many idealistic young minds he brainwashed into becoming sleazy lawyers this week. As the waitress showed up to see if they wanted another beer, they called it a draw and Ridge asked Hill about his wife. Hill cocked his head sideways. He knew that no matter what answer he gave, it would be another opening for Ridge to batter him. Professor Hill had clearly married up, and he knew it.

Right in the middle of some small talk about the weather, Professor Hill interrupted Ridge.

"What's on your mind Mike?"

Ridge took a long drink of his beer and asked, "Did you hear about the guy who was hit by the train this morning?"

"I'll bet that was a mess," said the professor. "How did he wind up in front of the train?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out,"

"Well, I know that we academic types like to complicate the hell out of things, but let's look at the possibilities."

This brought a smile to Ridge's face. He sat back and said nothing and waited for his friend to continue. Hill took a drink of his beer and cleared his throat.

"It seems to me that there is only one of three ways that the poor soul found himself in front of a train. The most innocent and definitely the unluckiest scenario for the poor guy was that he tripped."

"Was he running to catch the train?" asked the professor.

"No."

"He was standing on the platform reading the morning paper."

"Okay, we rule out tripping over his Hush-puppies," Hill said.

"Was he given a little nudge to his encounter with the morning train?" asked Hill.

Ridge thought for a while, and choosing his words very carefully said,

"It doesn't appear so. There were other people on the platform, but nobody saw exactly how he wound up on the tracks."

"Okay, we'll come back to that one," suggested the professor.

"Was it a suicide?" said the professor sympathetically.

Ridge took another long drink of his beer and looked at the professor like a man staring into a mirror.

"I don't believe he intentionally threw himself in front of that train."

It was the professor's turn to take a long draw off his beer and carefully choose his words,

"Mike, that only leaves option number two. Do you think he was murdered"?

After a long moment, Ridge said, "Yes."

Professor Hill caught the waitress's attention. With a nod of his head and a circular motion of his finger, he ordered another round. The waitress winked at the old flirt and blew him a kiss. Professor Hill smiled broadly and flushed a light shade of red.

The two men sat in silence staring at each other until the fresh round of drinks arrived. They resumed the conversation after some good-natured ribbing from the waitress. She had taken one of his classes last semester. She teased the professor that he was a worse tipper than he was a teacher. Professor Hill shot back at the waitress,

"Hey Iris, what do you call five hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?"

Iris replied, "A good start."

Professor Hill burst out laughing. The only thing he liked more than teaching the law was a cold beer and telling really bad lawyer jokes.

After the waitress left, Professor Hill gave his friend a verbal nudge, "What's next, Mike?"

Ridge thought for a minute or two and said with a slow deliberate tone,

"Well, I guess that I have to convince the people with more rank than me that this was not an accident or a suicide. I need to convince them that there was a murder with no murder weapon, no witnesses, and no motive."

"Why don't you start with me?" said the professor sardonically.

Anyone else listening to their conversation would have thought that the question meant that the professor might not believe his friend. But the two men had been friends long enough that Ridge understood what Hill was suggesting. He was inviting him to gather his thoughts and make his case to a friendly audience. Ridge smiled back at Hill. He took a long drink of his beer and then he dove in with both feet.

He explained to Hill how the people on the train platform were, not much help. One moment the man was reading the morning newspaper, then he was lying on the tracks.

In all his years as a cop, he had seen his share of suicides. He had never seen or heard of someone reading the morning paper moments before they killed themselves.

It was his firm belief that suicide was the ultimate internal conflict. A conflict that consumed every thought and action of the person about to commit suicide. Ridge believed that a person reading the newspaper before he jumped in front of a train was atypical as a professional boxer taking Valium before a title fight. The two actions did not coexist.

The second suspicion he related to his friend was something that one of the witnesses shared with him. The man looked terrified just before the train struck him. During his career as a cop, Ridge reached a conclusion about suicides. In the last fleeting moments before someone took their own life, they were at peace with their decision.

Ridge told Hill about a jumper that he had tried to talk off the ledge of a building. He was the first cop on the scene, and he tried every tactic he knew to convince the guy not to jump. Ridge was staring into the guy's eyes when without any warning, he simply stepped off the edge. He watched the man's face in slow motion as he fell away from his grasp. In his opinion, the man looked relieved, not terrified. Ridge thought that he even saw a slight smile on the man's face just before he disappeared into the darkness.

He told the professor that he suspected that once someone reached the point of no return, once they pulled the trigger, once they stepped off the ledge, they were at peace with their decision.

"No more pain?" the professor interjected.

Ridge nodded his head up and down and repeated,

"No more pain."

"Any connection to the other cases?" asked Hill.

"None, that I can see," said Ridge.\What Detective Ridgeland's esteemed drinking partner was referring to were three earlier cases that Ridge was also working on. Cases that had all been ruled accidental deaths. They had occurred over the last year, and to Ridge, all three had a peculiar feeling to them.

These were the same cases that Ridge had been thinking about earlier that morning. At present, there was only one thing that today's incident had in common with the other three deaths. They had all been ruled as an "accidental death." Ridge was sure that today's death would also be ruled an accidental death by the coroner. He had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that something just didn't add up in all four of these cases.

### Chapter 6

The first of the other three accidental deaths was a jogger in his mid-forties. He was found early one morning with his skull caved in. The man was lying along the Platte River jogging trail with his head resting against a large rock.

The second involved a local truck driver who was pinned between his truck and a dock plate. A dock he had routinely delivered to for the last ten years. He was crushed to death when his brakes mysteriously failed.

The third of the three questionable accidents, and up to today's bloody mess had been the grisliest by far. Some guy working in his home wood shop slipped and fell chest first onto a ten inch saw blade. The spinning blade sliced into his chest cavity at three thousand revolutions per minute. The blade chewed up his internal organs like a blender on puree. It was a hell of a mess.

### Chapter 7

"Mike, have you ever heard the term Personal Construct Psychology?"

"How many more beers am I going to need for this one?" Ridge asked.

"Stick with me for a minute flatfoot," Hill insisted.

Hill continued, "Personal Construct Psychology or PCP was single handedly invented by George Kelly in 1955. The theory is set out in a two volume one-thousand-page monograph. It was a series of postulates and corollaries. But, the essence of the thing is personal identity is defined by the way we understand our personal worlds."

"In a nutshell, Professor," Ridge asked in a mocking tone.

"In a nutshell, PCP means trying out theories to see if they work to help us make sense of the world around us."

"What you are saying professor, is that I need to make my hunches make sense, first to myself, and then to my superiors."

"Move to the head of the class, flatfoot. Another round, wench," hollered the professor with comical gravel in his voice. This time, the waitress shot Professor Hill her middle finger. After the laughter subsided, Professor Hill continued,

"Tell me Detective Ridgeland, what turns a hunch into a fact?"

"Evidence," replied Ridge.

"How much evidence do you need, Detective?"

Mike shot back a devious smile, "Beyond a reasonable doubt."

"Touché, flatfoot." The professor smiled and nodded with approval.

Professor Hill continued, "What is evidence?"

Ridge replied as if he was reciting from the police handbook,

"Evidence is the available body of facts or information indicating whether a belief or proposition is true or valid."

The professor slapped the flat of his hand down on the table hard enough to draw the attention of a couple dozen patrons sitting within earshot and pronounced,

"By God, you were paying attention in my class."

Ridge shrugged and took a sip of his beer.

"No, I think I read that on the back of a matchbook," Ridge said with a straight face.

It was the professor's turn to flip him the bird.

The serious conversation came to a screeching halt. The rest of the evening slipped into a combination of laughter and good-natured insults. They each drank three more beers and Hill continued to flirt with any waitress who came close enough to harass. Both men knew that Ridge had heard what he needed to hear. And now, he knew where he should go from here, which was back to the beginning. He had missed something along the way, and he needed to find a common thread between the four murders.

### Chapter 8

The next morning Ridge climbed the front steps of the two-story brick home. The well-kept old home was in the Washington Park district of Denver. He was not looking forward to this meeting. The current resident of the house was the widow of the latest accident victim. The man that was killed by the light rail train. Everything about the old home was neat and tidy. The front lawn was landscaped with an amazing assortment of indigenous wild flowers and grasses. The covered front porch was a throwback to an earlier age. A time when people used to spend their summer evenings sitting on the front porch with a cold drink. Ridge could picture the scene in his mind. People laughing and talking to each other about the things that really mattered. Waving and smiling at friends and neighbors as they passed by.

He could tell that the house had been painted at least a dozen times over the years and cared for with an immaculate attention to love and detail. One thing that he didn't see any evidence of were children. There were no toys or balls or bicycles laying anywhere in the yard or on the front porch.

Ridge pressed the doorbell. He heard a radio playing somewhere in the house. After a long minute, he rang the bell again. Ridge cocked his head and listened for evidence that someone was home. When he didn't hear any movement, he cupped his hands and peeked through the window. He saw nothing or no one. Ridge turned and walked across the porch to the edge of the house. He leaned over the railing and looked around the end of the house. There was no car in the driveway and the garage door was closed. He listened hard for any sign of life. He could still hear a radio playing. The sound now seemed to be coming from around the back of the house.

Ridge stepped off the front porch and followed the driveway to the back yard. As he rounded the corner of the house he saw a woman with her back to him. She was down on her knees in the middle of a garden. The woman was intensely focused on tending an impeccable vegetable garden. Every row was straight and perfectly manicured. The vegetables were full, green, and lush. The brilliant colors that emanated from the garden looked more like a flower bed than a vegetable patch.

Ridge watched her closely for a few moments. He was trying to figure out how to announce his presence without startling her. She was clearly lost in what she was doing.

One of the things that Ridge was truly gifted at was looking at every situation and determining the best approach to take before proceeding. Whether it was a group of angry gang bangers or a widow lost in her own thoughts, Ridge had a sixth sense when it came to situational analysis.

He decided to knock gently on the side of the house, like he was knocking at her front door. The familiar sound would get her attention without alarming her. His decision was the right one. After Ridge tapped his knuckles on the side of house, the woman stopped what she was doing. She raised up from her gardening and slowly turned in his direction.

The woman was in her mid-forties. She looked at Ridge with mild curiosity. She was trying to determine if she knew the man standing in her driveway. Mike raised a hand in a slight wave. He said with his warmest smile,

"Good morning, are you Betty Carter?"

The woman looked at his deep brown eyes and smiled back at him,

"Yes, I am Betty Carter.

"I am Detective Ridgeland, with the Denver PD."

Her smile did not disappear, but it did fade slightly. The woman stood up and walked toward him. As she approached him, she pulled her garden gloves off and extended her hand. They shook hands and she asked to see his identification.

She was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a long sleeve work shirt. The shirt was tied loosely around her waist and her blonde hair was sticking out from under a Colorado Rockies baseball cap. She had a warm face and dark brown eyes that showed a cautious vulnerability.

Mike pulled out his badge and held it up. Betty Carter gave the badge a serious look and asked,

"What can I do for you, detective?"

Ridge asked her if she could spare a couple minutes to talk. She sighed heavily and said that she had all the time in the world.

"Can I offer you something to drink, Detective?"

"Only if you call me Ridge," he said with an innocent smile.

"I'm Betty," she said, as she stuck out her hand again, they both smiled.

She led him up the back steps of the house and into the kitchen. The kitchen was a cozy modern room surrounded by windows that looked out over her garden. There was a polished marble island in the middle of the kitchen covered with an array of fresh cut flowers and a bowl of vegetables fresh from the garden.

Ridge pulled out a stool and sat down at the island. He watched Betty take ice cubes from an antique ice tray. She dropped the cubes into two tall glasses and poured their lemonade.

Betty Clark was not acting as he had expected. He was watching a woman who showed no signs of grief. She was pensive, but not sad, neither was she uneasy or anxious. She was not just going through the motions of appearing in control. She was in complete control of her thoughts and her emotions. Ridge had never seen anyone so composed after such a life-altering event.

Betty placed a glass of lemonade on a coaster in front of Ridge. Then she sat down across from him and waited for his questions. After a brief pause, he asked,

"Betty, can you tell me anything that would help me with my investigation?"

A shadow spread across her calm face,

"Detective, what exactly are you investigating? Wasn't my husband's death an accident?"

Ridge put on his best "just routine ma'am" face, and said with a disarming tone,

"I just want to make sure that I didn't miss anything, Mrs. Carter."

"Betty," she corrected him politely.

Ridge could see the doubt behind her eyes.

Ridge continued, "Betty, did your husband have any enemies?"

She responded with what Ridge could only describe as mild sarcasm,

"Detective, almost everybody loved my husband to death."

The statement made him stop writing in his notepad. He looked up at her. She was leaning on her left palm and looking at him with a furtive smile. The look on her face did not match the biting comment she had uttered. She didn't appear to be the kind of woman accustomed to using sarcasm as a retort.

"Betty, was your husband depressed?"

"Detective Ridgeland, are you asking me if my husband was suicidal?"

"Yes, I guess I am," Ridge said awkwardly.

She took a slow sip of her lemonade and smiled.

"Ridge, my husband was way to vain to be suicidal."

She could see the indulgent look behind his brown eyes, she continued.

"The thought of taking his own life would have horrified my husband."

She saw the curious look on his face.

"No, my husband was not afraid of dying. His fear would have been more egotistical than that.

The thought of people thinking he couldn't handle life would have assaulted his ego."

Ridge nodded his understanding and scribbled in his notebook.

They talked for another few minutes about her husband. She told Ridge about her husband's work and leisure habits. Ridge learned that her husband was not just a creature of habit. He was almost religious about his daily routine. He hated surprises and anything out of place.

When Ridge finished his lemonade and his questions, he closed his notebook. He stood up and explained to her that he needed to get going. Betty escorted him to the front door and out onto the front porch. They exchanged a few pleasantries and they shook hands. As he shook her hand, he reached up and clasped her forearm with his other hand. It was a sympathetic gesture, his father used to call it the preacher handshake.

When he touched her forearm, he caught a flinch of pain on her face. She smiled hard and tried to cover the pain. Ridge could see that she was masking the pain. He told her that he was very sorry about what happened to her husband.

He couldn't shake the feeling that Betty Clark was not terribly upset over the death of her husband. There was an air of relief surrounding her. It was the kind of relief you saw in the faces of people on their first day of a vacation. That carefree look as they stepped out of their ocean front hotel. A lighthearted glow reflected off a white sand beach and a warm lounge chair. It was the kind of liberation where their only concern was which umbrella drink she would sample first.

Ridge started down the walkway toward his police cruiser. Betty turned and walked around the side of her house. She was returning to her gardening. Halfway down the brick path, Ridge noticed a car pulling up in front of the house. The brightly colored economy car had a magnetic sign on the side. It was a delivery vehicle for one of the local flower shops. A boy about seventeen years old jumped out of the car. He removed a bouquet of flowers from the carrier in the back seat. The kid came up the walkway almost completely blocked out behind the bouquet. Ridge had to step off out of the way so that the kid wouldn't run into him.

Ridge had purchased his share of flower bouquets in his life, and this one was a stunner. It had at least four different types of colorful flowers. He recognized brilliant yellow daisies and deep blue tulips surrounded by sprigs of baby's breath and Colorado columbine. The arrangement was large but not garish, and it was expensive.

He guessed the arrangement cost just north of two hundred dollars. Someone was trying very hard to cheer up a grieving widow. Ridge thought they might have wasted their money. Betty Clark didn't seem to need that much cheering up.

As the kid passed him, Ridge saw something that grabbed his attention. It stuck out like a coffee stain on a white shirt. Buried in the spray of colorful flowers was a slim plastic staff with a curly little hook at the top. Hanging from the hook by a thin pink thread was a yellow card.

Handwritten on the card in a beautiful script were two words:

You're Welcome

Ridge grabbed the kid's arm. He was so startled that he almost dropped the flowers. The kid tried to pull away,

"Hey mister, I'm just delivering some flowers."

Ridge showed him his badge. He could see that the nervous kid wanted to make some smart-ass comment about it being against the law to deliver flowers. The fixed look on Ridge's face stopped the comment before it popped out of his mouth.

"Take it easy, I just want to know who sent the flowers."

The nervous teenager pulled the mini clipboard out of his back pocket. He glanced over the order form,

"Sorry, no name who sent them."

"Are you sure you have the right address?"

The kid looked at the form again. He recited the name and address out loud and looked up at the address on the house.

"Yep," he said," this is the place."

Ridge let the kid go. Just before he reached the front steps, Ridge called out to him,

"She's around back."

Ridge watched the kid turn left and disappear around the side of the house. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his notepad. He wrote down the name of the florist on the economy car. Then he added the two words he noticed buried in the flower arrangement. You're Welcome.

### Chapter 9

It was still dark when Audrey slid her key in the lock. She opened the front door and flipped on the lights. She made her way across the reception area and into her office. As with most mornings, the clinic was completely empty. Doctor Audrey Nichols was utterly alone inside her clinic.

Even though this part of Denver could be a little rough at times, she loved being the first one in every morning. It gave her the feeling of getting a jump start on the rest of the world. Besides, Audrey knew exactly how many scoops of coffee were required to make the perfect pot of coffee. No one was going to deprive her of that pleasure, even if it meant shooing away the occasional homeless guy sleeping on the clinic's doorstep.

Audrey was usually on her second cup of coffee before any of her staff arrived. It was a rare occurrence when one of her staff got to the clinic before her. Even though, most had a key to the front door. They all joked that no one was really sure if their keys actually worked.

### Chapter 10

Doctor Audrey Nichols was in her mid-thirties. She stood just over five foot eight inches tall with the figure of an athlete and the grace of a dancer. Her dark blonde hair framed her blue green eyes that resembled a pair of fire opals. And despite some of her more obvious attributes, she had a hidden beauty that required a second look.

Her college boyfriend had called it "Surreptitious Beauty." She asked him to explain what that meant. He thought for a minute or two. Then she saw the light come on in his eyes.

"Audrey, you've seen those 3D posters? The ones that you stare at until the image contained within the image magically appears.

She slowly said, "Yeah, I guess so."

He said very excitedly and pointed at her,

"Audrey, that's you. When I first saw you, I thought that you were kind of plain. But when I really looked at you, I thought to myself, 'Holy crap she's beautiful.'

Audrey thought for a long moment and said,

"Thanks, I think."

Over the years, she had come to realize the depth of the compliment he had paid her. This form of camouflage beauty allowed her to blend in when she wanted to be anonymous.

Audrey was looking over some patient charts from the previous day when the phone rang.

"Morning Doc, already hard at work?" Ridge asked.

"Morning Mike," she said as a smile spread across her face.

"Can I buy you lunch today?" he asked.

"Have you ever known me to turn down a free meal?"

They both laughed. "See you about eleven?" he said.

"Make it twelve, I have a full morning."

"Twelve it is. How's that second cup of coffee, Doc?"

"Bite me, detective," she hung up the phone and smiled.

That's what she liked most about Ridge, he always made her smile, even when he wasn't trying.

### Chapter 11

Audrey had been the target of Ridge's charm and good humor since he first laid eyes on her. They met last year during the Race for the Cure. Her entire staff volunteered as one of the first aid stations at the race.

Audrey's clinic maintained a first aid trailer that served as a mobile clinic for special events, like Denver's Race for the Cure and the Bolder Boulder marathon. The trailer was equipped with most everything required to handle the cuts, bumps, and bruises that occurred at a marathon.

The clinic even volunteered at a couple of Tough Mudder events. Tough Mudder races were extreme obstacle courses. These were physically brutal events, where men and women tried to prove that they were indestructible. The bumps and bruises from a Tough Mudder race were exponentially worse than a typical marathon. Tough Mudder events were always good for at least a handful of broken limbs and half a dozen concussions.

As the race wound down, Dr. Nichols and her staff worked on a steady stream of twisted ankles and pulled hamstrings. Most of her patients consisted of men from their early thirties to late forties. Men who were persuaded into doing their part to help fight breast cancer by their wives or girlfriends. What most of them got for their trouble was a peck on the cheek and some sore muscles. Audrey and her staff volunteered their services to help with the latter.

Audrey was treating a minor case of Achilles tendonitis when she caught a glimpse of an attractive man watching her. He was leaning against a light pole just across the parking lot from her medical station. Her admirer had clearly been a participant in the race. His running gear was not new but it was in good condition. And he was no stranger to exercise. She could tell that he was muscular without the excessive bulge of a weight lifter.

He was watching her work with a casual appreciation. He wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he was watching her. As she worked through the long line of patients, she continued to watch her secret admirer out of the corner of her eye. He was patiently waiting for something or someone.

Her not so secret admirer had a relaxed smile and intense brown eyes. Audrey smiled. He looked like a kid trying to work up the courage to ask a girl to a junior high dance. Ridge was guilty of making her smile even before he said a word.

Audrey realized why he was stalling. He was waiting for the line to dwindle down. Waiting for his chance to be the last in line. What her secret admirer didn't realize was that she was a bit of a prankster. Just for fun, as the line got shorter she took more time with each patient.

The line was now two sprained ankles and a scraped knee. She watched as her admirer pushed away from the light pole and started limping toward her. He clearly intended on being her last customer of the day. Her suspicions were confirmed when another patient walked up behind him. Her not so secret admirer generously offered his place in line. Audrey had a hard time keeping the smile off her face.

When it was finally his turn for a little first aid, he smiled sheepishly and asked,

"Hey doc, got time for one more casualty?"

"Sure, what seems to be the problem?" she asked.

"I think I twisted my ankle on the final approach."

"Let's have a look," she said in a professional tone.

While she was giving him the once over, her curiosity got the best of her.

"Who are you running for Detective?" she asked.

"Our desk Sergeant's wife has breast cancer."

"Sorry to hear that. How is she doing?" she asked sympathetically.

"Honestly, I think she's holding up better than he is."

Suddenly, Ridge realized that he had not told her that he was a cop.

"How did you know I was a cop?" he asked with genuine surprise.

"Running shorts don't really hide a badge all that well." She pointed to the bulge just below his left hip.

"You would make a good detective," Ridge suggested.

"I don't think so. Guns make me squeamish," she said.

"Let me get this straight. You stitch people up for a living and guns make you nervous?" Ridge asked.

"Funny, huh?" she added with a quirky smile.

"Not really, we have a guy on the bomb squad who is deathly afraid of spiders."

"Who are you doing this for?" he asked.

"I lost one of my best nurses to breast cancer three years ago," she said in a muted voice.

"Sorry," Ridge said.

A moment of silence hung between them as Audrey dropped her eyes and went back to work on his ankle.

Most of the crowd was gone. All that was left of the huge throng of people were a few volunteers and the cleanup crew. Audrey was taking her time wrapping his ankle. She was giving herself a chance to finish up. It worked. The last of her crew asked if she wanted some help cleaning up.

She said,

"No, I'll take care of it, you go on and enjoy the rest of your day. It was the perfect opening".

Ridge jumped in and offered,

"Tell you what Doc, you buy me a cup of coffee and I'll help you put all this stuff away."

"You got yourself a deal, Detective," she said with an innocent smile.

He stuck out his hand, "Detective Mike Ridgeland, at your service."

They packed away the exam tables and all the medical supplies. Audrey locked up the trailer and they started to walk toward downtown. They had only walked about thirty feet when Audrey glanced over her left shoulder and with a slight smirk said,

"You forgot something, Detective."

Ridge stopped and looked back in the direction of the trailer. He didn't see anything that he had left behind. As he turned back toward her, she was smiling. Ridge realized that he was busted, he was not limping.

"You're a miracle worker, doc. I don't know what they are paying you, but it isn't enough."

They both laughed. Ridge didn't even try to cover up that he really didn't have a sprained ankle.

### Chapter 12

Ridge waited patiently in a booth at the far end of the diner. His back was against the wall and from his vantage point he could see the front door of Audrey's clinic. The only thing in front of him was a fresh cup of coffee. Ridge gazed out the window. He couldn't stop thinking about the latest death. There was something missing. He was lost in thought, when he heard someone say in an elevated tone,

"Earth to Detective Ridgeland."

Ridge looked up from his trance. A waitress was staring down at him with a coffee pot in one hand and a tray of dirty dishes on her hip. Tina Patrick was a tall African-American beauty with large dark eyes and a light brown complexion. She looked like she belonged on a vacation poster for the Virgin Islands. Tina had a slight New York accent and a sarcastic wit that bordered on being a charming smart ass. She didn't look anywhere near thirty-five, and occasionally she still got carded at local bars.

Ridge took his hand off the top of the coffee cup. He was idly turning the cup in circles as he stared out the window. He slid the cup across the table.

"Sorry Tina, I was somewhere else," Ridge said apologetically.

"I was just about to pour hot coffee on the back of your hand," she said with a devilish smirk.

"That would have gotten my attention," Ridge said.

"Would that have qualified as assaulting a police officer?" Tina asked.

Ridge sat up straight and said in an official tone, "Yes I believe it would."

"However," he continued, "If I were to waltz you into the local police station wearing a pair of chrome bracelets. Who do you think would be in more trouble, you or me?"

Tina smiled innocently.

"Detective Ridgeland, I am sure that I don't know what you are talking about."

One of the regulars sitting at the counter swiveled around in his chair and said,

"My dear Tina, what Detective Ridgeland is alluding to is that if he arrested you, he might as

well turn in his badge, pack up his bags, and take a security job at a retirement home in south

Florida."

Most of the patrons of the restaurant burst out laughing and Ridge nodded in agreement,

"It's true, Tina, every cop in this city loves you more than me."

Tina flushed and shifted her focus back on Ridge.

"It's because, everyone knows that I would make a better detective than you," she said.

This brought a round of jeers and laughter from the entire diner.

"Prove it," Ridge said confidently.

Tina set the coffee pot down on his table and leaned over like she was going to tell him a secret,

"I'll wager that I can tell you what you were just thinking about."

Ridge leaned back in the booth and said,

"Okay, double or nothing on the tip."

Tina stuck out her hand. "Deal," she said.

They shook hands and Tina twisted her mouth into an expression of intense scrutiny. She began,

"Even though you were staring down the street at the front door of Dr. Nichols' clinic, possibly one of the most fantastic women in the Rockies. You were thinking about a case that you are currently working on. And, it was probably tied to something that happened this morning."

It was Mike's turn to turn a deep shade of red. Everyone in the diner knew that he was beaten. Tina winked at Ridge, then she picked up the coffee pot and the tray of dishes and walked away. She strode away with a look of triumph in her dark brown eyes, and not just because her tip would be even more generous than normal.

### Chapter 13

Ridge enjoyed waiting for Audrey in the noisy diner. There was something energizing about the constant hum of voices. There was a rhythm to the background clatter that helped him think. Some people did their best thinking in a quiet secluded corner of a library or a museum. Some people preferred working through their problems on top of a mountain or jogging. Ridge did his best thinking in a crowded bar or the corner of a noisy diner. There was a pulse inside the noise that helped him focus. Most of his coworkers ribbed him that he spent more time in the diner than he did in his own office.

Ridge saw the front door of the clinic open. His lunch date stepped out into the bright mid-day sun. Audrey was wearing a light-yellow summer skirt that showed off her long, tan legs along with a pastel green top that a light breeze was pressing firmly against her body. She had on her favorite work shoes, a pair of lime green running shoes. She swore that the running shoes gave her at least two extra hours of energy at the end of each grueling day.

The moment Ridge saw Audrey emerge from the clinic he called out,

"Hey Tina, the doc is on her way."

"Got it Ridge, two turkey club sandwiches, easy on the mayo and hash browns for the doc."

Ridge and Tina had developed a system. When he saw Audrey headed for the diner, Ridge would give Tina a heads up and Audrey's lunch would be ready and waiting for her seconds after she sat down.

Ridge recognized how valuable Audrey's time was. He enjoyed the little game of having her favorite sandwich and a cup of hot tea arrive at the table just as she did. Ridge spoke up over the noisy chatter of the diner,

"Tina, you better make it a double order of hash browns. She looks like she has worked up an appetite this morning."

Tina gave him a sideways smirk,

"Ridge, one of these days you're going to be wrong," she chided him.

"Probably, but until then, you're just going to have to trust my hunches."

"Your hunches haven't made you Chief yet, have they?" Tina shot back at him.

Everyone in the diner groaned or whistled. He put his hands behind his head like a felon under arrest.

"I give up, don't shoot," Ridge said, as everyone in the diner laughed again.

After the laughter and kidding subsided, Ridge looked back out the window. A smile slowly spreads across his face. He watched with great contentment as Audrey moved down the sidewalk. She resembled a fashion model dominating a runway in Paris or Milan. He was admiring one of the things he loved most about Audrey, the way she walked. He loved to watch her walk. She had a way of moving that reminded him of one of those old black and white movies. Movies where the leading lady approaches the camera in slow deliberate saunter. Moving as if every step was both intentional and lingering. Everyone else on the busy sidewalk looked like knuckle-dragging Neanderthal's compared to Audrey. In a world, full of people hurrying to get from one place to another, Doctor Audrey Nichols slow purposeful saunter was damned near extinct by modern standards of femininity.

### Chapter 14

As Audrey approached the diner, Ridge's thoughts drifted back to the previous night. He was still thinking about what the professor had said. He needed to focus on the three widows he had already interviewed. Ridge thought about how similar their reactions were to find out that their husbands were dead. They all had expressed the same tranquil relief that Betty Clark had demonstrated. The problem was that a similar response from four different widows was not even close to hard evidence. It was barely a hunch.

Ridge played back the initial interviews in his mind. He tried to recall every word they had said. He forced himself to remember everything he could about the widows, from the houses they lived in, to the expressions on their faces.

Ridge watched Audrey making her way up the street. Her lime green Nike's seemed to be striking the sidewalk in unison with the background clatter of the diner. The rhythmic clatter helped him focus on the details surrounding the previous three deaths.

### Chapter 15

The widow of the first man was a professional woman in her mid-thirties. She worked for a medium-sized law firm in downtown Denver. The couple lived in a modern downtown apartment close to where they both worked. The husband died while jogging the Platte River Trail through downtown Denver. He tripped on a rise in the running trail and struck his head on a large rock alongside the trail.

The first thing that had caught Ridge's attention was the dead man's hands and arms. They were not bruised, scraped, broken, or even bloody. The question Ridge kept asking himself as he stood over the dead man was, if the guy had been jogging fast enough to put a grapefruit sized dent in his cranium, why didn't he make some sort of attempt to break his fall? There wasn't the slightest bit of evidence that the guy had tried to keep from colliding with the rock.

The second bit of evidence that most everyone associated with the case rejected was the rock. Even though the man was found with his head resting against a bloody rock. The point of impact in his skull didn't exactly match the surface of the rock. The depression in his skull was rounded and smoother than the jagged rock where his head came to rest.

The truck driver that was crushed between his trailer and the dock plate was a career trucker. He had logged over one million crash free miles. Anybody who knows anything about trucking understands the brake system on a big rig. The brakes on a big rig are an active brake system. They are a two-stage system, controlled by air pressure. They are designed to keep the brakes from being activated, unless they are needed.

There are two large buttons on the dashboard of a tractor trailer combination, one red and one yellow. The yellow button controls the brakes on the tractor. The red button controls the trailer brakes. Both buttons must be depressed to release the brakes. If the air pressure drops too low a loud buzzer will sound. Someone would have to physically depress both buttons to release the brakes.

The guy who had ended up lying on a ten inch saw blade had been the model of safety. Every tool in his shop had a specific place. According to his wife, he always wore all the latest safety equipment. His safety gear included rubber soled safety boots. His eye and ear protection were the best that money could buy. The saw was secured to a non-skid rubber mat. There was also a bright yellow line painted around the saw. This served as a danger zone that no one was permitted to enter.

The thing that jumped out at Ridge was the man's fingers. He noticed that the man had all ten fingers. Ridge had a hard time believing that a man who had spent most of his spare time with a wide range of power tools would accidentally fall on top of his saw. This had been eating away at him ever since he had left the bloody scene.

### Chapter 16

Audrey stepped through the front door of the diner. Ridge raised his hand and waved to her. She knew exactly where he would be sitting. Audrey was greeted by a few of the regulars seated around the diner. An older gentleman sitting at a large round table with five guys about his age called out.

"Hey doc, why don't you sit with us today? You know we are a lot more fun and interesting than that old cop."

Audrey detoured to the table full of old timers. She rested her hands on the shoulders of the old gentleman.

"Vernon, if I sat down with you guys, who would flirt with Tina?"

Audrey leaned down and kissed the old guy on his cheek. This left a perfectly formed red lipstick mark on his weathered old face. The old guy blushed and winked at Ridge.

"Detective Ridgeland, you see who she kissed first," the old guy crowed.

Audrey left the old guys and walked over to the booth where Ridge was sitting. She leaned down and gave him a long slow kiss. When she pulled away, Ridge winked back at the old guy.

"Vernon, you better wipe that lipstick off your face before you get back home. Virginia will have you sharing the dog house with that old mutt of yours tonight."

The table full of old timers laughed and Vernon made no effort to remove his bright red souvenir. Everyone in the diner knew that it would be gone by the time he reached his front door.

After all the teasing and laughter subsided, Audrey sat down across from Ridge. She didn't waste any time attacking her lunch. Ridge had been right. She had worked up quite an appetite. Ridge, on the other hand was taking his time. Audrey noticed that he was pushing his food around his plate.

"Chewing on a case instead of your lunch, Detective?" Audrey asked between bites.

Ridge gave her a sideways glance.

"I didn't know that you had a degree in psychology?" Ridge asked sarcastically.

"Detective Ridgeland, that does not require an advanced degree. There are only three things that men consistently think about: work, food, and sex, and not necessarily in that order. Ridge laughed and nodded in agreement.

### Chapter 17

Ridge leaned back in his chair and waited patiently. He was waiting for the woman sitting across from him to finish reading. He had handed her a thick file just over thirty minutes ago. She was studying the file with great intensity. Ridge was studying her face with the same amount of intensity. He was watching for tell-tale signs of what she was thinking.

Jackie Adams was a case worker for the Victim's Advocate Office with the City of Denver. She was the most passionate case worker Ridge had ever met. Jackie had freed up two uninterrupted hours when Ridge called her earlier that day.

Jackie was an attractive African-American woman in her mid-thirties. She had short black hair and an angular face. Her eyes were dark brown with a delicate almond shape. These distinct features gave the hint of her Asian heritage.

Jackie and Ridge had become close friends over the last ten years. He regarded her as one of the fairest and most competent people he had ever met. She did not have an agenda. She understood that there were always two sides to every conflict. Jackie took great pride in discovering the hidden truth, not just people's version of the truth.

She could not have been more perfectly suited for her chosen profession. It was as if she were genetically engineered for her job. Jackie possessed the innate ability to gage the depth of people's sincerity. She was unlike any of her fellow social workers.

Most of her coworkers fell into one of two categories. They were either naive kids straight out of college or career bureaucrats that were both cynical and bitter. The ones fresh out of college thought they knew everything, and the cynical bureaucrats thought they had seen everything. Both personality types were dangerous, especially when dealing with extreme emotions, abuse, and tragedy.

Jackie's approach to problem solving was based on reason, perception, experience, and evidence. Qualities that enabled her to see beyond the emotion. Jackie didn't see herself as an omniscient authority with all the answers. She viewed her job as one of informed influence, like a big sister giving advice. Jackie's natural talent was dealing with emotionally charged situations. The most difficult part of Jackie's job was the timing. She typically didn't get involved in a crisis until the problem reached the chaos stage.

Most intelligent people can recognize when there is a problem. A select few might even have a realistic solution to a problem. The major flaw in social work was that most of the solutions were academic. They were theoretical answers to emotional dilemmas. Jails and prisons are full of men who loved their wives so much that they killed them.

Jackie understood from her first day on the job that hate and jealousy were not the opposite of love. They were their evil twins. She watched her coworkers running around in circles trying to mitigate every issue. She referred to this hasty response as mitigation without contemplation. In Jackie's mind, dealing with emotional fallout was no different than a doctor diagnosing a medical symptom. First, you stop the bleeding, then you discover the source of the bleeding, then you treat the underlying problem.

Jackie separated the symptoms from the cause. If an abused wife needed a shoulder to cry on, Jackie was the perfect shoulder. If a mother of three kids was neglecting her children in favor of a crack pipe, that mother suffered the wrath of Jackie.

One of Jackie's greatest assets was her voice. It had a deep throaty quality that didn't match her slight figure. Clients that met her for the first time were comforted. Judges were amused and defense attorneys were distracted. On more than one occasion, Jackie caught people watching her with a perplexed look. She could see the question on their stunned faces, 'How is that deep sultry voice coming from that delicate girl?'

At a coworker's wedding, Jackie was coerced into taking part in karaoke. She performed the old Stevie Nicks' song, "Stop Dragging My Heart Around." Jackie received two standing ovations as well as not having to pay for a drink for the rest of the party.

Jackie had a relaxed way about her that put people at ease. This relaxed attitude concealed a very lethal ability. There was an incident that took place about six months after Jackie went to work in the Victim's Advocates Office. A story that every new hire hears at least once by the end of their first week. Over time, the story has spread to other departments, and it just keeps getting better with each telling.

The incident happened during one of Jackie's first home visits. She was meeting with a woman who was married to an abusive husband. The husband got word that his wife was talking to a social worker. He rushed home both drunk and enraged. With each step, his rage intensified. By the time he reached his front door, the husband was blind with anger.

The wife and Jackie were sitting on the couch talking. The wife stiffened when she recognized her husband's ranting in the hall. The wife jumped up and ran down the narrow hallway. She locked herself in the bathroom, abandoning Jackie.

The husband didn't even bother to check to see if the front door was unlocked. He crashed through the door, knocking it off its hinges. He scanned the room with his hate filled eyes. His gaze fell on the only person left in the room. A diminutive woman rising from his couch, ten feet in front of him. An evil smile spread across his face and he started moving straight for Jackie.

The husband was eight inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier than Jackie. He looked as angry as anyone she had ever seen, a seething mass of hatred and brutality. There was nothing between her and the man, and he was barreling down on her like an out of control freight train. Jackie did not move a muscle, she stood her ground.

As he closed the distance, his monstrous hands came up like a pair of fleshy meat hooks. They were formed into human claws and level with Jackie's throat. The last thing the husband remembered seeing was Jackie's delicate lips turn into a slight smile.

When his fingers were inches from Jackie's slender neck, her smile disappeared. Jackie's face transformed into a look of intense focus. Then her body relaxed and she began to turn in a counter-clockwise direction. Jackie dropped her right shoulder and delivered a brutal strike to the man's solar plexus with her right elbow. The air went out of the man's lungs and he doubled over at the waist. As he lurched forward, Jackie continued turning counter-clockwise. She came around one-hundred eighty degrees and caught the man in the side of his head with her left elbow. The abusive bastard was out cold before he hit the floor. In less than two seconds, the fight was over. It was what one of her instructors called a two-hit fight. She hit him and he hit the floor. The petite social worker had dropped the enraged husband dead in his tracks. He had no idea that the woman he had just attacked was a fifth-degree black belt. The man was still out cold when the paramedics carted him off to the hospital.

The husband found a second-rate lawyer willing to sue Jackie. He filed charges of assault against Jackie. When the case came before the judge, he asked both Jackie and the husband to stand up. The judge looked back and forth between Jackie and the husband. The man had no visible signs of the beating, except for a fake neck-brace.

The old judge asked slowly and very deliberately.

"Sir, do you mean to tell me that this little girl beat you up?"

The courtroom exploded into laughter as the judge banged his gavel to restore order. The plaintiffs' face turned a deep shade of red as the laughter dwindled down to low giggles. When order was restored, the judge asked,

"Sir, what caused this unprovoked attack?"

The man looked at the judge with desperate confusion. He was trying to think of something to say. Something that would portray him as the victim. After a long minute of silence, the abusive husband mumbled something unintelligible and stormed out of the courtroom. The judge looked scornfully at the husband's sleazy lawyer.

"Mister Cochland, would your client like to ask for a continuance?"

The lawyer stood.

"I don't believe so, your honor."

With a slight smile on his face, the judge slammed his gavel down on the bench and declared,

"Case dismissed."

The incident had earned Jackie the nickname, Jackie Chan.

### Chapter 18

Jackie dropped the file on her desk.

"What do you think?" Ridge asked.

"I don't know Mike, what are you looking for?" she asked.

Ridge leaned back in his chair and tried to think how he could frame the question without sounding crazy.

"Spit it out," she prompted.

"Is it possible that those four deaths are connected?"

Jackie picked up a pencil off her desk and rolled it between her fingers.

"What's the connection?" she asked.

Ridge thought about his response for what seemed like an eternity. Then he said in a cautious voice,

"I think that all four of those men are dead because they beat their wives."

Jackie asked the obvious question, "By whom?"

Ridge looked at her across the desk. "I have no idea."

Jackie got up and walked over to the window. She looked out over the city and thought about a woman she had interviewed last week.

### Chapter 19

Jackie climbed the rickety stairs on her way to the fourth floor. The elevator was out of order. Even if the elevator was working, she would not have taken it. The aged apartment building looked like it was on its last leg. There were broken windows and cracked ceiling tiles on every floor. The walls were stained with years of cigarette smoke and graffiti. Most of the rails that supported the stair banister were missing. The exterior of the building looked like it would only take one swing of a wrecking ball to raze it to the ground.

Jackie could smell the pungent odor of boiled cabbage and burnt grease. The stench of stale beer and cheap wine seeped through the walls like a toxic gas. The smell made her slightly sick to her stomach. She could hear televisions turned up too loud and the screams of frustrated parents.

She could imagine the dejected faces behind each locked door. She could feel the misery all around her. It was depressing to imagine having to live under such squalid circumstances. During the course of her career, Jackie had visited hundreds of these apartments in dozens of buildings. They all seemed to exude the same harsh reality, stark hopelessness and fear.

Jackie found the apartment number she was looking for. She knocked on the flimsy wooden door. The door was cracked and peeling with age. It looked like it had seen its share of hard knocks. She heard wood sliding across a linoleum floor. Jackie pictured a chair being pushed back from a kitchen table. Then she heard slow shuffling footsteps. She waited patiently as the person on the other side unlocked two deadbolts. The door opened just enough to see who was on the other side. The heavy security chain was still attached.

No one ever swung a door wide open. They always checked to see who or what was on the other side. The face staring back at Jackie over the chain matched her surroundings, it was covered in pain and void of any hope.

"Mrs. Vasquez?" Jackie asked in a kind tone.

"Who wants to know?" came a distrustful voice.

"I'm Jackie Adams from the Victim's Advocate Office. Can I talk with you for a minute?"

Jackie had learned a couple of very important lessons over the last ten years. The first lesson was never to wish anybody living under these conditions a good morning. That was a sure-fire way to get a door slammed in your face. The second lesson was that kindness and humility went a lot further than authority. She became very good at reading people. But at this point, Jackie was unsure if she would be invited in or not. The woman behind the door was still deciding. Was the woman standing in her doorway there to help her or cause her more grief.

The kindness in Jackie's eyes and a gentle, "Please" tipped the scales in Jackie's favor. The woman unhooked the chain and let Jackie into the small, foul smelling apartment.

### Chapter 20

Ridge watched Jackie's face for a hint of uncertainty. He took a deep breath and thought very carefully about what he was going to say. Was the complete lack of evidence a reason to move forward, or his justification to back away? He was forcing himself to focus on the circumstantial evidence. Evidence that any first-year law student would shoot down in court, without even breaking a sweat.

"I think someone is killing men that beat their wives," Ridge said flatly.

Jackie leaned back in her chair,

"That wasn't so tough, was it?"

"Did it sound as crazy saying it as it did thinking about it?" Ridge asked.

"Yes," Jackie said. Then she added sympathetically,

"But not impossible. Tell me what you think is going on."

Ridge spent the next twenty minutes giving Jackie his gut feeling. He didn't spew out vague time lines or questionable facts. Instead, he painted her an elusive portrait of probabilities. Details so small, that by them-selves they didn't appear to carry any weight. But, combined with the other cases they added up to a collective coincidence. A picture that was almost in focus. When he was finished, Jackie looked across her desk and said,

"That is one hell of a story, Ridge."

"I know," was all he said.

### Chapter 21

Ridge's phone rang. The caller ID showed that it was Betty Carter. He was mildly surprised as he reached for the receiver.

"Detective Ridgeland speaking."

"Good morning Detective, this is Betty Carter. We spoke the other day."

"Yes of course, nice to hear from you," he said with genuine warmth.

There was a slight pause on the line. Ridge could hear Betty having second thoughts about calling him.

"Mrs. Carter," he prompted.

After another moment, she said,

"Detective Ridgeland, I just got a very interesting phone call."

Ridge waited for her to continue.

"It was from an insurance company." Ridge heard the subtle nuance in her voice. There was a very noticeable distinction. She didn't say from our insurance company. Her exact words were from 'an insurance company.' As if it were just some random insurance company calling her. Ridge thought that it sounded unusual, but he tried to reassure her,

"Betty, that's pretty standard procedure in these instances."

There was another short pause.

"The agent asked me when he could bring over my check."

Ridge thought to himself again, standard procedure.

Betty continued, "The check is for one million dollars."

"That is quite a sum of money," he said.

"You don't understand, Detective. My husband did not have a life insurance policy for a million dollars."

Ridge heard the sharp intonation in her voice. He could tell that she knew absolutely nothing about the policy. The information sent his mind spinning. Was there something more disturbing behind her husband's surreptitious death? She continued,

"Also, the agent is from a company that I have never even heard of."

Ridge remained impassive. But, he couldn't help thinking that this was another weird coincidence. In a questioning tone, he asked,

"Are you sure?"

He could hear the irritation on the other end of the line,

"Detective Ridgeland, I took care of all of our financial matters. My husband hasn't written a check in twenty years. We each had a burial policy for fifty thousand dollars. Most of our net worth is tied up in this house and a few modest investments."

Ridge asked Betty if he could be there when the insurance agent brought the check over. She said that she thought that would be a prudent idea. Ridge hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. He breathed a heavy breath and thought to himself, just another bizarre detail.

### Chapter 22

Ridge sat in the kitchen and watched Betty Carter pour two cups of coffee. She was humming softly to herself as she set the bone china cup in front of him. Ridge thought he detected a faint smile on her face. It puzzled Ridge that there was no trace of sadness in her eyes. She looked like a woman who was now set free.

In the back of his mind, Ridge was still thinking about the sight that greeted him when he walked through Betty's front door. The extravagant flowers sitting on a side table were the same ones he had seen last week. Ridge walked over and stood in front of the arrangement. He made a casual comment about how beautiful they were. Betty didn't say a word, she just smiled back at him.

He leaned down and smelled the flowers. He was searching for the handwritten note tucked in among the bright flowers. Ridge slid his fingers underneath the tag and let it rest in the palm of his hand. Betty saw him staring at the note and walked over to where he was standing. Ridge felt her presence and turned in her direction.

"Interesting message," he said.

"Yes," she said. "I called the flower shop they came from. They assured me that there was no mistake."

"Do you know what it means?" he asked.

"No clue," she said, as she turned and headed for the kitchen.

Ridge heard her call back over her shoulder,

"There is a fresh pot of coffee brewing."

After some small talk, Ridge stepped out on a limb. He asked the question that had been eating away at him since they first met.

"Betty, was your husband abusive?"

### Chapter 23

Robert Cooper picked up the file folder lying next to him. It was resting on top of his leather briefcase. He was parked at the curb in front of Betty Carter's house. He was thinking back to their short phone conversation, to him, she sounded both intelligent and confused. It was one of the more puzzling conversations he had ever held with a client. He could not remember having to work so hard to give someone a check. Let alone, a check with that many zeroes.

Over the years, Cooper watched with amazement as beneficiaries were surprised by the size of insurance policies, both good and bad. Wives and children that were not aware of extravagant windfalls. Large sums of money that resulted in tears of joy. There were grateful beneficiaries who were surprised that the policy was larger than they had expected. There were also wives furious with their dead husbands. Woman who discovered that after the body was in the ground, they were literally dead broke. He suspected that there were more than a few graves that were spit upon. Most people fell somewhere in the middle and they were aware of how much life insurance they had.

Cooper had never met someone so unwavering in their conviction. At one point in their conversation, he thought that Betty Clark was going to hang up on him. He could hear the apprehension in her voice. She even hinted that he might be a scam artist, involved in check fraud. She had read about instances where people were promised a large sum of money for a small handling fee.

After several minutes of trying to convince her of his legitimacy, Cooper offered a solution. His suggestion that she ask someone she knew and trusted to attend their meeting. There was a long static silence. Then she asked,

"Would a detective with the Denver PD be okay?"

Robert chuckled to himself. There was a hint of a challenge in her voice. It was an obvious attempt to expose him as a potential con man. His response was relaxed and confident.

"That would be perfect. Would Tuesday at 9:00 am work for you?"

They tentatively agreed on the time, based on her friend's availability. Cooper wished her a good day and hung up the phone. As he placed the phone back in its cradle, he thought with mild amusement, that this was one of the more curious settlements he had been involved in.

Cooper was one of those rare individuals who really did love the insurance business. He was not just some fast talking insurance salesmen out for a quick buck. He wasn't interested in a seat at the million-dollar round table of insurance professionals. Robert Cooper really did believe in his chosen profession. He believed that helping individuals leave behind enough money to secure a family's future was an honorable profession. This virtuous zeal was a direct result of his early life.

Robert Cooper had spent several years being shuffled between foster homes. The foster families were not mean or abusive people. Most were kind-hearted souls trying to help. They provided a much-needed service to an overwhelmed society of thrown away kids. Cooper liked most of the families he stayed with, he just never connected with any of them. That was, until he was adopted.

Bill and Connie Cooper were a warm and caring couple that were unable to have children. They adopted Robert just prior to his seventh birthday. Robert's adoptive parents were what people referred to as "Salt of the earth." They were honest and hard-working and they did their best to instill a sense of right and wrong in young Robert. Bill Cooper had a quiet integrity about him that was as solid as granite.

Robert's fondest memory of his father was an incident that happened at a minor-league baseball game. The Coopers loved attending the local Triple A baseball game on warm summer nights. They sat on the old wooden bleachers and watched every play like it was the seventh game of the World Series. Robert would always sit between his parents with his dad on the left and his mother on the right.

Their game ritual was always the same. The three of them would have a hot dog in the second inning, along with drinks. Mr. Cooper would have a beer, his mother would have a Lemonade, and Robert would have a Coke. It was the only time Mrs. Cooper allowed her two men to have a beer and a Coke. After the hotdogs were devoured, the three of them would break open the king-sized bag of peanuts they had bought on the way to the game. The peanuts usually never made it to the end of the game.

Bill Cooper was a diehard baseball fan. Robert was sure that it had something to do with their last name. Cooper was close to the name of the town where the baseball hall of fame was located, Cooperstown, New York. Robert remembered how his father never missed a trivia question during the games. The announcers would throw out a question and the first person with the correct answer won a prize. Bill Cooper would never jump up and yell out the correct answer. He would just lean over and whisper the answer to Robert. When the announcer would give the answer, Bill Cooper would just look over at Robert and wink. Robert could never remember a time when his father didn't have the correct answer.

The incident that had such a profound impact on Robert involved three college boys, too much alcohol, and some vulgar language. The college boys were sitting a couple rows behind the Coopers. The boys were downing cups of stale ballpark beer at a rate that only frat boys could do. The more they drank, the more vocal they became.

During the third inning, the drunkest of the three dropped the "F" bomb. At first, he said the word just loud enough for his friends and the people around him to hear. As the game progressed, the drunk became bolder. In the middle of the 5th inning the drunk yelled out, "Hit the fucking ball." Bill Cooper looked over his left shoulder. He shot the drunk a look that was more rancorous than anything young Robert had ever seen from his father.

The two frat boys who were on either side of their drunk friend saw the look. One of the boys said something to their friend about dialing it down a notch. That seemed to calm the drunk down for the time being. The calm didn't last long. After another round of liquid courage, the drunk repeated the comment, "Hit the fucking ball."

Robert watched his father's deliberate response. He handed the bag of peanuts to Robert and stood up like he was going to the restroom. After he wiped the small bits of peanut shells off his pants, he looked over at his wife. Robert watched the look they gave each other. It was as if they could read each other's thoughts. His mother had a firm but understanding look on her face. Without saying a word, she was telling her husband to be careful. Bill Cooper nodded his understanding and turned toward the drunk.

Even though the wooden bleachers were at least two feet wide, Bill Cooper took only one step on each of the risers. He stopped when he was face to face with the drunk. The steps were so quick and deliberate they took the boys by surprise. Everyone in the bleachers turned to watch. This was going to be more interesting than the game.

Robert could not ever remember being so scared for his father. Each one of the boys was at least four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than Bill Cooper. They were all younger and in better physical shape. It was safe to say that any one of the boys, by themselves, could have taken the older man. With all eyes on him, Bill Cooper leaned down and said something to the drunk. Even the people seated around the boys could not hear what he said. After he finished speaking, he pulled back and glared into the kid's eyes. After a long moment, Bill Cooper turned and went back to his seat. He grabbed a handful of peanuts and resumed watching the game as if nothing had happened.

After a long minute, the boys stood up and started walking down the steps. The drunk was aided by his two friends. All three of them had their heads down and their eyes averted. As the boys slipped out of the ballpark, the people in the bleachers gave Bill Cooper a standing ovation. The players on the field had no idea what was going on. They had done nothing that would warrant such praise.

About a week after the incident, Robert asked his father what he had said to the drunk. His father shrugged and said,

"I just asked him if he talked like that around his mother."

Bill and Connie Cooper were decent people, with a clear sense of right and wrong. If Robert asked them a question, they did their best to give him a direct answer. His parents did not believe in shading the facts or giving him a narrow version of the truth. This candid honestly stopped at Robert's curiosity about his birth parents. They were not interested in burdening young Robert with the truth about where he had come from and who his parents were.

When Robert was twelve, he had asked his adoptive mother about his birth parents. The look on her face left him wishing that he had not asked the question. He watched her struggle through a series of emotions, everything from pain to anger. Frustration cascaded down her normally tranquil face like tears at a funeral. Her single word answer was barely audible "No." Was all she said.

What Robert heard was an implied, "No, thank God." Her response had left him shaken and a little frightened. He regretted causing her so much pain but her reaction only added to his curiosity. Robert knew there was nothing he could do about his curiosity at the time, but he vowed that someday he would discover the truth. What he discovered was worse than he imagined, and this was part of what drove him to do the things he did.

### Chapter 24

Ridge's question hung in the air like a soft mist. He waited patiently for her to respond. Ridge was sure that he already knew the answer to his question. He was trying to figure out how she would respond. Ridge watched her face for any sign of pain or shame, but there was none.

He had spent enough time with Betty to get a glimpse of her spirit. He could not imagine her breaking down into a sobbing confession. He did not expect her to dodge his question or lie to him. But he hadn't anticipated her reaction to his question. Her head did not drop in nervous humiliation. Her eyes stayed fixed on his without the trace of a single tear. Her face remained calm and relaxed.

Betty took a sip of her coffee and set the cup down without making a sound. She looked at Ridge and answered simply, without any reservation,

"Yes, why do you ask?"

Ridge was not surprised by her answer he was shocked by her indifference. She said it casually, like she was telling him where she did her banking. He was caught off guard by her direct response.

Ridge found himself comparing Betty Clark to the other widows he had interviewed. She was by far the most mature of the woman. She did not seem like the kind of woman that would tolerate an abusive husband.

"Did you ever tell anyone?" he asked.

Ridge could see the muscles around her mouth straining to remain calm. He could tell that the subject was very painful for her. It was a topic that she was both not afraid to admit and hesitant to discuss.

"Who did you talk to?" Ridge asked.

"I called an abuse hotline once."

"Do you remember who you spoke to?" he asked.

Betty gave him a strained smile,

"Mike, what has this got to do with my husband's death?"

"Maybe nothing," was all he said.

### Chapter 25

Ridge believed that one of the great things about being a detective was the indiscriminate way an investigation unfolded. Investigating a crime was not a linear endeavor. The path that traveled from the commission of a crime to a conviction was not a straight line. It was the process of elimination.

Professor Hill made a feeble attempt to simplify his chosen career. After several Heinekens, Hill compared police work to a jigsaw puzzle. Ridge promptly enlightened his slightly inebriated friend. He explained to him that only the simple cases were similar to a jigsaw puzzle.

"A husband comes home early from a business trip. He finds his wife in bed with his best friend. The husband grabs his thirty-eight special and shoots his wife. Then he puts a couple slugs in her lover, he saves one bullet for himself.

"That is what they call an open and shut case," Ridge explained.

"You have a clear picture of what, why, who, and how it happened. In this example, the jigsaw puzzle analogy fits. In fact, it resembles an over-sized kid's puzzles. One of those simple puzzles that has ten to twenty pieces that fit together nice and neat."

Ridge went on to explain,

"Most cases were a little more complicated than that. The jigsaw analogy would be more accurate if the comparison involved three 1000-piece puzzles, mixed together, with the box covers hidden. Also, just to add another degree of difficulty hide some of the key pieces, otherwise known as evidence."

Ridge continued, "Oh, and let's not forget. The perpetrators and the accessories to the crime lie and deceive about every piece of the puzzle. As well as having the courts and the defense lawyers do everything in their power to interfere with the investigation."

### Chapter 26

Ridge was trying to think of an answer to Betty's question. What did the abuse have to do with her husband's death? His explanation was interrupted by a knock at her door. She gave Ridge a cordial smile and excused herself. For once in his career, Ridge was relieved that a line of questioning was cut short.

Ridge heard the front door open. A man introduced himself as Robert Cooper. Cooper greeted Betty in the business tone of a salesman. Ridge heard Betty invite Mr. Cooper in. She said that she hoped it was not a wasted trip. He heard Cooper's voice drop into a low sympathetic murmur. The tone that people used when they expressed their condolences for a personal tragedy.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Carter," he said with a practiced sincerity.

Ridge heard Betty give the customary response. "Thank you."

Then she invited Cooper to follow her into the kitchen. Ridge noticed that there was not the perfunctory moment of silence. That awkward hush that always followed this type of disconsolate exchange.

Betty stepped into the kitchen. There was a curious smile on her face. She looked like someone who was pulled out of the audience during a magic show. The series of surreal events were finally catching up with her. Her husband was dead. There was a detective that seemed a little too interested in her husband's death. And now, there was an insurance agent in her home. An insurance agent with a company she had never heard of.

Robert Cooper followed her into the kitchen. Cooper was a couple inches shy of six feet tall. He had a wispy head of reddish blonde hair. His round friendly face that looked as if it would flush red at the slightest hint of laughter. Cooper was a solid thirty pounds overweight, but he hid it underneath a well-tailored suit.

Ridge stood up and introduced himself. The two men shook hands like they each had a purpose. He noticed the look of absolute certainty on Cooper's face. It was a look that signified that everything was in perfect order.

Cooper set his briefcase down on the floor next to the kitchen island. Then he took a seat to the left of Ridge. Ridge made a mental note of the professional courtesy. Cooper was apparently one of those old-school salesmen. A man that believed in establishing a relationship before he got down to business. His opinion of Robert Cooper climbed up a couple notches.

Betty didn't even bother to ask Cooper how he liked his coffee. She set a cup of black coffee down in front of him. He looked like the type of man that took his coffee black, and she was right. Cooper took a slow sip of the coffee and complimented Betty on the wonderful taste.

Betty regained her composure. When they were all seated, she was the first one of the three that got down to business. The moment she sat down, she folded her hands in front of her and leaned forward. Her eyes narrowed and she asked in a direct no-nonsense intonation,

"Mr. Cooper, please explain to me how my husband could have purchased such a large life insurance policy without me knowing anything about it?"

Cooper set his cup down and took a deep relaxed breath. He explained in detail how she had become the beneficiary of such a large sum of money.

He began by explaining to her that the policy was for five-hundred thousand dollars; however, there was a double indemnity clause in the policy. The policy paid double if the policyholder was killed in a "freak accident." Cooper held up his fingers in air quotes to punctuate the statement.

Betty interrupted him,

"Mister Cooper, when did my husband purchase this policy?"

"Four months ago,"

Ridge jumped into the conversation,

"Mr. Cooper, that seems to be a very short time between a policy being issued and a payout.

Weren't you a little suspicious?"

Cooper hesitated slightly. He looked back and forth between Ridge and Betty. He chose his next words very carefully.

"Detective Ridgeland, despite all of our good intentions, the life insurance industry is based on numbers."

Cooper paused for a moment. He watched to see how his comments were being received. When he saw that they were not visibly upset at his admission, he continued,

"Every insurance company that has ever written a policy has paid out claims to clients that have paid into a policy for twenty or thirty years and then passed away a month after their policy lapsed. By the same token, every company has issued a policy that they have had to pay out mere weeks or months after the policy was issued. Like it or not this industry is based on numbers and the numbers don't lie."

"How many times did you meet with Mr. Carter?" asked Ridge.

"In person?" Cooper asked.

"Yes, face to face."

"None," Cooper said a little sheepishly.

Ridge could see that Cooper was a little embarrassed. He could tell that he was a man that prided himself on having a personal relationship with his customers. This break in professionalism went against his personal beliefs.

Ridge raised his eyebrows in surprise, and asked,

"Is that normal?"

"It's not abnormal, just a little out of the ordinary. We have clients that are extremely busy, they prefer to do business with as little human contact as possible."

"What about a physical?" asked Ridge.

"Doesn't your company require a physical for a policy of that size?"

"Five-hundred thousand dollars is the maximum amount of life insurance a person can purchase through our company without having to have a physical."

"What about your client signing all of the appropriate documents?" asked Ridge.

"If all the documents are properly signed and notarized, the transaction is perfectly legal," Said Cooper.

"How was the policy paid for?" asked Betty.

"Six months in advance," responded Cooper.

"By a check?" Betty asked.

There was a glimmer of hope that she would have some solid evidence that the policy was invalid.

"A cashier's check," said Cooper.

"Do you remember the bank where the cashier's check was purchased?" asked Ridge.

Cooper opened the file folder and flipped through some pages. He stopped when he reached a photo copy of the cashier's check. It was made out in the amount of one thousand and eighty-four dollars and sixty-seven cents. The name stamped in raised gold letters across the front of the check was First Guarantee Bank of Colorado. Cooper slid the photocopy across the table so that Betty could read the document for herself.

Betty turned to Ridge as if she were confirming what she already knew.

"That is not a bank that we do business with," she said firmly.

Ridge leaned back in his chair and thought about what he was hearing. Despite his conviction that the deaths were suspicious, he believed that the insurance policy in front of Betty was legitimate. He decided to proceed under the assumption that Betty's husband had indeed purchased the policy. Ridge entertained the notion that if Mr. Carter had decided to commit suicide, this would have been the best way to hide the evidence.

"It seems that Mr. Carter went out of his way to keep this policy secret?" Ridge asked.

"Someone with a suspicious nature might see it that way," said Cooper.

Ridge picked up on the slight jab at his skepticism and smiled back cordially.

"How often do clients prefer to do business this way?" asked Ridge.

"Not very often, but it seems to be on the increase as people become more time conscious. Hell, this is the fourth million-dollar policy that I have paid out this year without ever meeting the policyholder face to face."

This little piece of information grabbed his attention like someone calling his name across a crowded auditorium. Ridge shifted in his chair and tried not to show his sudden interest in Cooper's last comment. He looked like a man who had just received insider information on a hot stock. They noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor.

Cooper took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair. He looked at Ridge for a long minute, then he said,

"Detective Ridgeland, why do I get the feeling that you are here as more than just a friend of Mrs. Carter's?"

Ridge sipped his coffee and gave Cooper an elusive smile. The look conveyed an inflexible bearing that no amount of charm would penetrate. Cooper knew that his comment had peaked the detectives interest. He also knew that the detective would have more questions for him, just not right now.

After a long minute of silence, Cooper reached down and picked up his leather briefcase. He laid it on the table in front of him and snapped open the gold latches. He opened the well-worn case without any ceremony.

To Robert Cooper, this was the definition of the term bittersweet. Handing someone a check in exchange for a dead relative was the ultimate irony. Cooper pulled a yellow file folder out of the case and closed his briefcase. Then he slid the file across the table in front of Betty. He pointed to the highlighted lines on the document where she needed to sign, initial, and date.

Ridge watched Betty thumb through the documents like she was looking for something. Anything that would give her a clue to how she could have missed such a huge disparity. She scanned the documents from top to bottom looking for something that would explain this anomaly. Betty paid particularly close attention to where her husband had signed the original policy. When she reached the last page of the policy her eyes stopped scanning the document. She leaned forward and her eyes narrowed. Her expression changed into a mix of satisfaction and regret. She dropped the paper on the table and looked at Cooper.

"Mister Cooper, my husband did not take out this policy."

Cooper folded his arms across his chest and smiled sardonically,

"Mrs. Carter, never in my twenty-nine years as an insurance professional have I had so much trouble trying to pay a claim."

"I'm sorry Mr. Cooper, I just don't believe that my husband was responsible for taking out an insurance policy of this size."

Ridge interrupted, "Betty, what makes you so sure that your husband did not purchase this policy?"

"His signature," she said.

Cooper repeated in a questioning tone, "His signature?"

Betty stood up from the table and excused herself. Then she walked out of the kitchen without saying a word. Ridge and Cooper looked at each other with mild surprise. Cooper shrugged his shoulders in disbelief. They could hear her in the next room. She opened a file cabinet and was riffling through their files. They heard the file cabinet slam shut, followed by the sound of her hurried footfalls coming down the hall. When she reappeared in the doorway, she was holding a file folder. She came around to where Cooper was sitting and placed the folder next to the file. Betty pointed at the two signatures laying side by side. She stated emphatically,

"Do you see what I mean?"

The two men stared at the signatures for a long minute and then at each other, they shared the same bewildered look. Ridge spoke first,

"Betty, they look identical," he said.

Betty breathed a heavy sigh of indignation,

"That is my point, they are too perfect."

"Mrs. Carter, I don't get your point." Cooper said, a little confused.

"The point is, my husband never signed his name the same way twice in his entire life."

Cooper asked slowly and deliberately,

"Mrs. Carter, are you turning down a million-dollar insurance settlement because your husband's signature is too perfect?"

"No, I'm telling you that there is something odd about this entire thing."

Cooper started to say something but Betty cut him off. She turned to face Ridge.

"Mike, if my suspicions are wrong, would you please explain to me why a detective has taken such an interest in an apparent accident?"

Ridge leaned back in his chair and rested his fingers on the edge of the table. He was deciding how much he wanted to admit. Ridge remembered an old axiom that his father used to recite,

"Two people could keep a secret if one of them was dead."

### Chapter 27

The number of people who Ridge shared his theory with was already too large. This list included his drinking buddy, Professor Hill. Ridge could defend sharing his suspicions with Hill as a legal consultation. He could justify confiding in Audrey was a medical consultation. And lastly, speaking with Jackie Adams, could be considered inter-office cooperation.

Ridge tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. There was no way in hell he was going to tell these two civilians what he really believed. He could see the wild speculation growing on their faces. Ridge decided that it was best to remind them of a few facts.

"Betty, for the moment, let's just stick to what we know," Ridge said evenly.

Betty gave him a wary look and waited patiently.

"First, there isn't an ounce of real evidence that what happened to your husband was anything but an accident. Second, I suspect that Mr. Cooper has no doubt that the insurance policy in front of you is one-hundred percent legitimate."

Ridge turned to Cooper for confirmation. Cooper nodded in agreement.

Ridge continued, "And lastly, what possible reason would anyone have for going to all this trouble? Especially when you are the sole beneficiary of your husband's death."

Ridge let Betty think about that for a moment, then he continued,

"It has been my experience that crimes are committed for one of only a couple reasons. None of those intentions included an altruistic motive for someone else, especially to the tune of one million dollars."

Cooper took the opportunity to add his two cents worth,

"Mrs. Carter, I agree with Detective Ridgeland. I know that it may be hard to believe. But it appears that your husband went to all this trouble for your benefit."

Betty's face hardened.

"That's the part that is so hard to believe." she said coldly.

Ridge asked, "Betty, which part is so hard to believe?"

"That my husband went to all this trouble for my benefit."

Cooper watched her very closely. He slid the check across the table.

"Betty, you can do whatever you like with this money. You can donate the entire amount to your favorite charity. But I don't see anything illegal or immoral about a legitimate policy that names you as the beneficiary."

She picked up the check and stared at it. Ridge and Cooper exchanged a glance, they both suspected that she might tear it into pieces. After a long minute, Betty set the check down and reached for the insurance papers. She picked up a pen and signed the copies without the slightest hesitation. When she finished, she slid the papers back across the table and asked Cooper if he wanted more coffee.

Cooper declined the offer. He explained that he had another client to see. He slid the papers back into his briefcase and snapped the locks shut. Cooper stood up and thanked her for her hospitality. He wanted to get out before she changed her mind.

Ridge stood up and told Cooper that he would walk him out. He was sure that Ridge had a few more questions for him, questions he didn't want to ask in front of Betty.

### Chapter 28

Audrey lay stretched out on her bed, face down and naked under a thin silk sheet. The sheet barely covered her slender body. It lay from the small of her back to just above her left knee. Her head was resting on Mike's chest. And her dark blonde hair was spread out in every direction. She was moving her fingers in slow circles across his chest. Ridge was slowly sliding his hand up and down the small of her back. Occasionally, his fingers slid under the sheet and over her perfect bottom. Every time his hand slid under the sheet, he felt her body shudder. She let out a slight giggle and tugged at a finger full of his chest hair, Audrey scolded him playfully,

"You better not let Charlie see you doing that, you could wind up with another collection of claw marks up your back."

Charlie was Audrey's six-year-old tabby cat. She had rescued him from a shelter, and he was as protective as any guard dog.

"Charlie can get his own girl," Ridge teased, as he squeezed a small handful of her flesh. This sent Audrey into a fit of laughter. She wriggled out of his grasp and jumped on him like she was trying to hold him down. Ridge didn't put up a fight as she pinned his arms over his head. Charlie would have been extremely jealous if he could see what was going on behind the closed door.

Thirty minutes later they were standing in the kitchen. They were both wearing plush bath robes, and nothing else. They were laughing at the way Charlie was staring at Ridge. He looked like a jealous ex-boyfriend. Ridge was working on a couple of Italian omelets. Audrey was sitting on the counter with her bare feet resting on the island. She was sipping a glass of white wine and admiring the man standing at her stove.

"You don't look as stressed as you did earlier tonight'" Audrey said.

"A good steak and a couple of cold beers will do that for a guy," Ridge said, smiling a devious little smile.

"Is that all?" she said, sliding her bare foot off the island. She was intending on poking him in the ribs with a bright red toenail.

Ridge could feel the strike coming. He reached his right hand around and grabbed her foot just before it reached his ribs. She laughed and tried to pull her foot back, but it was too late. He had a firm grip on her delicate foot, and he was going to have a little fun at her expense. Ridge tightened his grip and gave her foot a couple gentle tugs. She gripped the counter with her finger tips and laughed harder. She knew that he would not pull hard enough to slide her off the counter. But he continued to pretend as if that was exactly what he was going to do. Ridge set the spatula down on the counter and took hold of her long slender leg with both hands. He moved toward her with both hands sliding up her leg. When he was close enough to kiss her, she let go of the counter and threw both of her arms around his neck.

"If I go down, you're going down with me," she laughed in triumph.

"It would be worth it," he said.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she asked, nodding in the direction of the stove.

Ridge didn't even bother to look over his shoulder at the two omelets slowly sautéing on the stove. He stared into her eyes like he was weighing the options, overdone omelets or landing on the floor with Audrey on top of him. He didn't have to wait long. She let go of his neck and pushed him toward the stove,

"Get back to work, I'm hungry and you need the nourishment," she said with a wink.

They sat at the kitchen island, devouring the omelets and talking about their day. Audrey asked Ridge how his case was going. He took a bite of his omelet and thought about the meeting with Cooper and Betty. He was more certain than ever that the four murders were connected. Audrey noticed that he used the word murder. It was the first time Ridge had identified the deaths as murders since he had shared his suspicions with her.

Ridge told Audrey about the curbside meeting with Robert Cooper. He related the look of shock on Cooper's face when he asked him a question. Cooper could not speak. His mouth was moving but nothing was coming out. The words were more of a statement than a question, like he already knew the answer. Ridge turned to Cooper and asked,

"Were the last names of the other three million-dollar policies Collins, Harper, and Rodriquez?"

Ridge watched Cooper, both his jaw and his briefcase dropped to the ground. They were the names on the other policies. When Cooper finally regained his composure, he asked,

"How in the hell did you know that?"

Ridge answered simply, "Just a hunch."

"Detective Ridgeland, hunches like that could make you a rich man in Las Vegas."

Ridge made Cooper promise not to share this information with anyone else. He informed Cooper that he might need to speak with him later. The two men exchanged business cards and Ridge got in his car and left. Cooper sat in his car and wondered what in the hell was going on.

### Chapter 29

Audrey asked him what he planned on doing with this new information. Ridge told her that he was going to start by re-interviewing the other three widows. He spent most of the afternoon trying to track them down. All of them, except Mrs. Rodriquez had changed their phone numbers and moved to a new address. It required a little police work to locate two of the women. They all seemed to be very busy and none of them were very interested in talking to him. He explained to Audrey that he had to use all his charm to convince them to speak to him. Audrey laughed at the charm comment, but he just winked at her and asked,

"It worked on you, didn't it?"

Audrey waved her hand through the air in a dismissive gesture.

"Actually, it was the bulge in your running shorts that won me over."

Ridge shot back a smile and said, "You mean my badge?"

Audrey laughed and kicked him under the table.

"To be honest, the charm only worked on two of the women. I had to threaten to send a couple of uniformed cops to escort Mrs. Rodriquez to the police station before she would agree to meet with me."

"It sounds like they have all moved on quite nicely with their lives," Audrey suggested.

Ridge thought about Audrey's comment and said casually,

"I guess I will see how well adjusted they are, when I meet with them."

PART 2: ALEX

### Chapter 30

Alex stood behind a man waiting on the train platform. The man was reading the morning paper and waiting for the light rail train. The man was in his mid-forties. He looked moderately successful in an anxious sort of manner. Beside him was a leather briefcase with the initials B.C. stamped on the outside flap. He gave off an air of arrogance that was almost as strong as his cologne. The man also exuded a "stay the hell away from me" vibe to the people around him. He was clearly not interested in any chit chat.

Alex spent weeks watching him for the perfect opportunity to strike. Most of his little quirks and habits were written down in a pocket notebook. The man always arrived each morning at exactly seven-thirty, and he usually stood in the same place on the light rail platform.

Alex smiled at how uncomplicated this was going to be. The other three men had required much more planning and calculation. They were not as dependable as mister arrogant.

The first target, Brandon Collins, was the most difficult of the four. Not just because he was the first, but because Collins was erratic in his daily routine. The only part of Collin's schedule that was consistent was that he was a runner. He ran at least three days per week, always on Wednesday morning, always at the crack of dawn, and always on the Platte River Trail.

After bicycling the trail every afternoon for a week, Alex had devised the perfect plan to murder Brandon Collins. The Platte River Trail was a bike and jogging path that wound its way down the west side of Denver. It ran alongside main streets and through city parks. It traversed the Platte River on artistic bridges and under old railroad tracks. The trail had open stretches where you could see for more than a mile as well as secluded areas hidden from sight.

Alex identified four spots along the trail that were excellent possibilities; However, there was one stretch of trail that was perfect. It was a section of trail that could not be seen from any of the roads or bridges along the trail. There was also a gentle curve in the trail that provided a clear view in both directions. In addition to the secluded landscape, there was a huge elm tree that acted as a canopy over the trail. Alex was sure that the Platte River Trail was not under any regular air surveillance lane, but there was no sense in taking any chances. There were a couple of additional advantages to this location. First, the Elm trees roots reached underneath the trail. The sturdy roots pushed the asphalt up into an abnormal rise in the trail. This rise could cause a serious accident to anyone not paying attention to where they were jogging. The second bonus was a large rock sticking out of the grass just past the elm tree. The rock could be made to look like the final blow that killed Brandon Collins.

A couple of days before the murder Alex found a tree limb that was the perfect size and shape of a small baseball bat. Then Alex attached a softball sized rock to the limb with an old piece of hemp twine. Presto, the oldest and crudest weapon known to man. Only this weapon did not require a background check or a sales receipt. The crude weapon was hidden in the tall grass next to the trail.

The morning of the attack, Alex dressed up in a collection of old clothes. The used clothing was purchased from a secondhand store thirty-miles north of Denver. There was a mismatch of colors, textures, and designs that made it impossible for anyone to tell if the vagrant was a man or a woman. The deception was topped off by a shopping cart piled high with a collection of odd junk. The manufactured fraud gave the impression that Alex was a well-traveled homeless person.

Fifteen minutes before the planned attack, Alex lingered about twenty feet from the elm tree. With the appearance of a homeless vagrant digging through a cart full of junk and mumbling incoherently. Alex was stalling for time until Collins came jogging up the trail. His legs pumping and his ear buds blasting some techno-trash music. Alex watched the trail with the help of a bicyclist's mirror attached to an old pair of reading glasses.

Thirty seconds before the murder, Alex watched a man in a familiar running outfit jogging around the bend in the trail. The mirror view gave the perfect image of Brandon Collins jogging up the trail from behind Alex. The timing was going to be very close. Alex dropped some cans in the cart and began pushing the cart along the trail. It looked like Collins was running faster than his normal pace, Alex picked up the pace a little. The reflection in the mirror showed the contempt on Brandon Collins' face. It looked like he was going to reach the elm tree just ahead of the homeless bum.

Alex breathed in and breathed out, slowly and deliberately. Taking in each breath like it was a fine wine to be savored and appreciated. Alex's heart rate was slow and rhythmic, without a trace of anxiety or fear. About three feet from the elm tree, Alex maneuvered the shopping cart to the left side of the trail. This would force Collins to stay to the right of the shopping cart.

Alex checked the mirror to see how close Collins was, or if there was anyone else coming up the trail. Just before Collins reached the elm tree Alex's two slender hands wrapped around the crude weapon. Alex's fingers tightened around the limb. There was one last look in both directions to make sure no one was around. Alex could hear his running shoes hitting the trail and heavy breathing coming from Collins.

The moment of impact, Alex's body tightened as the weapon exploded out of the shopping cart. The weapons trajectory curved in an upward arc from left to right. The oldest weapon in all of history found its mark. The rock struck Collins dead center in the middle of his forehead. The impact buckled his knees and he went down like he had been shot with a 50-caliber sniper rifle. His body went limp and he was dead before his body hit the ground.

The plan unfolded perfectly. It could not have been more perfect if Steven Spielberg himself had set up the shot on a Hollywood sound stage. Collins hit the ground with his head resting against the rock that was protruding from the grass. Alex didn't even need to reposition the body closer to the rock. The murder looked so natural that the police investigators would later blame the rock for his tragic death.

Alex glanced around to make sure no one had witnessed the attack. The crude weapon was slid back into the shopping cart. Alex slumped over the shopping cart and moved down the trail as if nothing had happened. Farther down the trail, the rock and the limb disappeared into the underbrush at fifty-yard intervals. The shopping cart ended up in the Platte River another half a mile from there. The second-hand clothes were dropped in a Goodwill donation bin on the other side of Denver. The only evidence that Alex was on the trail that day was the corpse of Brandon Collins.

### Chapter 31

Ridge pressed the door chime and took a step backward. He wanted the person on the other side of the door to get a non-threatening view of him. The hand crafted front door looked to be made from either cherry or teak. Ridge could tell that the door jams was fitted with reinforced steel, an extra security precaution. There was also a very expensive surveillance camera mounted to the oak rafters just above the front door. Someone had gone to great lengths to safeguard the person living here.

Tonya Collins had clearly moved up the economic ladder. The apartment where he first met her was nice, but nowhere near as lavish as this place. Her new home was a step up on the social and economic ladder. It appeared that with the tragic death of her husband, Tonya Collins had moved into the one percent club.

Ridge rang the buzzer again. He thought that he heard movement behind the door. Then he saw the peep hole darken. The person on the other side of the door watched him for a long minute. He guessed that she was deciding if she was going to open the door. Just as Ridge was about to press the buzzer again, he could hear two deadbolts sliding back, and the door mechanism turning. The door flew open wide, as if she was not watching him for the last minute. Like she had no qualms about seeing Detective Ridgeland again.

The woman standing in the doorway barely resembled the same woman he interviewed eight months ago. Tonya Collins looked like she had spent the last eight months at a health spa. She was wearing a pink tennis outfit that showed off her tanned legs. Her bare arms looked toned from hours in the gym, and the lines of pain and stress were gone from her face.

Ridge remembered thinking that she was attractive the first time he had met her. That attractiveness had matured into a dazzling beauty. Tonya Collins now bordered on drop dead gorgeous. The stress lines and wrinkles around her eyes were gone. Her hair looked a little lighter shade of blonde and her eyes were a deeper shade of blue. It wasn't just her new look that surprised him. She had a buoyant self-assurance about her.

"Detective Ridgeland, how nice to see you again," Tonya said sweetly.

She extended her hand like she was presenting it to royalty. They shook hands and Ridge noticed that every fingernail was perfectly manicured. Her smile was bright and confident. If she was putting on an act, it was a hell of a performance.

Just when Ridge thought she was going to release his hand, Tonya pulled him inside the apartment. She laughed at the startled look on his face. There was something dramatically different about her. Tanya let go of his hand and took hold of his arm. She turned and led him through the condo like she was giving him the grand tour of her new place.

The stylish condo had an open airy feeling to it. It reminded Ridge of a beach house on some exotic Island. The walls and ceiling were painted eggshell white. Most of the walls were bare, except a few black and white photos on three of the walls. There was a gas fireplace at one end of the living room. On either side of the fireplace were double French doors that opened into the master bedroom. The fireplace was accessible to both the living room and the master bedroom.

The kitchen was in a class all by itself. It sat above the living room on its own elevated platform. It resembled a stage, where guests sitting in the living room could watch a gourmet meal being prepared. Tonya told Ridge that she was taking cooking classes at a local culinary school. She pictured herself cooking for an audience someday, like Rachael Ray.

Ridge looked around the condo with genuine admiration. From its off-white walls to the twenty-foot vaulted ceiling, the condo looked like it belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest magazine.

In one corner of the living room, there was a spiral staircase. The polished iron stairs wound their way up to a balcony that overlooked the living area. The secluded area appeared to be a home office. The vaulted ceiling contained three massive skylights that faced the southern sky. The skylights bathed the secluded space with the warm mid-day sun. There was an expensive telescope sitting along one wall. The office also contained two floor-to-ceiling bookcases. They were filled with hard bound books, old albums, and crystal figurines of angels. In the middle of the room was an ornate desk with a high-tech computer system. The last piece of furniture was an over-sized chair in the middle of the office. The chair looked like the perfect place to curl up and read a good book.

Tonya interrupted his admiration of her condo,

"I just made some iced tea; would you like a glass?"

Ridge thanked her and wandered around the condo as she prepared their tea. He studied the condo like he was examining a crime scene. Without thinking about it, Ridge's eyes scanned the apartment for anything that jumped out at him. His eyes skimmed across end tables and over the fireplace mantle. He mentally recorded book shelves and secluded corners for inconsistencies. The thing that jumped out at him were not the things that were there, but the things that were not.

There were no photos of Tanya's late husband anywhere in the condominium. None of them together or of just her husband. Ridge also noticed that there was no furniture from their previous apartment. Not a single piece of furniture, trinket, or decoration had made it into her new home.

"I like your new place," he said, sincerely.

Her back was turned, but he heard her say sadly,

"I needed a change."

Ridge heard her voice trail off into a sigh. He could hear the unfinished admission in her voice.

Tanya turned around. She was holding two crystal glasses of iced tea.

"Let's go out on the balcony. The view is spectacular this time of day," she said with a warm smile as all the sadness vanished from her voice.

They sat on the balcony sipping their tea and admiring the view of the Rocky Mountains. A slight breeze was blowing across the balcony. Willowing strands of Tonya's blonde hair danced over her eyes and across her tanned face. Ridge caught the faint scent of her perfume, he was having a tough time concentrating. He took a long drink of his tea and gathered his thoughts.

Tanya noticed the shift in his demeanor. She gave him a disarming smile.

"So, Detective Ridgeland, to what do I owe this visit?"

"Mrs. Collins?" he began, but she interrupted him.

"Shearer," she said with a disarming smile.

"Excuse me?" Ridge asked.

"It's Shearer, I changed my name back to my maiden name."

Then she added sweetly, "But please, call me Tanya."

"Okay, Tanya, were you aware that your husband had a one-million-dollar life insurance policy on himself?" Ridge asked.

Tanya kept her eyes fixed on Ridge. She said slowly and intentionally,

"I was not aware that you knew my husband had a million-dollar policy on himself."

Ridge gave a slight laugh and admitted,

"Sorry, occupational hazard. Cops dig up a lot of useless information during an investigation."

"Considering that it was the first question you asked me, I'm pretty sure that it was not useless information," she said with just a hint of cynicism.

Ridge gave Tanya a smile and conceded her point. He let the moment pass and repeated his question,

"So, did you know about the policy?"

Tanya relaxed her entire body. She leaned back into her chair and looked out across the tops of the buildings. Ridge could almost see the snow-capped mountains reflecting in her eyes. She looked like she had completely forgotten that he was sitting five feet away.

Without looking back at Ridge, she said,

"Mike, there were a lot of things that I didn't know about my husband."

This was not the first time Ridge had interviewed Tonya. However, it was the first time that she called him by his first name. The familiar tone in her voice gave him the impression that she was confiding in him.

He sat silently and waited for her to sort through her thoughts. He sipped his tea and watched her with open fascination. Her eyes were wet with tears. She was on the verge of crying. The expression on her face softened into a look of melancholy. Ridge saw her entire body heave a weighty sigh. After several long moments, she turned back toward him.

"Detective Ridgeland, my husband insisted on handling all of our financial matters."

"Didn't you think that two policies were a little strange?" Ridge asked.

"I did when the insurance agent called me," she said casually.

"Did Robert Cooper deliver the check in person?" Ridge asked.

"Yes, he did."

Tanya saw the intent look in his eyes. She had just confirmed that Robert Cooper was the insurance agent that had written the policy.

"How much did you know about the two policies?" Ridge asked.

"Well, there was the basic life insurance policy that was part of his benefits package at work.

And the five-hundred-thousand-dollar policy you asked me about."

Ridge caught the discrepancy between the face values of the two policies.

"Excuse me, you just said five-hundred thousand dollars. I thought that the second policy was for one million dollars?"

He already knew the answer, but he wanted her to explain the difference of the two amounts. Tanya smiled at him like she had caught a five-year-old child with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Detective Ridgeland, are you going to pretend that you didn't know that the second policy was a five-hundred-thousand-dollar policy? And the policy contained a double indemnity rider, in case my husband was the victim of a freak accident?"

Ridge made a mental note. Tanya used the exact same words that Betty Carter had used to describe her husband's death, 'freak accident.' He gave her a temperate grin and said,

"Sorry, occupational hazard. Never ask a question that you don't already know the answer to."

"Doesn't that little trick only apply to attorneys?" she asked.

"Where do you think lawyers stole that from?" Ridge said with a devious smirk.

Then he said in the official tone of a detective,

"Miss Shearer, didn't you know that all cops secretly want to be lawyers?"

Tanya gave him a knowing look.

"So, I've heard," Tanya said deliberately.

Ridge watched a smile spread across her face.

"The lawyers that I work with talk about an incident that happened at the Denver University Law School."

She saw a subtle shift in his demeanor.

"Apparently, there was one hell of an argument between a law professor and a cop that was attending DU."

Tanya noticed a perceptible gleam in his deep brown eyes. She continued,

"They say that a lecture concerning the second amendment became a heated discussion. The discussion became an argument, and the argument devolved into a screaming match."

"Sounds like a good story, how did it end?" Ridge asked slyly.

"Evidently, the argument stunned the entire class. It even attracted the attention of a few students walking by the class. Just when the onlookers thought that they should call campus security, something very bizarre happened. The two men burst out laughing and walked out of the class together."

"Sounds a little far-fetched," Ridge said.

"There were a couple hundred witnesses," she said candidly.

"How much confidence can you have in a room full of law students?" Ridge asked slyly.

She gave him a conspiratorial glance, and continued, "When a handful of students recovered from their shock, they ran out of the classroom and into the commons area. They were not sure what they would find. The cop and their professor were nowhere to be found. Although, one of the students swears that he saw the two men walking into a bar across from the campus."

"I have heard that story," Ridge said satirically.

Tanya could tell that he knew more than he was willing to admit. She had worked in the legal system long enough to know that cops and lawyers always held back. They never gave you the whole story until they were ready to. That is, until they slapped a pair of handcuffs on you or delivered their closing argument in front of a jury of your peers. She let the moment pass. Tanya knew that he would not tell her what was behind his wry smile even if she asked.

Ridge could see that she was thinking about asking him a question. The look disappeared when she took another sip of her tea and looked out over the city. Ridge decided to take the conversation in another direction.

"So, you're still working at the law firm?" he asked.

"Yes, I have to work. I would go crazy if I didn't have something to look forward to every day," she said.

"Are they a good firm to work for?" he asked.

"'They are better than most. They pay me well and the work is rewarding. Besides, cops aren't the only people that secretly want to be lawyers."

Ridge laughed and tipped his glass in her direction. Then he said casually,

"Were both insurance policies with the same company?"

"No, the work policy was with a major insurance company and the mystery policy was purchased through a company that I have never heard of before."

"Could your husband have purchased additional coverage through his work?" Ridge asked.

Tanya looked at Ridge like the absurdity of having two different policies with two different companies had never occurred to her.

"I'm sure that he could have purchased more insurance through his employer if he had wanted to,"' she said offhandedly.

"Why do you think that he chose not to do that?" Ridge asked.

Tanya shrugged and said,

"I don't know. My husband was guilty of some very odd behavior at times."

The cop inside of Ridge was screaming to seize on Tanya's last comment.

The thing that stopped him was a nagging thought in the back of his mind. A thought that had been growing over the last two days. What if he was right? What if there was someone behind the death of the four men who were abusing their wives? And the thing that bothered him most was how this would affect the four women whose husbands were now dead. Did it serve any purpose to discover that they were the victims of abuse? Would the discovery subject them to more abuse?

### Chapter 32

Ridge was positive that the four widows had no direct link to the murders of their husbands. That is if there really was a person or several people behind the murders. How would this discovery help the women recover from the hell they had already been through? What purpose would it serve to expose their personal tragedy in the public arena? If what he suspected was true, this type of case would become a very public story. It would be the kind of salacious exposé that would make it into every newspaper in the country as well as the trash tabloids and the cable media circus. These four women would have their fifteen minutes of fame, but only the least desirable fame imaginable.

The second question that he kept asking himself was more of a practical reality. If Ridge discovered who was behind the murders, would the insurance company want their million-dollar payouts returned, based on fraud?

Also, would the insurance company not only go after the money, would they charge the women criminally as accessories or co-conspirators to fraud?

These questions were starting to set up an internal conflict that plagued him and every other cop that had ever taken the Law Enforcement Oath of Honor.

'On my honor, I will never betray my badge, my character, or the public trust. I will always have the courage to hold myself and others accountable for their actions. And, I will always uphold the constitution, my community, and the agency I serve.'

The segment of the oath that he was currently struggling with was the part about holding others accountable for their actions. Ridge had no problem holding himself accountable. He had always held himself to an incorruptible standard, that was easy. His struggle focused on how far he should go to hold another person accountable, especially when the person was guilty as hell.

Ridge could hear Professor Hill's refined intellectual voice telling him that it was not his job as a cop to hold criminals accountable for their actions. That is the court's responsibility. Hill would declare that a cop's job was to simply investigate a crime, collect evidence, and deliver a potential suspect to the bowels of that grinding bureaucratic machine known as the courts. In a nutshell, show up, gather up, write up, and clean up the mess.

As much as Ridge loved and respected his friend, he was certain that Professor Hill had never been called out in the middle of the night where an eighteen-month old baby had been beaten to death by the mother's boyfriend for crying too loudly. And Ridge was positive that his good friend had never looked into the shattered face of a fifteen-year-old girl who was gang raped by a group of juvenile thugs as part of a gang initiation.

Ridge knew with absolute certainty that the fifteen-year-old girl didn't give a damn why a group of punks had decided to rape her. She couldn't care less what personal or societal factors led to her being gang raped and beaten.

Ridge despised hearing defense attorneys argue that their client was a victim of his environment. Nothing sent his blood pressure higher than listening to a lawyer refer to a rapist as a victim of society. All the excuses and justifications were just that: justifications. Shifting blame onto society and justifying criminal behavior by absolving the criminal of any responsibility was almost as reprehensible as the crime itself in Ridge's book.

According to his friend, there were a thousand shades of gray separating guilt and innocence. Ridge understood that there were mitigating circumstances surrounding most crimes of passion. The distinction came down to intent. Any crime that was planned and executed implied a degree of evil.

Ridge recalled hearing two politicians arguing about the line between right and wrong. One of the politicians had remarked, "There is a fine line between right and wrong." The other politician shot back, "Yes, but there is a line there."

Ridge recognized the gray area between right and wrong. In his opinion, the gray area consisted of lawyers that were selective about the facts and flexible with the truth. His frustration was not solely reserved for defense attorney's. Prosecution lawyers were just as guilty of legal manipulation as defense attorney's.

Maybe Shakespeare had it right when he wrote,

"The first thing we do, let's kill all of the lawyers."

Over the years, Ridge had asked himself at least a million times, where does the legal system end and justice begin? He remembered the famous story about Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. reprimanding a young lawyer in his court for repeatedly demanding justice for his client. Justice Holmes informed the young lawyer,

"Young man, let me remind you that this is a court of law and not a court of justice."

Ridge decided to bury this internal philosophical debate in the back of his mind and concentrate on gathering the facts. He decided that this would require two distinct courses of action. First, he would finish speaking to the rest of the widows before he came to any conclusions. And second, he would spend a couple of hours debating the legal and moral intricacies of the legal system with Professor Hill, over a couple of cold beers, of course.

### Chapter 33

Ridge rattled the ice cubes in his glass and drained the last of the tea. Then he stood and waited for his hostess to do the same. As a way of excusing himself he added,

"I better get going. I have another meeting at ten-thirty on the other side of town."

Tanya didn't move. She remained seated with her long legs crossed. She looked up at him like she was not ready to let him leave.

"Did you learn anything, Detective Ridgeland?"

"I'm not sure," he said.

Tanya smiled up at him and thanked him for his honest answer. Then she stood up and walked through the open glass doors and into the kitchen. Ridge followed her and set his empty glass down on the kitchen counter. They shook hands and Ridge turned toward the front door, then he saw it.

Sitting on a shelf next to the end of her kitchen cabinet was a porcelain figurine of an angel. Hanging around the slender neck of the angel was a pink thread with a small yellow card attached to the string. There were two words written on the card. Ridge was not close enough to read the words. He didn't have to read them. He recognized the handwriting.

### Chapter 34

Detective Ridgeland's next meeting was with the widow of the third victim. The man found with his bloody corpse slumped across a table-saw. The reception he received on this visit was a lot chillier than his previous two interviews. He recalled that the first two interviews with Mrs. Rodriquez was filled with the typical reactions he expected from someone who had just lost a spouse. Ridge also noticed that Mrs. Rodriquez exhibited the same look of relief that the other women had shown, but there was a harder edge to her relief. She seemed both relieved and bitter about her husband's death.

Camille Rodriquez opened the front door of her compact little house in the Glendale section of Denver. She was not smiling and her overall demeanor seemed to be even harder than their previous two meetings. There was a heavy screen door between her and Ridge and he could see the hook that held the door closed was resting in its eyelet. The short stout woman on the other side of the screen door did not appear to be interested in removing the latch and allowing Detective Ridgeland to enter her home.

Ridge gave her a warm smile and asked her if she remembered him. She nodded her head up and down but did not utter a word of recognition. He could see that the woman standing in front of him was not the least bit interested in talking to him. She was even less interested in inviting him into her home. Ridge placed his fingers on the handle of the screen door like he hadn't noticed that the door was still latched.

"May I come in?" he asked.

She made no move to unlatch the door. Ridge kept his fingers resting on the handle waiting for her to relent. After a long pause, he heard movement from inside the house. From the dark hallway behind Mrs. Rodriquez, a man appeared. The man standing behind her was at least three inches taller than Ridge. He filled the hallway like a linebacker for the NFL. The huge man possessed the same dark features and the same stout frame as Camille. He was at least ten years younger than Camille, and if not for the difference in their ages they could have been twins.

Ridge gave the door handle another little tug and asked Mrs. Rodriquez if he could come in for a couple minutes. The huge man in the doorway cut him off.

"You can say what you came to say where you stand," he said with a snarl in his voice.

Ridge dismissed the comment and kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Rodriquez. He considered his next words very carefully. He wanted to let her know that he was not her enemy. Ridge knew that she would not believe for a minute that the cop standing on the other side of the screen door would ever be her friend, but he also didn't want her to think that he was there to do her any harm.

"Camille, this will only take a minute. I am not here to take away what you were owed."

He could tell that his words had elicited the desired effect. She could tell by the look in his eyes that he knew about the insurance settlement. Ridge was doing his best to let her know that he was not interested in exposing her sudden wealth, something that she was doing a pretty good job of concealing herself. The big man started to speak again, and Camille raised her hand to silence him.

"Emilio, where are your manners? I can speak to Detective Ridgeland for a few minutes," she relented and unlatched the door.

Her words were warm and welcoming, but there was still a hard edge to her voice that showed no sign of trust or sincerity. Camille pushed the door toward Ridge as a sign of her willingness to speak to him. As Ridge opened the door, Emilio paused for a long second and then turned around and headed back into the house. His large frame blocked out any view of the inside of the house.

Ridge stepped through the open door and followed Camille down the hallway and into the living room. He had been inside her house before and it didn't appear that anything had changed. He found it a little odd that there was no obvious sign that she had acquired a substantial sum of money. There wasn't a new car in the driveway or new furniture in the living room, and her clothes didn't look new. It was as if she was keeping a secret that she didn't want anyone else to find out about.

When they entered the living room, Ridge could see that Emilio was already perched in the corner of the room with his arms folded across his chest. He looked like a massive stuffed grizzly looking down on his prey with frozen eyes. Camille sat down in a chair that faced Emilio, which left Ridge no other option but to sit down on the couch across from her with his back to Emilio. Camille asked Emilio to sit down, but he just grunted and stayed where he was.

Camille said in a soft tone,

"You must excuse my little brother; he is very protective of me."

She said it apologetically, but with a hint of threat in her voice, like she was proud of what her brother could do if pushed too far.

Ridge nodded that he understood without showing the slightest bit of concern for the monolithic man standing directly behind him. He could hear the big man breathing hard through his mouth, and felt his eyes burning into the back of his neck. Ridge could feel the exact point that Emilio was staring at, a point just below the base of his skull. What the big man didn't notice was Ridge watching him in the reflection in a vase, sitting in the middle of the coffee table.

Ridge leaned forward on the old couch and placed his arms across his knees. He clasped his hands together and took a long, slow deep breath. He calculated that he probably only had a two or three question grace period before one or both people in the living room asked him to leave. He considered the handful of tough questions that he wanted to ask Camille and he decided to ask her the second most important question on his mind.

"Mrs. Rodriquez, did you know that your husband took out a million-dollar life insurance policy on himself?"

Camille Rodriquez could not answer the question. She looked as if Ridge had just accused her of stealing the million dollars from the local widows' and orphans' fund. Her mouth was making small gasping movements like she was trying to speak with a mouth full of dust. Her eyes were darting from place to place in the room trying to find an anchor that she could mentally latch onto. Ridge was balancing his gaze between Camille and Emilio. He could see Emilio stiffen his pose and his entire body raise up from his lazy slumped position to its full six-foot-five-inch height. Camille's brother was fully aware of his sister's anxiety as he was prepared to go on the offensive at the slightest sign from her.

Ridge relaxed his pose and tried to reassure Mrs. Rodriquez that he was not there to cause her any problems. He told her that the insurance money was not the focus of his investigation. This did nothing to calm her down, her body was still tense and her facial features were still nervous. She looked like she was caught somewhere between fear and anger. Fear, that it would be discovered that the insurance money she received did not really belong to her, and anger at her dead husband for putting her in this position. The evidence of her fear engulfed the entire house, from her brother's angry posture to the shades pulled low on the darkened windows. Secrecy and disgrace hung in the air like a dense fog.

Ridge was still searching the room, looking for some indication that she had made any new purchases with the insurance money. He had been in the house before, but he couldn't see anything that looked new. Ridge fixed his gaze on Camille and made another attempt to elicit a response from her. He asked in a more casual tone,

"Mrs. Rodriquez, after your husband passed away, did you receive a rather large and expensive bouquet of flowers?" Camille regained her composure and responded in a calm but somewhat defensive voice,

"I received quite a few flower arrangements, as well as cards and letters from almost every member of my church."

Then she added with just a touch of indignation, "We are a very close neighborhood."

Ridge could tell by her attempt at deflecting his question that she knew exactly what bouquet of flowers he was talking about. He leaned in a little closer and narrowed his eyes into a knowing gaze,

"The card attached to the flowers would have had a very interesting message written on it."

He could see that she did not want to volunteer any information that would help him in his investigation. Ridge held her gaze and waited. Camille fidgeted nervously on the couch and tugged at the folds of her dress. After a long minute, he uttered the two words that he knew had been written on the card, "You're Welcome."

Camille flinched and stifled a barely audible gasp. She was fighting to hide her silent admission behind the handkerchief she raised to her mouth. It was a delicate piece of white linen that was now dabbing at her eyes and partially covering her face.

Ridge could see that she was visibly shaken and he decided to ask the million-dollar question that would confirm his suspicions, and probably get him thrown out of the modest little house,

"Camille, did your husband ever hit you?"

A look of pain mixed with shame flashed across her face like she had been slapped by the awful truth. Ridge watched her as her head tilted slightly down, but he saw her eyes look to Emilio as if she was pleading for help. Ridge heard Emilio stir behind him, and he watched his reflection in the vase sitting on the coffee table. As Emilio came out of the darkened hiding place, he looked like a prize fighter springing from his corner at the sound of the bell.

He moved quickly for a big guy. Ridge watched as Emilio's right hand came up and forward like he was going to clamp down hard on Ridge's left shoulder. The distorted reflection of the outstretched hand made Emilio's massive paw look like one of those animated cartoon appendages that appeared five times larger than the cartoon character.

Just as Emilio's hand was within an inch of reaching his target, Ridge reached up and across his body with his right hand. He caught Emilio's left hand and pressed his thumb into Emilio's palm. Then, his fingers wrapped over the back of Emilio's hand. In a lightning fast move, Ridge turned the big guy's fingers over so that his hand was bent up at a ninety-degree angle back. His next move caught the big guy totally by surprise. Ridge ducked his head slightly and brought Emilio's hand over the top of his own head back to the right-hand side of his body.

The move completely knocked him off balance, dropping the big guy to his knees and twisting his body at an abnormal angle. This left him teetering between crashing to the floor with a broken wrist, or enduring excruciating pain to prevent his wrist from snapping. It was a painful choice for a guy his size. There was also the embarrassment of being taken down by a guy ten-years older and sixty pounds lighter than himself.

Ridge slowly turned and looked over his right shoulder. He was face to face with Emilio, looking straight into his eyes. The big guy had a look of extreme pain and shock on his face. Ridge gave Emilio's hand a slight twist that sent another grimace of pain across his already anguished face. Ridge punctuated the gesture with a hard smile and an icy stare directly into Emilio's eyes. Emilio recognized the intense gaze. It was a look that Emilio had seen before. It was the look of absolute control. A look that was so confident in the outcome that there was no need for idle threats or false bravado. Ridge did not have to say a word. The icy stare said it all: 'If you try something like that again, I will break your arm.' Ridge let the moment pass and then he relaxed his hold on Emilio's hand. Then he said with an easy tone in his voice,

"You okay big guy?"

Emilio grunted something in Spanish that Ridge couldn't quite make out as he staggered to his feet and stumbled back into his corner.

Ridge turned back toward an astonished Camille as if nothing had happened. He assumed the same relaxed posture he had before Emilio decided to come to his sister's rescue. He looked at Camille, waiting for the answer to the question he asked her less than two minutes ago. When no response came, he repeated the question,

"Camille, did your husband ever hit you?"

This time when he asked the question, her eyes fell to the floor and Ridge could see tears forming in the corners of her eyes. From the look on her face, Camille Rodriquez did not need to answer, but she did,

"My husband wrestled with a lot of demons," she said in a voice so low that Ridge had to strain to hear it.

### Chapter 35

Of the four men that Alex had methodically murdered, Paulo Rodriguez offered the highest risk of being caught. Alex spent almost a month trying to devise a plan, and stage a plausible death surrounding Paulo Rodriquez.

Paulo ate breakfast at the same time every morning and left their little house at exactly seven-thirty to go to work. Paulo took the same route to work every day and stopped at the same quick stop each morning for a cup of coffee. He religiously punched in every morning at the auto wrecking yard where he worked at precisely eight o'clock. He ate his lunch with the same group of Hispanic men every day at the same table. Alex was almost positive that Paulo probably ate the same sandwich in his lunch pail each day of the week.

Paulo arrived home each afternoon at exactly five-thirty, ate dinner, and then sat down in his favorite chair and watched television. He went to bed at ten o'clock every night. He got up at six-thirty each morning, grabbed the morning newspaper off the porch, and repeated the entire monotonous day all over again.

Another one of Paulo's daily habits were the random outbursts of violence that punctuated the couple's drab life. Even though it was extremely difficult for Alex to listen to these routine fits of anger, there was one episode that crossed the line.

One night, around nine-thirty, Alex was hiding outside the house thinking about how Paulo Rodriguez would die. Alex was tucked into a tall stand of willow bushes watching and listening to the argument going on inside the house. Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass.

The curtains and shades were pulled tight over every window, but Alex could see the silhouettes of two people standing toe to toe in the living room. Alex could make out the shape of Paulo towering over his wife Camille with his arm raised and his fist clinched, through the silhouetted window. Paulo's fist looked like a hammer. Alex stiffened as the clinched fist slammed down into the side of Camille's head as she disappeared out of sight below the window frame.

Alex stepped out of the bushes and listened hard for any evidence that Camille had survived the attack. Paulo was bent over at the waist yelling in a low guttural growl, something about his wife never disrespecting him ever again. Alex knew by the posture and the yelling that Camille was probably conscious but cowering in fear.

No matter how ruthless and evil these types of men were, they could always sense when they had gone too far. Their ultimate goal was to control and manipulate the people they were abusing. If they went so far as to kill the person they were abusing, that would leave no one for them to beat on.

Alex struggled for a few brief moments with the idea of calling the police and reporting what had just happened. Alex knew all too well what would happen when and if the police showed up. Camille would dry her eyes, fix her hair, and wash her face. She might even put on a little extra make-up to cover the mark on the side of her head where Paulo had struck her. Then she would answer the door with her best artificial smile and swear that nothing had happened. She might even claim that the television was turned up too loud. She would go to any length to keep the police from hauling her husband off to jail.

Alex equated this type of twisted loyalty with the victims of Stockholm syndrome, the psychological phenomenon where the victims of a kidnapping or an extended hostage situation became sympathetic to the cause of the people that were holding them against their will. Alex studied the Stockholm syndrome in depth as part of a college research paper. Alex made some interesting discoveries about the original Stockholm syndrome hostage situation. One of the victims ended up marrying one of their captors, and another hostage had set up a fund where people could donate to help with the legal bills of the captors.

Alex wondered why people were willing to go to such extreme lengths to support and defend someone that had violated one of their basic freedoms, the right to be free. It wasn't much of a stretch to imagine a wife defending her abusive husband.

Every cop that had ever walked a beat knew that the most dangerous calls to respond to were domestic violence calls. A man and a wife could be having a knock down drag out fight, but God help the police officer that tried to get in the middle of their little lovers' spat. More times than not the cop that tried to break up a fight between two spouses ended up the target of their anger, sometimes ending up going to the emergency room himself.

Every Sunday morning, Camille and most of the entire neighborhood would make their way down the quiet street to the Catholic Church on the corner of Sheridan and West 29th Avenue. This was the time that Paulo spent in his wood shop working on some project that he would show to his friends and neighbors.

The intricate pieces that Paulo created were not so much gifts for Camille, but more like trophies that Paulo could use to show everyone how talented he was. Camille would never dream of using or even touching one of Paulo's works of art for fear that she might damage it. She knew the penalty for even the smallest infraction was not worth the risk. Camille was even frightened to dust or clean the pieces for fear of damaging them.

### Chapter 36

Paulo stepped out of the back door of their little house and followed the paved stone path out to the garage. When he reached the garage door, he took out his ring of keys and unlocked the two dead bolt locks, securing the heavy steel door. Paulo went to great pains to make his workshop safe from anyone who had the slightest notion of stealing the tools that he had spent a lifetime collecting. Along with the steel reinforced door, there were bars on all the windows and double locks on all the doors and windows. At night, there were motion lights on every corner of the garage.

The area where Paulo and Camille lived was a good neighborhood. But as in any community, there were small groups of young men with too much time on their hands and no constructive way of spending it. There had been a couple of incidences where someone had attempted to break into the garage but to date no one had ever been able to breach Paulo's elaborate security measures.

Paulo stepped into the garage and flipped the wall switch that activated the multiple banks of lights that were strategically placed around the shop. There were fluorescent lights over his workbench and a row of halogen spotlights that illuminated his hand tools along one entire wall of the shop. There were LED panel lights directly over the table saw and the radial arm saw and recessed lighting in all four corners of the garage. Paulo liked to see what he was doing.

### Chapter 37

Alex was dressed in a pair of dark gray coveralls with the orange safety stripes running down the front and back of the top half of the coveralls. Heavy work boots, gloves, and a white hard hat completed the look of an official city worker. The blatantly obvious disguise fell under the premise of "hiding in plain sight." Why would anyone question a city worker just doing their job? That was unless someone realized that it was highly unusual for a city employee to be working on a Sunday morning.

Alex moved confidently around the edge of the house and along the eight-foot high bushes that separated the houses from each other. As he always did, Paulo left the steel door propped open and Alex could hear the heavy-duty exhaust fan running. There was also a radio playing classical Mexican Son music in the background. After a couple of minutes, the high-pitched whine of the table saw started up and Alex moved closer to the open door to get a better look at what Paulo was working on. Paulo's back was to the door and he was wearing all his safety gear, complete with eye protection and a set of hearing muffs that looked like something the police used at a shooting range.

Paulo had a small stack of wood strips about ten inches across and an inch and a half thick sitting on a work table next to him. He was sliding the wood through the table saw at a very smooth and deliberate rate. Alex could tell from where he stood that Paulo was totally focused on what he was doing.

Alex moved to the edge of the door and watched to see that there was no shadow spilling into the workshop to alert Paulo of any approaching danger. Alex watched the rhythm of man and machine and noticed that there was a point when Paulo was almost completely stretched out over the saw as the wood reached the end of the blade. His arms were fully extended as he slid the wood out the other end of the saw.

This was the most dangerous stage of using a table saw. If something bad was to occur to the user, this is where it most likely would happen. Alex already knew that Paulo did not use a blade guard on his saw. Some woodworkers considered this safety device too restrictive, and Paulo was in this group.

The stack of wood was about two thirds done, and Alex knew that time and opportunity were slipping away quickly. Alex watched Paulo's rhythm and gauged his time between movements. As Paulo grabbed the next board and started to slowly feed it into the saw, Alex slipped into the garage and knelt behind Paulo. When Paulo's body was completely stretched out over the surface of the saw, Alex grabbed the cuffs of Paulo's pants and lifted him up and over the spinning saw blade. As Paulo's hands slipped off the edge of the table saw, his chest fell directly onto the spinning blade.

Paulo's body bucked and jumped as the spinning blade split his chest cavity open and chewed up his vital organs. The massive bulk of Paulo's body along with the gushing fluids was too much for the saw's motor. The circuit breaker tripped from the overload. Every electric appliance in the garage shut down, and the only light that remained in the garage was from the windows and the door that was still propped open. There was a heavy stench of burnt skin, where the saw had started to burn flesh before the breaker had tripped.

Alex let go of Paulo's legs and they dropped to the floor with a loud thump. Paulo's feet turned at limp angles and his entire body relaxed across the saw like it was concealing the machine from prying eyes. Alex looked over the coveralls and gloves to make sure that no blood had sprayed onto the fake uniform. Then Alex slipped out of the garage, around the house, and down the sidewalk like nothing was out of the ordinary.

### Chapter 38

Alex studied the man sitting all by himself in the corner of the diner. The man had a hard face and a controlled manner that resembled a despotic ruler waiting for the next opportunity to denigrate anyone who crossed his path. When he ordered his breakfast, it sounded more like a command than a request. The tone of his voice and quick tight hand gestures gave the impression that if his order was not prompt and perfect there would be serious consequences.

The counterfeit smiles he gave the waitress appeared to be laced with contempt. How dare she interrupt his ritual of reading the morning newspaper. Couldn't she see that the coffee cup needed refilling? Why couldn't she just fill the cup and slink away without trying to hustle him out of a bigger tip than she deserved?

Alex knew the man intimately. His name was Paul Borga and he was a branch manager of a local bank. His office was in the First Trust Savings and Loan of Colorado. Alex also knew where he lived, where he played golf with his clients, and where he ate breakfast three days a week.

A couple of weeks ago, Alex had opened a small savings account at the bank where Borga worked. During the few times Alex visited the bank, it was clear that Borga treated his employees only slightly better than the waitress currently pouring his coffee. Alex knew for a fact that Borga treated his wife much worse than either the waitress or his employees.

Alex knew a lot about the loathsome man sitting in the corner booth, reading his morning paper, and treating everyone that he encountered as a mild annoyance. Alex knew that Paul Borga loved to kayak the churning waters of the Boulder River. Alex also knew that Borga had a nasty habit of stepping on the gas pedal when he should be applying the brakes. But most importantly, Alex knew that Borga was about to have a horrible accident, an accident that he would not survive. The only thing that Alex did not know was when and where the fatal accident would occur.

### Chapter 39

Ridge stepped through the front door and was immediately assaulted by the overpowering smell of thousands of pungent colorful flowers. A musical door chime rang out and announced his entrance into the flower shop. As the door closed behind Ridge, he heard a friendly voice call out,

"Be right out."

The response came from somewhere deep behind the mass of flowers and gift cards that filled every square inch of the little shop. The voice clearly belonged to a man in the second half of his life. Ridge heard some rustling off to his left as the man finished up the flower arrangement he was working on. There was movement in between the displays as the shop keeper crossed the floor in front of Ridge and headed for a large glass cooler that was already overflowing with beautiful arrangements.

Ridge could tell that the man was the owner of the flower shop, when he stopped in mid-stride and winked at Ridge. He was extremely proud of his latest creation, and he wanted to show it off to whoever was around.

"Very nice," Ridge said, much to the man's delight.

The man beamed with pride as he carefully tucked his new creation into the cooler and turned back toward Ridge. Then he wiped his hands on a rag that was hanging from his apron and extended his hand to Ridge.

"Albert Taylor, how can I help you this fine day?"

Ridge shook Taylor's hand and pulled out his badge as he introduced himself,

"Detective Mike Ridgeland," he said in his most disarming voice.

"Pleasure to meet you Detective Ridgeland, what can I do for the Denver PD?"

Ridge pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through the pictures until he came to the photo of the flowers that he wanted to show Taylor. It was the arrangement that he had almost collided with in Betty Clark's front yard. Albert examined the picture closely and Ridge saw a warm smile spread across Albert Taylor's ruddy face,

"Oh yeah, those were some of my best creations."

Ridge heard the inclination in his voice. He did not say, that was one of my best creations. He had clearly said those were some of my best creations, like there were more than one.

"You have made more than one of these arrangements?" Ridge asked.

"Oh yes, three, no, four to date," Taylor said proudly.

Ridge felt a surge of excitement ripple through his body, like he had just come face to face with the first validation that his theory might be true. Albert Taylor saw the shift in the detective's demeanor and asked politely,

"Detective Ridgeland, did I just witness a break in a case?"

Ridge gave a temperate smile, and laughed softly,

"Maybe not a break, but definitely a mild snap." he said.

Albert Taylor let out his own laugh and said with a broad smile.

"Take a load off, I will be right back."

Taylor pointed toward a corner of the shop as he turned and went through a set of old style swinging doors. The louvered doors barely covered the doorway into Taylor's back room. They looked like a set of swinging doors you would see leading into a bar in an old cowboy movie. Ridge looked to the corner where Taylor had pointed and saw two stools that were pushed up close to an elevated oak table. The table height fell somewhere just above his waist and was covered with a collection of books and magazines showing off the latest floral arrangements.

There were a dozen different types of magazines from bridal magazines to Architectural Digest, all of them new and expensive. He walked over and pulled out one of the stools and sat down. The stools had medium high backs and comfortable padding that Ridge slid into like his favorite La-Z-Boy recliner.

As he waited for Taylor to return, he could picture customers perched on these same chairs picking out the perfect flower arrangement for whatever occasion they were observing. Ridge could even imagine someone sitting in one of these very chairs picking out an expensive bouquet to send to a recently widowed wife, a wife that had lost her husband in a tragic accident. He could see the flowers in his mind, more brilliant than the pictures on his smart phone. Dangling in the middle of the flower arrangement was the card, a pink card with a peculiar message on it.

He snapped back from his day dreaming when he heard cups rattling and looked up to see Taylor elbowing his way through the swinging bar doors. He was carrying two cups of coffee and a plate of cookies. There was warm smile and a look of genuine pride on his weathered face.

"My wife made me these cookies last night and they are just too good not to share."

He set a steaming cup of black coffee in front of Ridge and the plate of cookies between them. Taylor hoisted himself into the other chair and lifted his cup to Ridge in a gentleman's salute.

"Here's to swimming with bow-legged women," Taylor said with gusto.

Ridge laughed and raised his cup in the same manner, then he slid one of the cookies off the plate and took a healthy bite. It was one of the best things he had ever tasted. Taylor was watching his face for a look he knew would be forthcoming. When Taylor saw the look of satisfaction, he nodded in agreement and said with a bright smile,

"Was I telling the truth?"

Ridge didn't bother to say a word, he just smiled and nodded his approval. He took another drink of his coffee and said,

"I could see this becoming a regular stop."

"You are welcome here anytime, detective," Taylor offered.

Ridge took another sip of his coffee and set the cup down.

"How long have you been in business?" Ridge asked.

"Let me see, I bought this place about nine years ago."

"What did you do before?" Ridge asked.

"I was a mortician," Taylor said casually.

Taylor saw the mild look of surprise in the detective's eyes and gave Ridge a disarming smile.

"I got tired of dealing with death," Taylor offered as an explanation.

Ridge nodded his head like he completely understood and slid another cookie off the plate.

"You never really get used to the fact that someone laid out in front of you is dead, do you?"

Ridge said as if speaking to another cop.

The two men sat silently for a long minute then Ridge turned the conversation back to the reason he was there.

"So, I'm guessing that you remember that flower arrangement?" Ridge asked.

Taylor winked at Ridge, and said with satisfaction,

"Detective Ridgeland, I remember every flower arrangement that has ever walked out that door."

"Are you sure?" Ridge asked.

Albert Taylor leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

"Detective Ridgeland, my grandfather was a cattle rancher in northeast Montana. He was fond of saying,

'If I tell you that steer weighs eight-hundred pounds; don't you weigh that son of a bitch."

Ridge laughed and held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to insult the Taylor family honor."

Taylor raised his coffee cup. "No harm done. Have another cookie."

"Do you get a lot of repeat orders?" Ridge asked.

Taylor got a strange look on his face. Ridge could tell that he was mulling something over in his mind. After a moment, he said,

"Strangest greeting I ever wrote on a card."

Ridge repeated what he had seen on the card,

"You're welcome."

Taylor nodded, "Yep, never seen that one before, and then to have four arrangements with the same message is downright bizarre."

Taylor had just answered one of the questions that Ridge had come into the shop to resolve. He took another sip of his coffee.

"Do you remember what the guy looked like that ordered the flowers?" Ridge asked.

"Sorry, I can't help you there. Everything was done online."

"Do you keep the records of all your sales?" Ridge asked.

"Sure do. They are all stored on my computer," Taylor said as he jumped up and headed for the sales counter.

Albert Taylor may have joined the modern age of computers and online ordering, but his typing skills were still old school. Ridge smiled as Taylor pecked away at his keyboard with the two-finger hammer method. A method that he remembered seeing his father use when he was forced into typing police reports.

### Chapter 40

Ridge's father had also been a cop, and a damn good one at that. Patrick Michael Ridgeland had retired as a beat cop almost fifteen years ago from the Chicago PD. The senior Ridgeland had not reached the rank of detective like his son, but it was not out of a lack of ability. Patrick Ridgeland just loved being a regular cop.

He loved getting to know the people who lived in his precinct, from the kids that hung out at the local basketball courts, to the little old ladies that watched their neighborhoods like a group of hungry hawks. And those little old ladies were some of his best informants. They knew more about their neighborhoods than an army of snitches.

Patrick Ridgeland enjoyed ribbing the young girls that acted like they were all grown up, as well as admonishing the young men that looked at them in the same way.

He loved the challenge of solving a problem without having to haul someone off to jail. More than once he stood on the front stoop of a row house with his big left hand resting on a young man's slumped shoulders with his eyes pointed straight down at the ground. In Patrick Ridgeland's reasonable opinion, it served very little purpose to dump a kid into the juvenile court system for a minor offense, like trying to steal a candy bar. It seemed much more effective to have the young man's very upset momma handle the situation with just the right amount of, shall we say, influence.

His fellow officers teased Patrick that this style of police intervention was because he hated paperwork. But the truth was, Patrick Michael Ridgeland had a big heart and a kind soul. He instinctively understood that sometimes there were better ways of handling a situation, than involving the courts.

The only people that Patrick Ridgeland didn't have any empathy for were predators. Career criminals that were given every opportunity to choose the right path and had chosen evil. Patrick Ridgeland truly believed that no matter how bad people appeared to be, deep down in their soul they knew that what they were doing was wrong.

His evidence of this belief came from the fact that almost every criminal he had ever arrested had tried to hide or deny their crime. Even the worst criminals concealed their crimes behind the closed doors of darkened apartments or the tinted windows of high-rise skyscrapers. Patrick had seen plenty of guilty people scream to high heaven that they were innocent. This adamant denial of their guilt only fueled Ridgeland's theory that they knew that what they had done was wrong.

It was extremely rare that a predator bragged about the evil that they committed. In fact, in all his years on the Chicago police force, Patrick Ridgeland had only seen a handful of criminals that were brazen enough to taunt the court system. There was one case that stuck out in his mind.

In the early eighties, there was a low life rapist that stalked, kidnapped, and raped a half-dozen teenage girls in and around Chicago. The man admitted to his crimes and went so far as to taunt the families of the girls in open court. The judge dismissed the case on a technicality. At least one of the fathers of the girls had to be restrained when the rapist laughed openly at the judge's ruling.

Three weeks after the rapist was released, he was found in a dark alley beaten to death with a tire iron. At least the police think it was a tire iron, since that was the item sticking out of the center of the rapist's forehead.

The police went through all the normal motions of an investigation. They collected evidence and interviewed people on the street where the rapist was found, however, nothing useful came of the investigation. No one volunteered anything of substance. No one involved with the investigators ever broke a sweat to solve the case. And despite the cries of social inequity and vigilante justice from local civil rights organizations, the worthless piece of scum was dead and no one gave a damn.

The Charlie Mansons of the world were the exception to the rule, and in Patrick's opinion they were pure evil. These were the people that he truly enjoyed putting behind bars. Yes, Patrick Michael Ridgeland truly loved just being a regular cop.

He had learned early on that the higher you went in any position, the farther you were removed from what attracted you to that profession in the first place. He saw the police brass as a collection of politicians and deal makers.

The senior Ridgeland was fond of repeating that the top brass was more interested in a photo-op than a beat cop. This always got a laugh from anyone within earshot. He had even repeated the line once at a formal ceremony right in front of the chief of police and a half a dozen of the top brass. The line had elicited nervous laughter from most of the people standing around the chief. The only person in the group that really burst out laughing was the chief himself, just before he slapped Ridgeland on the back and offered to buy him a drink.

A week later Patrick received an eight by ten manila envelope in his mail slot at the police station. The envelope contained a glossy 8×10 photo. The photo captured the moment the chief burst out laughing and slapped him on the shoulder. In the bottom right hand corner of the photo, the chief had signed his name under two words, "No Bull." It was one of the only framed photos that Patrick Ridgeland hung on the wall of his study.

### Chapter 41

Ridge watched Taylor as he banged away at the computer keys searching for the account information. Taylor reminded Ridge of his father. He possessed the same deliberate manner that made it appear that there was a precise reason behind every movement he made. Albert Taylor also moved his lips silently as he worked through a problem, like he was reciting a formula that would help him solve whatever he was working on.

"Here we go," Taylor said, as he slammed the last key with finality.

Taylor flipped the monitor around so that Ridge could see all the data on the screen. Ridge stared at the screen looking for any useful information to help discover who ordered the flowers. There was only a limited amount of information that would be considered useful. First, the credit card number was just a series of X's followed by the last four digits. Second, there was no physical address listed for the owner of the credit card. Only a PO Box at one of the local UPS stores. And lastly, there was the name on the card which Ridge was sure was an alias. The name was Alex Keaton. Taylor's eyes must have seen the name while Ridge was reading it. Taylor laughed out loud.

"Wasn't that the name of a television character back in the eighties?" Ridge asked.

"Yep, that was the name of the character that Michael J. Fox played on Family Ties," said Taylor.

"I am thinking that the name on that card is an alias," Taylor said sarcastically.

Ridge gave Taylor a sideways smile and nodded in agreement. Then he took out his notepad and wrote down all the information on the screen. Ridge stared at the screen for a long time, then he asked almost as an afterthought,

"Can you tell which bank this credit card came from?"

"I can't help you there, Detective, but my bank might be able to tell you," Taylor said with a spike of enthusiasm. Then he added,

"I will give my banker a call and let her know that you will be stopping by."

### Chapter 42

The last of the four widows Ridge questioned was a lot less reserved than the other three. Ridge damn near didn't recognize Pam Collier from their previous meeting. She had dyed her dark brown hair a light shade of blonde, with a streak of brilliant blue hair falling over her left eye. Her nose was pierced with a small diamond stud, and there was a tattoo of a red tulip peeking out from her low-cut blouse.

It wasn't just the obvious cosmetic changes to her physical being that he noticed. Pam had developed a real attitude. It wasn't a mean or vindictive I hate the world attitude. It was subtler than that. Pam Collier appeared to be riding a wave of pent up self-awareness. She wasn't looking to bust anybody's balls, but there was a glint in her dark green eyes that said, "God help anyone that pushes me too far."

When he called her the week before to ask if he could meet with her, he was instantly connected to her answering machine. Even the answering machine revealed her new affectation. The voice on the machine was bright and fearless with a touch of irreverence. Her words were clear and sharp with a heavy dose of bravado.

"Ola, the money's in the bank, the jewels are in the safe, and my pit bull is sleeping by the front door. I'm at the target range with my Smith and Wesson 44 Magnum. Stop by any time or leave a message."

It was three days after he had left the message on her voice mail before she returned his call. When she did call back, her opening line took him by surprise.

"Is this that stunningly cute detective Ridgeland?" she said.

Ridge repeated his standard telephone greeting with just a bit more of an official tone, designed to hide his transparent surprise.

"Detective Ridgeland speaking."

"Well, Detective Ridgeland speaking, what can I do for Denver's finest?"

The way she uttered the invitation, sounded more like a come-on line from an upscale bar than an offer to help with an ongoing investigation.

Ridge was in the middle of asking Pam Collier if he could meet with her when she shocked him for the second time in less than a minute.

"Is this about the million-dollar insurance policy that my dead husband didn't take out on himself?" she asked bluntly.

There was a long silence as Ridge tried to figure out the best way to answer her direct question. Pam broke the silence.

"I wondered when you would get around to contacting me about that," she said in a straight-forward voice that contained just a tinge of humility.

They made an appointment to meet at her new apartment the next morning. Ridge hung up the phone. He was looking forward to their meeting. He was absolutely sure that it would be very revealing.

As Ridge stepped into the plush apartment, he was greeted from a low growl by a nasty looking dog. The Rottweiler mix came slinking out of the living room and into the front hallway. The ferocious-looking pooch had all the signs of a damn good guard dog.

"Sit," was all that Pam had to say for the dog to pull up short and plant himself between where she was standing and where Ridge took a cautious step backward. Pam laughed as she noticed that Ridge had moved his left hand up under his suit coat, inches away from his holstered service weapon.

"Don't worry, detective, Arma won't hurt you," then she added, "Unless I say so."

"I thought your answering machine said a pit bull?" Ridge asked.

"Pit bull sounds better than mean mutt," Pam said with a disarming smile.

"Good choice of a name for a guard dog," Ridge said.

"You know what Arma means?" asked Pam.

"It's Italian for weapon," Ridge offered.

"Detective Ridgeland, aren't you full of surprises," she said with genuine surprise.

"Although I think that she looks more like a Silah," Ridge said.

"What does Silah mean?" Pam asked.

"It's Turkish for weapon," Ridge said with a wry smile.

"A cultured cop, what an amazing find," Pam said with a wink.

"It's more practical experience than culture," Ridge offered innocently.

Pam gave a questioning little look as she turned and headed down the hall toward what Ridge suspected was the kitchen.

### Chapter 43

Ridge followed Pam down the hall as he recalled all that practical experience. It was a subtle way of referring to his time as a member of an elite Para-Rescue squad, otherwise known as the PJ's.

He thought back to the two years of grueling training he spent at half a dozen different military bases around the country, from San Antonio, Texas, to Fort Benning, Georgia, to Fort Bragg, North Carolina. He remembered with painful clarity the hundreds of hours he spent submerged in ice cold water, crawling through knee deep mud, and fighting his way through an obstacle course that made the Tough Mudder Competition look like a walk in the park.

Ridge recalled running across the barren training grounds, with fourteen other recruits and a twelve-hundred-pound log balanced on their collective shoulders. Stamped on the back end of the log was the official logo of the PJ's, a pair of green feet pointed up at the sky, with a yellow lightning bolt slashing across the green feet.

The official logo of the PJ's came out of the Vietnam War. The story was that the logo had emerged because of the two helicopters that were used to shuttle the PJ's through the dense vegetation of Vietnam on dangerous rescue missions. The primary mode of transportation for the PJ's during the Vietnam War were the HH-3 Jolly Green Giant and the HH-53 Super Jolly Green Giant, a pair of long range fast rescue helicopters.

The pair of bright green feet represented the pair of jolly green giant helicopters. The PJ's had earned such a stellar reputation for rescuing fellow soldiers and downed pilots, that the men they rescued would routinely place a temporary tattoo of the green feet on their backsides. This would signify that the PJ's had saved their asses.

Ridge remembered the prolonged mental and physical conditioning that was drilled into him and his team throughout their training. The training ranged from the latest medical tactics in field triage, to mountaineering, to Army Airborne jump school. And then there were the deployments themselves. Missions that seemed to be instinctive extensions of their training. There were times during a mission where he would exchange a silent glance and a knowing smile to a fellow PJ. A look that said everything they were both thinking. Didn't we just practice this same maneuver in training?

The one thing that was removed from every member of the PJ's was a single word.... hesitation. Their extensive training and constant mission preparation left no room for indecision or doubt. Every mission was simply an extension of what had been drilled into each member of the Para-Rescue team members since day one, along with their motto,

"That others may live"

The truth was that the PJ's were one of the most well-trained and under-celebrated special forces units in all of the military. The Navy SEALS have a wash-out rate of seventy to eighty percent. The Army Rangers have a wash out rate between sixty-five and seventy percent. The Para-Rescue school has a wash out rate of ninety percent. This is the highest wash-out rate of all the Special Forces units.

### Chapter 44

Ridge could feel Pam's protector less than a half a step behind him as he walked down the hallway. His left hand was still a friendly distance from his weapon, and his head was turned just enough to watch both his host and her dog at the same time. When they reached the kitchen, Pam invited Ridge to have a seat at the kitchen table. Then she pointed to a fluffy oversized pillow in the corner of the kitchen and said in a demanding tone, "Arma, lay."

The dog made its way to the cushion and settled down into the bed without ever taking its eyes off the strange man.

"So, I am guessing that the weapon you own is not really a 44 Mag either?" Ridge suggested.

Pam gave him a questioning glance and leaned back against the counter, as the coffee pot perked away behind her. She crossed her arms over her chest and said,

"Okay detective, what am I packing these days?"

Ridge thought for a second and then said very deliberately,

"I'm thinking a Smith & Wesson 38 special with a five-inch barrel and a custom rubber grip."

"Very good, detective, I'm impressed."

Ridge didn't bother to mention that he had reviewed the paperwork she submitted for her concealed carry permit. Official paperwork that listed everything from her first parking ticket to the handgun she intended on carrying.

"Is it the money or something else that is behind your new-found interest in safety?" he asked.

Pam did not answer right away. She just stared across the table at Ridge. He could tell that she was weighing in her mind how much she should or could tell the detective. After a long minute, she let out a deliberate sigh and Ridge watched as her jaw tightened.

"No one is ever going to put a cruel hand on me again," she said.

Ridge let her words hang in the air like the smoke from an old cigar. Then he asked,

"Who else knew that your husband beat you?"

He made the accusation in a subdued voice that was almost too soft to hear.

"No one, I kept it all very quiet, very civilized."

There was a mix of shame and hatred in her eyes.

"Did you ever end up in the hospital or the emergency room?" Ridge asked.

"No, my husband was far too slick for that. He knew all the hidden ways to inflict pain without leaving any evidence," she said.

Pam heard the coffee pot dispensing the last few drops of coffee. As she turned around to fix their cups, Ridge looked around the lavish kitchen and asked,

"So, what do you think you know about your husband's death?"

Pam finished pouring their coffee. Just before she turned around with the coffee, she reached up onto the shelf and grabbed a small item that Ridge could not see. She set a coffee cup down in front of Ridge, and he recognized the small handwritten card with the pink string hanging off the handle of his cup.

"Is that what you're looking for Detective Ridgeland?" she said knowingly.

Ridge lifted the card off the handle and looked at it for a long moment.

"That isn't the first one of those that you have seen, is it Detective?" she asked.

"I am not sure that I should answer that question." Ridge said cautiously.

"My guess is that there are at least two more of those, maybe three," she said.

"Why would you say that?" he asked.

"One is an accident, two is a coincidence, three is a pattern," she suggested.

"What is four?"

"I think they call that a serial crime," she said.

Ridge repeated his earlier question,

"Who knew that your husband beat you?"

Pam gave him a strange look that appeared to have a question mark hanging around the corners of her eyes. Ridge looped his finger through the string and held up the last remnant of the flower arrangement.

"For you to have received this card, along with a million-dollar insurance policy that your husband didn't purchase, somebody must have known."

Ridge watched as she racked her brain trying to think of someone she might have told. Ridge saw her struggling with the answer and tried to help her.

"Did you confide in a friend or a co-worker?" She shook her head from side to side without saying a word. Ridge continued,

"Did you ever visit a battered woman's shelter or call an abuse hotline?"

Halfway through the last sentence, Ridge saw the sparkle of recognition flash across her face. As her lips struggled to form the words, Ridge saved her the trouble.

"Which one?" he asked.

"I called a crisis hotline last year."

"Was it a local or a national hotline?"

"Local, it was a Denver phone number," she said.

"Do you remember who you spoke to?" he asked.

"No, I only called once, and the call didn't last very long. I was very emotional and upset, and I said some things that I probably should not have said. I was full of rage and anger and I was venting like a tea pot on high boil."

"What did you say?" Ridge asked.

Pam shifted her body back and forth in her chair like she had become very nervous, and she was debating whether she was going to tell the detective something so painful. Pam's face flushed, and her eyes filled with tears, telling Ridge that he had touched a nerve. He reached across the table and laid his hand on top of her trembling fingers until she could regain her composure.

Before Pam could stop herself, she blurted out, "I said that I wished he were dead."

Ridge took a long drink of his coffee and leaned back in his chair. He could see the guilt in her eyes. Ridge tried to think of something to say to make her feel better, but the fact was that he was in her home, investigating what he thought was a deliberate act of murder. If he was one of her close friends trying to comfort her, he might have said something trite like, "accidents happen." But the plain truth was, he didn't think that her husband's death was an accident. Ridge was trying to make a connection between a single phone call to an abuse hotline and a series of well-planned and executed murders, when Pam offered a sliver of information that grabbed his attention.

"The girl I spoke to on the hotline said something that at the time, sounded very strange."

"What did she say?" asked Ridge.

"After I finished telling her what my husband did to me, she asked me what I wanted. That is when I told her I wished my husband was dead." Pam's body shuddered as she thought about the next few words she was about to say. She sipped a drink of her coffee and took a deep breath, then she looked straight into Detective Mike Ridgeland's eyes and said,

"Then the girl said, with a very dark tone in her voice, 'accidents happen."

Ridge's mind swirled with the possibilities. Was there more than one person behind the murders? He thought about the old saying, "Two people could keep a secret if one of them was dead." Then a disturbing thought hit him, a possibility that he had not even stopped to consider. If there was just one person behind the murders, could the lone killer be a woman?

"Can you remember anything specific about the woman you spoke to?" Ridge asked.

Pam thought back for a long minute about the conversation she had over a year ago.

"She sounded young and I think that she had a slight accent."

"Was it an American or a foreign accent?" Ridge asked.

"American, but I'm not really sure which part of the country."

Ridge pressed her to eliminate certain distinct accents.

"Was it a southern accent?"

"No, I don't think that it was southern," she said with a degree of certainty.

Ridge let her think about it a little while longer, then he nudged her again,

"Was it northeastern?" he asked.

Pam thought for a moment or two, then she said,

"I just don't know detective. It was so long ago and to be honest with you I was an emotional wreck."

After she finished speaking Pam dropped her head. She pushed the palms of her hands into her cheeks, she was attempting to force the stress out of her face. Ridge could tell that her eyes were closed and that she was taking a mental break from the conversation. He could see that the strain she was feeling was from reliving the events that led up to her husband's death. Her shoulders relaxed and he could see the stress seep out of her body as she temporarily checked out.

He saw her sit bolt upright as a flash of recognition spread across her face, obviously remembering something important.

"What is it, Pam?" he asked.

"I think I remember something about the woman I spoke to on the phone. It's not much, but I think that the name she gave me on the phone sounded Russian."

"Do you remember the name?" Ridge asked.

"Not exactly, but it sounded Russian, like Anastasia or Alissa, or Alexis, something like that."

Ridge pulled out his notepad and wrote down the names she had given him, then he put the pad back in his pocket and drained his coffee. As Ridge stood up to leave, he extended his hand, and saw a look of grave concern on her face.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I'm guessing that my husband's death was not an accident. If you prove that there was some sort of criminal intent behind it, won't the insurance company want their money back?"

"I would think so," Ridge said, in almost an apologetic tone.

Pam offered no response to his answer. She just stood up and shook hands with him like she was saying goodbye to an old friend. As Ridge turned to go, Pam reached down and picked up the note that had arrived with the flowers.

"Don't you need this for evidence, Detective Ridgeland?" She held out the note with the string dangling off her index finger like she was offering him the keys to her apartment. Ridge looked at the piece of paper swinging at the end of the string for a couple of seconds. Before he turned to go he said,

"No, you hang onto it for now."

Pam gave him an understanding smile and escorted him down the hallway. When they reached the front door, Ridge turned around and thanked her for her time. Pam completely surprised him when she reached up and kissed Ridge on the cheek.

"Thank you, Detective. No matter what happens."

Then she turned and closed the door, without looking back.

When Pam got back to the kitchen, she picked up the yellow note by the string and looked at it for a long while. She walked over to the shelf where she had picked up the note. Then in a slow deliberate sequence, Pam crumpled the tiny note with one hand as she turned on the faucet and the garbage disposal with the other hand. She dropped the mangled wad of paper into the garbage disposal and listened, as the spinning blades chewed the little piece of paper into a thousand pieces that nobody would ever see again.

After she turned off the garbage disposal, she grabbed a glass and a chilled bottle of wine from the fridge. She poured herself a glass of wine and held up the glass in the direction of the garbage disposal.

Then she said in a voice almost too low to hear,

"Whoever you are, thank you."

### Chapter 45

Alex pressed the button on the polished brass panel and waited as the old freight elevator came to life. The cables hummed, and the gears creaked like an ancient beast disturbed from hibernation. It made a huge clunking racket as it began its slow descent down the narrow shaft to the first floor. The old elevator was sitting on the top floor, and it would take at least a full two minutes for it to make its way down to the lobby.

Alex glanced above the polished brass doors of the elevator and watched as the floor indicator dial crawled counter clockwise past each floor on its way down to the building's stylish lobby. The large brass arrow gradually moved past the nine and then the eight, and Alex thought very hard about abandoning the painfully slow process and just taking the stairs to the top floor.

The old warehouse had gone through an extensive face lift and an expensive interior remodeling, but the antique freight elevator remained a clunky old freight elevator. Every tenant in the building asked themselves if it was worth the wait each time they stood in the exquisite lobby waiting for the elevator. The tenants that lived on the second and third floors would usually just take the stairs, if they didn't have both arms loaded down with groceries or some new treasure for their fashionable apartments.

The Tragger Building was one of many commercial properties in lower downtown Denver, also known as LoDo, converted from a dilapidated old warehouse into an upscale apartment building. In fact, Denver led the nation in this type of urban revitalization. This gave everyone, from young professionals to established business owners, a convenient alternative to the daily insanity known as rush hour. Some of these apartment buildings went so far as to refer to themselves as Boutique Apartments.

This growing trend in urban living provided the residents of lower downtown Denver almost immediate access to a long list of voguish shops, upscale restaurants, and cultural events within walking distance of their refashioned apartments.

Another benefit to this type of urban existence was that Denver was also home to four of the most famous sports franchises in the country. These included the Denver Broncos, the Denver Nuggets, the Colorado Rockies, and the Colorado Avalanche. In fact, the facilities that played host to these sports dynasties were located so close to each other that their fans and their seasons routinely overlapped.

The owners and organizers of each franchise were required to keep a very close eye on the schedules of their fellow franchise owners. It was possible in such a sports-minded city to have two or even three major sporting events happening at the same time on the same day. It was inevitable that at least a couple of times during each of these team's seasons, another major sports team would be playing at the same time. It was possible for a true sports junkie to attend an early Sunday morning football game at Sports Authority Field, and then cross over I-25 to watch the Colorado Avalanche play hockey that evening.

All this concentrated sports enthusiasm created one hell of a mess for poor fans that drove automobiles to watch their favorite teams play. However, the residents of downtown Denver could stroll from event to event without the slightest risk of a traffic jam, a fender bender, or worst of all, a DUI.

Sometimes, the LoDo fans would even have time to change into another team jersey and have a steak and a beer between games. All things considered, living in one of these renovated buildings was the new status symbol of urban professionals.

About ten seconds into elevator's descent, Alex decided to take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. The wait was going to be too long and the decision to take the stairs was an easy one. The only thing that Alex was carrying was an eight by ten manila envelope with half a dozen assorted documents. The main reason Alex had decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator was mostly to avoid the possibility of a chance encounter with one of the other tenants in the building.

### Chapter 46

Alex was a source of great interest and salacious conversation among most of the other residents of the Tragger building. During one of their regular cocktail parties or social events in the building, the topic of how someone so low on the social ladder could afford such a lavish apartment was a common conversation among the tenants. Almost everyone in the building knew exactly what Alex did for a living. The mere mention of Alex's chosen profession brought a look of true astonishment to their faces, as well as a few raised eyebrows.

This perpetual curiosity about Alex also helped to fuel a wide variety of rumors and speculation. How could someone like Alex afford such a lavish apartment, especially on the top floor of one of the most expensive apartment buildings in downtown Denver? The rumors and gossip ran the full length and breadth of speculation. They ranged from the illegal to the immoral, and some even went as far as to suggest ties to criminal activity. It didn't help that Alex said or did nothing to extinguish these rumors, despite the persistent efforts of the residents to draw Alex into a casual conversation about where all the money came from.

Although Alex was not an anti-social person, only a handful of people that lived in the building were lucky enough to peek inside the fashionable tenth floor apartment. And even fewer residents had earned a formal invitation into the luxury apartment.

The few visitors that had been invited into the apartment were truly impressed by what they saw. Everything inside the apartment was a visual treat, from the original pieces of art that hung on the walls to the designer furniture that decorated every room. The contradiction between Alex's professional life and the luxury apartment was a mystery to everyone in the building, except one person, Gloria Turner. Gloria was not astonished by Alex's contradictory life-style, and in turn was also the only person that was routinely invited into Alex's apartment.

### Chapter 47

Gloria Turner was an attractive widow in her early sixties with all the grace and charm of a Dallas debutant, and the quick wit of a Chicago trial lawyer. Her allure was punctuated by a soft southern drawl that was left over from growing up in Atlanta, Georgia. Gloria stood just slightly over five foot seven, and despite her light silver mane of shoulder length hair she didn't look anywhere near her actual age of sixty-two. She had bright green eyes and an affectionate smile that radiated warmth and contentment. Gloria's subtle beauty was admired by women half her age and instantly noticed by men of all ages.

Her physical beauty was a pleasure to look at, but Gloria's real beauty emerged when she opened her mouth and spoke with her gentle southern accent. Despite the mild condescension from the high society crowd in Denver, she had no intention of hiding her accent. Truth be known, Gloria made an ongoing effort to maintain her accent and keep in close contact with anyone that shared her southern heritage.

This effort was aided by an older sister in Atlanta that never failed to remind her of her roots along with a yearly subscription to Southern Living Magazine, and a short note that always read,

"Never forget where you came from."

From her deep desire to preserve her accent and stay connected to her southern roots, she had formed a social club of southern women known as the Southern Belles.

Shortly after moving to Denver twenty years ago with her now deceased husband, Gloria ran into a woman in the checkout line at her local grocery store. Gloria immediately recognized the woman's southern accent and the two struck up a conversation. The two women became instant friends right there in the checkout line. After their short conversation, the two women went from the checkout lane to a little coffee shop next to the grocery store, and the first unofficial meeting of the Southern Belles had taken place.

By the end of that first get-together, the two women decided to meet every other Wednesday, and to invite any other women they knew that wanted to socialize with a group of their confrere southerners.

After a year of meetings, the group had grown to somewhere between ten to fifteen women coming to each meeting. They quickly outgrew the small coffee shop next to the grocery store. One of the lady's husbands owned a Cajun restaurant close to downtown Denver, so when the club outgrew its original meeting place, she graciously offered use of the meeting room in their restaurant. It was a delicious bonus that the restaurant served the best beignets' and coffee west of the Mississippi.

There were no dues or an official charter to join the Southern Belles, only two simple rules; rule number one, girls only. Rule number two, members must have a southern heritage. All the southern states were included, from Florida north to the Virginias, and Georgia to Texas. However, there was a special stipulation for Texas members, they could join if they didn't remind the group every five minutes that they were from Texas.

There was the occasional Denver social climber that would hear through the grapevine about the quaint little coffee club and try and join. They would be greeted with a warm but firm no, and an explanation of the most important rule of the club, southern girls only.

Word got around about the coffee club's hard and fast rule, but that did not stop the occasional party crasher from attempting to weasel her way in. There was even one society type who went as far as to take speech lessons designed to give her an almost believable southern accent. However, there is nothing more obvious to a true child of the south than someone not raised in the south trying to speak in a southern dialect. As they say in the south, it's as plain as the nose on your face.

Besides the two unbreakable rules, the Southern Belles could not have been less elitist. Money and social status did not play into membership in any way. Although most of the members were women of means, this did not exclude the occasional secretary or housewife or even a homesick college student from attending the club, for a little taste of home. In fact, homesick coeds were routinely referred to the club by a friend of a friend that didn't even live in Denver.

Another unique ingredient that made the loose knit club a wonderful place to be was the warmth and generosity of its members. Most of the older women in the club had an air of wisdom about them. They could tell when one of the other members of the group was having a tough time, either financially or emotionally. Each one of the woman had their own strengths and natural gifts. They would use their talents when the need arose. Whether it was a shoulder to cry on, or a little extra cash for a starving college student, they were always there.

Gloria teased the other women in the group that this little coffee club was going to be more of a legacy than the charitable foundation her husband had left behind.

Gloria became a widow five years ago at the early age of fifty-seven when her husband died in a tragic skiing accident. Frank Turner was a native of Colorado, and he was as natural on a pair of downhill skis as he was walking down Blake Street to his office. The incident that ended Frank Turner's life was by all accounts a true freak of nature. One-minute Frank was cruising down Sparkling Bowl, with his iPod blasting Eric Clapton's After Midnight, and in a split second of inattention, he was crashing headlong into a dense stand of pine trees. The mishap caused massive trauma to Frank Turner's head that killed him almost instantly.

Frank Turner was, what his buddies growing up with referred to as a "high RPM skier." Not necessarily reckless or careless, but he just loved to go fast on a pair of four-inch-wide boards. He was fond of saying that the Ski Patrol could reprimand him only if they could catch him on the hill, and an official rebuke in the lift line was off limits. Another factor that had not worked in his favor, was that Frank was just old school enough to think that putting on a helmet while skiing was like wearing an overcoat at the beach. Frank's one and only thrill-seeking flirtation was downhill skiing which had cost him his life and left his charming southern wife an extremely wealthy widow.

### Chapter 48

Gloria's apartment was directly across the hall from Alex, and she was one of the only people in the building not constantly trying to charm or finagle her way into Alex's apartment. Although Gloria seemed to be the one person in the building with the best chance of discovering the truth behind Alex's conflicting life-style, she treated her position with the casual disinterest of a court reporter. This detached neutrality earned Gloria frequent invitations into Alex's apartment.

The visits were not as regular as a meeting of the Southern Belles' Social Club, and they were more casual and impromptu than that. The invitations into the apartment were always spontaneous and typically informal, like two old friends that had not seen each other in a month. The invitations to visit Alex's apartment for a cup of coffee or a glass of sweet tea were usually the result of chance meetings during odd hours. The random invitation would occur during a trip to the mail box or as Alex returned from a quick run in the park. But no matter when the invitation came, it was always unplanned and it was typically at Gloria's bequest.

There was nothing even remotely sexual about the relationship between Alex and Gloria. They could not have been more unsuited for each other than if they were two completely different species. Although Gloria did find Alex extremely attractive, their kinship was more conspiratorial than intimate. Gloria had the sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with how her husband had died.

She remembered the bright spark of interest in Alex's deep brown eyes when she first mentioned how her husband was killed, especially the part about the double indemnity insurance policy. The first time Gloria was asked to come in for a cup of coffee was shortly after she told Alex about her husband's tragic death.

Part of the attraction Gloria felt for spending time in Alex's apartment was the apartment itself. Gloria considered herself a bit of an amateur interior decorator, and Alex's apartment was just too much of a visual treat to pass up. The designer furniture and unique pieces of artwork that adorned the walls were like stepping into the latest issue of Architectural Digest.

There was one piece of furniture that was conspicuously absent. It might have been her southern upbringing or just a need for functionality, but there was no coffee table in the apartment. Gloria was bothered by the absence of a coffee table in between the expensive VIG leather sofa and the two Queen Anne wing-back chairs. On Gloria's fifth or sixth visit to the apartment, she asked Alex why there was no coffee table. It was just a curious comment as part of a discussion about interior decorating, but for just a split-second Gloria thought she saw a flash of anger so deep it bordered on rage filled with pain and anger. Alex tried to hide the expression behind a sip of coffee, but the anger was still lingering in Alex's deep brown eyes.

Alex dismissed the moment by offering a disarming smile and a casual excuse,

"I never really cared for a coffee table. They always need cleaning, and it seems like you are always banging your shins against them."

Gloria smiled back and agreed that there was nothing worse than hitting a coffee table in the middle of the night.

Alex responded in agreement, "Yes, they can be very painful."

Gloria did not know if Alex was talking about banged up shins, or something deeper, but she let the comment go with a slight nod and a gentle smile.

Despite Gloria's personal philosophy of never sticking her nose into other people's business, her curiosity got the best of her, on one late afternoon visit where the friends had switched from coffee to wine and she asked in a temperate tone,

"Alex, my dear, how do you do it?"

"Do what?" asked Alex innocently.

Gloria responded with her natural southern charm,

"How do you manage to maintain such a lavish lifestyle?"

The end of her sentence came to an obvious conclusion but the unspoken remainder of the question hung in the air like a faint interrogation.

How do you manage to maintain such a lavish life-style on such a meager income? Alex just smiled and offered up a response that sent a cold shudder down the base of Gloria's slender neck.

"In its own way, a kiss is an act of murder."

Gloria stared blankly for a long minute until Alex relieved Gloria of her anxiety.

"It's a quote from a writer," Alex said.

"Which one?" Gloria asked with obvious relief in her voice.

"Jeff Lindsay."

"What does it mean?" asked Gloria.

Alex leaned back and thought for a long moment, and then said without any trace of emotion, "I think that it means that the more we love someone the more we can seduce them into a state of complacency."

"Is complacency murder?" Gloria asked with a touch of humor in her voice.

"It might as well be if it leads to the death of someone we love," Alex said.

### Chapter 49

The story behind Alex's lifestyle and covert wealth was not as salacious as the residents of the Tragger building imagined. Alex was adopted at the age of seven by a benevolent couple in their mid-forties. The older couple were not able to have children of their own, and they had almost given up on the prospect of being parents. The couple spent years inside the tumultuous adoption system, and they were repeatedly disillusioned and disappointed. The one incident that seemed to be the last straw came two years before they adopted Alex. It involved three children, an arrogant judge, and a senseless social worker. After years of waiting and mounds of paperwork, the couple were awarded two girls and a boy, ages six, eight, and nine. They were as innocent as any children that had emerged from the adoption system.

Their father was in prison for killing a young boy in the armed robbery of a convenience store, and their mother was a meth addict who spent more time trying to score her next fix than being a mother.

After three months of loving attention and caring for the three siblings, the couple was told that they would be awarded full custody of the children. They were told they could do whatever was needed to make the children part of their family, from buying them clothes to setting up their college funds.

The couple could not have been happier with the family they had always wanted, until the arrogant adoption system shattered their dreams. The destruction came in the form of a single phone call.

The social worker assigned to the case called the new mother. She informed her that she would come by in fifteen minutes to collect the children. The wife called her husband at work and told him the situation, but, by the time he skidded to a stop in front of their home the social worker had already come and gone. She took the children without any explanation.

They never saw the children again. They eventually found out that the meth addict mother convinced the social worker and a judge that she had cleaned up her act, and it was decided by the judge that it would be best for the children to be back with their mother. The couple never found out what happened to the children, but a friend in the system that told them several years later that the birth mother died of a drug overdose.

When the same friend called the couple two years later to tell them about Alex, they refused to consider going through that pain again. Only after some very persuasive pleading from their friend and the story of Alex's background did the couple agree to at least meet Alex. The friend related how the mother of young Alex was killed by the father in a drunken rage and explained that if the father ever surfaced again he would be arrested for murder. Alex had no other living relatives.

The moment the couple met little Alex it was love at first sight. They looked at each other and decided on the spot that they could not give up on the captivating child standing before them, clutching at their hearts.

Although the couple was not necessarily religious, they considered Alex a gift from God. They envisioned spending the rest of their lives raising and loving Alex, as it turned out, that is exactly what they did.

The couple were savers in every sense of the word. They clipped coupons and refused to buy anything that wasn't on sale. They shared a single credit card and paid the balance every month. Even though they both worked, they shared one ten-year-old car that was paid for. By the time they adopted Alex their home was paid for and they were well on their way to accumulating a nice little nest egg.

Their nest egg was given a dramatic shot in the arm by Alex's adoptive mother. She had a head for figures, and discovered a marvelous little financial strategy known as the options market, enough so that she quit her job and devoted all her time playing the stock market. The result was that in the twelve years after they adopted Alex, she turned a lifetime of savings into a small fortune.

The day Alex graduated from college was the happiest day that the couple had ever known. The celebration began with a magnificent brunch at one of the more expensive restaurants in town, then the graduation ceremony itself. After the ceremony, there were handshakes and hugs followed by an impromptu shopping spree that truly shocked Alex. No one had ever seen Alex's parents spend so much money in such a short amount of time. The shopping spree included everything from a new wardrobe for Alex to a Rolex watch that was to say the least, extravagant. The proud parents wanted to make Alex's graduation day unforgettable, which regrettably is how it turned out.

After dinner, Alex tried to persuade them to get a motel room and wait until the next day to drive home, but the couple was too excited to sleep. Besides, after the day of celebration they were not interested in spending another hundred dollars on a hotel room. Their house was only a couple of hours away.

They kissed Alex goodbye, climbed into their old Chevy Impala, and headed home. That was the last time Alex saw them alive. Less than thirty miles from their front door, the couple was hit head on by a drunk driver and both were killed instantly.

The tragic death of Alex's parents left Alex a moderately wealthy twenty-one-year-old college graduate, with no family and a degree in criminal psychology. Between the couple's savings and investments, a house that was paid for, and a couple of substantial insurance policies on both parents, Alex's net worth was a little over three million dollars.

Alex explained to Gloria just enough of this story to let her know exactly where the money to finance Alex's lifestyle had come from. Alex was certain that she would not divulge the story to anyone else in the building.

Gloria now understood the quote about a kiss being an act of murder. She could see how Alex could feel some guilt about the wonderful couple that had opened their home and consequently died because of their love and devotion. Even though she could see the loose connection between love and complacency, the quote still bothered her. When Gloria got back to her apartment, she looked up the author of the quote.

The author was Jeff Lindsay, author of the Dexter series of murder mysteries, books that were turned into a TV series about a police blood specialist who kills criminals in his spare time. This nugget of information sent another shudder of fear up Gloria's spine.

### Chapter 50

Alex slipped into the apartment with the deliberate stealth of a cat burglar breaking into a mansion. There was no need for the lights to be turned on. It was the middle of the day and the afternoon sun was streaming in through the enormous windows. It was bathing the apartment with a brilliant yellow glow that bounced off every wall.

Alex resisted the urge to turn on any electronic devices like the television or the stereo. Sounds coming from inside the apartment might attract unwanted visitors. And the last thing Alex needed was for someone to stop by for a visit.

Alex reached behind a book shelf and pulled an 8×10 manila envelope. It contained a stack of papers and travel books. Five minutes later, the contents of the envelope were spread out across the polished oak dining table. There were six documents of assorted shapes and sizes now spread out across the table. There was a topographic map of Boulder Canyon, a state highway map of the same canyon. There were two 8 x 10 photos of the left rear quarter panel of a classic Range Rover, and a consumer report on the safety of the vehicle. The last document was a forest service report of the various water depths and current speeds along the Boulder River.

The documents were marked with colored highlighters and felt tip markers, including the highway map of Boulder Canyon highlighted by three different colored markers. The two photos of the Range Rover's quarter panel had small black circles at specific points on the photos, with two words; strike point above each circle.

The consumer reports article was circled with a black marker. It went into great detail about how top heavy the Range Rover was.

Alex had expended a lot of time, energy, and research plotting the demise of Paul Borga. The research didn't just involve spending long hours poring over government documents and charts. It also included a couple dozen trips up and down the Boulder Canyon. The murder of Paul Borga was going to be Alex's most challenging undertaking yet. For the number of moving parts and random chances that needed to fall into place for the plan to work resembled a scene from a Hollywood movie.

Paul Borga was a creature of habit, and one of his recreational habits involved spending Friday morning, weather permitting, maneuvering his Katana Dagger kayak down the Boulder River, in relative solitude compared to the number of amateurs that filled the river on the weekends. Fridays on the Boulder River could be extremely busy, but nowhere near as jammed with weekend warriors as on a Saturday morning. This was one of the moving parts that Alex was concerned about. How many possible witnesses would be in the canyon on the day that Alex decided to go after Borga?

In theory, the plan was very simple. Give Borga's Range Rover a bumper to bumper nudge that would send him over the embankment and into the rushing river, where hopefully, the river would do the rest.

As the old saying went, the devil was in the details. The first detail that Alex had to contend with was the exact location along the river where the accident would occur. The three sets of different colored circles on the highway map suggested the nine best locations for the accident.

The yellow circles represented the lowest risk locations, the orange circles represented the medium risk locations, and the red circles were the locations along the river that had the highest probability of killing Paul Borga.

The research that Alex used to determine the probability of success would have made a PhD in physics proud. Some of the more critical elements included the age, height, and length of the guardrail that separated the highway from the river. The slope of the bank that ran from the road down into the river was also critical. The steeper the bank the less chance that the Range Rover would get hung up before it reached the river. The depth and speed of the river itself was a major factor. The river was the murder weapon, and it had to be deep enough and fast enough so that Borga didn't have a chance to escape.

The pictures of the left rear quarter panel of the Range Rover displayed black circles. These were the exact points where Alex would need to strike the Range Rover to make it spin out of control and end up in the river. From here it was pure chance, hoping the vehicle would land upside down in the river.

Alex was going to employ a police tactic known as a PIT, which stands for Precision Immobilization Technique. A maneuver typically seen on the news as the method used by police to knock a fleeing car out of control.

At first, Alex felt that finding the perfect vehicle to push Borga's Range Rover into the river was going to be one of the greatest challenges. But, after some late-night reconnaissance, Alex discovered a gold mine of spare vehicles just waiting to be acquired. Vehicles with virtually no chance of being missed, at least, not right away.

The half dozen locations that Alex had stumbled upon were not used car lots or parking garages. They were employee parking lots for long haul trucking companies.

These employee parking lots were a wealth of available vehicles. Each lot held somewhere between fifty and three hundred cars depending on the size of the trucking company. There were a couple of logistical features that made the vehicles on these parking lots extremely appealing. The first and most important was that the owners of the cars and trucks would park their private vehicles on these lots and be gone for weeks at a time. The second thing that attracted Alex to these parking lots were that most of them had minimal security, limited security lighting, and only one or two security cameras. Another component that made employee parking lots the perfect target for a borrowed vehicle, they were usually located in the light industrial sections of town. These were dark and abandoned areas of the city that were all but forgotten by the local law enforcement agencies, especially after the sun went down.

There was the occasional slow roll by a police patrol, but those were few and far between. The police only patrolled these areas of the city after local business owners complained about a theft in the area. The police patrols would ramp up for a week or two, but before long everything would be back to normal, with the local authorities choosing to patrol more affluent sections of town.

Alex was not the only person that took notice of the vast availability of cars and trucks on these commercial parking lots. There seemed to be a regular network of car thieves, as well as midnight auto parts specialists. Thieves would routinely pay a visit to these facilities looking to score anything from a new set of tires to an entire car.

Alex had even heard two cops in a local diner laughing about the boldness of some thieves that swiped a complete set of tires and rims off a custom pickup. It seems that the thieves brought their own jacks and jack stands to steal the tires and wheels. They successfully took the tires and wheels, and left the truck sitting on the jack stands. The cops figured that leaving behind a hundred dollars' worth of equipment was just part of doing business. But when the truck was still sitting on the jack stands a week later, the thieves came back and retrieved their stands. They left the truck resting on some old wooden blocks. To the cops in the coffee shop, this was the definition of brazen.

Something else that made the choice so easy was that there was a pecking order to how the employees parked their cars in these parking lots. Typically, the office workers had reserved spots close to the front of the building. The local drivers and shop personnel were given parking spaces a little further away from the building. Then came the long-haul drivers that parked their vehicles at the farthest and darkest reaches of the employee parking lots.

All Alex needed to do was select the perfect vehicle and pick the day of the accident. One of the tell-tale signs that the vehicle had been sitting for more than a couple days was a light coating of dust on the hood. Alex narrowed the choice down to one of three older model half ton pickups with heavy chrome bumpers and faded paint jobs. The vehicles were as inconspicuous as possible.

The calculating part of the plan was that Borga's vehicle would have to be struck twice in the exact same place. This needed to be done within twenty-four hours of each other, to make the accident believable. If some overzealous investigator took a closer look at Borga's vehicle after they pulled it out of the river, they might conclude that there was damage to the vehicle that had not been reported. An above average investigator might determine that Paul Borga's death was more than an accident.

The Range Rover would need to be the victim of a hit and run accident on the Thursday before Borga drove up the canyon on Friday morning. The damage would need to be serious enough so that Borga would notice and report the hit and run to his insurance agent, but not so extreme that he would cancel his weekly trip to rush his precious Range Rover to the repair shop. There needed to be a documented report of the damage prior to Borga driving up the canyon.

As Alex studied the information that was spread across the kitchen table, the only thing missing was the exact day that Paul Borga would have his fatal accident.

### Chapter 51

Ridge set the phone back in its cradle and looked at it like it was a brick wall stretching up as far as his eye could see. The call he received ten minutes earlier was from Jackie Adams. She informed him that she could not find any connection between the four widows and the deaths of their husbands. None of the women had ever reported spousal abuse or been admitted to a local emergency room. He asked Jackie about local abuse hotlines. He wondered out loud if there was a chance that someone at one of these facilities could be involved in something this circuitous. Jackie thought about the question for a long time. Ridge listened for almost a full minute. He started to think that she had dropped off the line.

"Jackie, are you still there?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm still here." she said, as if she was not sure what she should say.

Ridge continued to wait while Jackie thought about how she would answer. When she finally did answer, it was as if she was weighing each word separately for impact.

"Mike, there are dozens of public and private agencies dedicated to helping women in these situations."

Ridge heard the gigantic "but" in her voice. He waited for the list of reasons why discovering a murderer in such a well-protected community would be next to impossible. As she gave him the long list of roadblocks that he would encounter, he sat silently at his desk and scribbled notes on a pad of paper. She recited the reasons like they were multiple charges in a money laundering trial.

"First, there are hundreds of these hotlines, both local and national."

"I'm pretty sure that all the women called a local hotline," Ridge interjected.

"Okay, say that it's a local hotline. That narrows it down to about a dozen possibilities. Then, there is the issue of privacy. Do I need to remind you how impossible it is to circumvent those laws? Next, there is the anonymous factor. Do you really believe that every time an abused spouse calls one of these hotlines she gives her full name, or even her real first name?"

Ridge sat listening to Jackie without saying a word. The enormity of trying to find someone associated with both a string of killings, and a domestic abuse hotline hit him like a punch in the gut. He was barely listening to her, when she said something that snapped him out of his distracted state of mind.

"What did you just say?" Ridge asked in an anxious tone.

"I said that there is always the possibility of electronic eaves dropping, depending on how tech savvy your killer is," Jackie repeated.

"Great, I thought that you were supposed to help me narrow my search not expand it," Ridge said in an obvious tone of frustration.

"Mike, don't shoot the messenger. You asked me for my opinion and that's exactly what you are getting."

"You know what they say about opinions?" Ridge said.

"Hey, you get what you pay for," Jackie responded.

"I know, thanks for checking into this for me. I owe you lunch."

"You bet you do, and not at that cheesy diner you hang out at," she teased.

"Hey now, that cheesy diner has the best food in town," Ridge said in a defensive tone.

The two friends exchanged a few more pleasantries and hung up. Ridge sat back in his chair and thought about how he was going to proceed when the phone on his desk started ringing again. He picked up the receiver and said, "Detective Ridgeland."

In a split second, the voice on the other end of the line caused him to bolt out of his chair and grabbing for his jacket as if the building were on fire.

"I'll be right there," was all he said as he fumbled the headset back into its cradle and sprinted out the door.

### Chapter 52

Alex knew that the smart thing to do was to just keep driving up Boulder Canyon until Colorado 119 runs into Colorado 72, and then take the old highway as it wound its way back down into Denver. But the temptation was just too great to see what had happened to Borga. Did he escape from the Range Rover, or had the plan worked exactly like Alex laid it out?

Ten miles up the canyon, Alex succumbed to an infectious curiosity. The old truck pulled off the road, and Alex made a slow U-turn across the highway. The engine whined as the old truck gathered speed in its rapid descent back toward the mangled remains of the Range Rover, hopefully laying upside down in the Boulder River.

Alex watched the accident unfold in the rearview mirror of the old truck. There was no doubt that the Range Rover had flipped over into the river. The only question in Alex's mind was, had Paul Borga managed to escape his watery death?

The drive back down the canyon was a slow decline into anxiety. Each turn in the road was another opportunity for Alex's stomach and heart to change places. Every fisherman in a pair of hip waders was a reminder that someone might have seen the old pickup nudge the Range Rover over the bank and into the river. The closer Alex got to the scene of the accident, the louder the voice in Alex's head screamed to turn around and take the long way back to Denver; back to an opulent apartment and a gourmet meal.

The twists and turns of the old highway mixed with the fear and adrenaline coursing through Alex's veins. A visceral rush that sent Alex into a heightened state of euphoria. The feeling that was pushing Alex back down the canyon was not just revenge or a morbid curiosity. The reason was not a thirst for power or a desire to play God. The reason was as old as time: right vs. wrong.

The five dead men were guilty of deliberate acts of malicious cruelty. From the hundreds of hours that Alex had spent following and watching them, there was no evidence that they showed any signs of remorse or guilt. There was nothing to suggest that the vindictive bastards had any intention of changing their persistent patterns of violence and abuse.

Evil is a conscious choice that feeds off itself and will grow unchecked without an overwhelming force to step in and stop it from becoming all consuming. Alex could hear the legal and moral arguments against one person taking the law into their own hands. The screams and chants from the army of defense attorneys and civil libertarians demanding that the rights of the guilty were the same as or even more important than the rights of the victims. The problem was that the arguments from the defense side of the justice industry were based on reason and logic, and the purveyors of evil did not prescribe to reason or logic. They abandoned reason and logic from their first conscious act of violence.

Alex believed that the choice to inflict pain on another person was based on a raw emotional desire to control and dominate another person. This control was tantamount to physical and psychological slavery. Alex knew from a very young age that abuse was the lowest form of captivity. It robbed the victim of the most basic human right. That was the right to be free; free to think, to live, and to act in our own best interest without fear of evil attempting to control our thoughts and actions.

Alex's hands were relaxed on the wheel as the old truck moved in and out of the curves of the highway, like a roller coaster coming out of the final turns of a carnival ride. The argument about good and evil and right and wrong were still drifting back and forth across Alex's mind, when the scream from a police siren shattered the silence. Alex shot a reflective glance in the rearview mirror and saw that a Sheriff's patrol car was inches away from the back bumper of the old truck, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The patrol car had appeared from out of nowhere and the terror that gripped Alex was as absolute as the canyon walls rising up along the old road.

The old truck came around the next bend in the road and Alex saw a straight stretch of highway, with a turnout a couple hundred yards in the distance. Alex continued to slow the pickup and watch the patrol car in the rearview mirror. Just as Alex switched on the turn signal and started to ease the pickup off the highway, the patrol car shot around the old truck and disappeared around the next corner and out of sight.

Alex breathed a long deep breath and relaxed the white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. It never occurred to Alex that there might be a Sheriff's Deputy coming down the canyon. The assumption was that any police, fire, or rescue personnel would be coming up the canyon from Boulder or Denver.

Alex pulled over into the turnout and switched off the engine. The wind blowing through the tops of the trees mixed with the gentle gurgle of the river across the highway pushed Alex's heart rate back down to its normal range.

The internal argument started again. Turn around and go back up the canyon, or continue down the old highway where police and rescue workers would be going through one of two scenarios? They would either be administering first aid to an injured Paul Borga, or they would be trying to extricate his lifeless body from a watery tomb. Either way, Alex needed to see the result of all the intricate planning and preparation.

### Chapter 53

Ridge burst through the front door and immediately started calling out for the man that had called him fifteen minutes ago in his office.

"Albert, it's Mike Ridgeland," he shouted loud enough to be heard all the way to the backroom of the flower shop.

Albert Taylor came strolling out of the back wiping his hands on an old dish towel and smiling at Ridge like he had just won the lottery.

"Man, you must have run every light between here and Cherokee Street," Taylor joked. Ridge didn't waste any time with small talk.

"What do you have?" he asked impatiently.

Taylor saw the look of anxiety in the detective's eyes and waved him over to the computer.

"Like I told you on the phone, I got another order for that same flower bouquet this morning just before I called you."

Ridge narrowed his eyes and said deliberately, "And the message on the card?"

Taylor waited for a couple seconds just for effect, then he recited the two words written on the card like he was pronouncing a verdict.

"You're Welcome."

Ridge took down all the information that he could and thanked Taylor for the heads up. Then he headed back to his office to do a little homework.

### Chapter 54

The first thing he looked up was the address of where the flower arrangement was being sent. Then he cross-referenced the name on the delivery order and discovered that the name matched a man that had died when his vehicle had landed upside down in the Boulder River.

The man's name was Paul Borga and he was a local branch president at a bank that sounded vaguely familiar. He pulled the name of the investigating officer of the incident and wrote it down along with everything else he had gathered up to that point. Then he sat back in his chair and thought about who he should interview first.

Ridge folded over another sheet of yellow legal paper and began to create a sequential list of who and what he wanted to see, in the order he thought was the most important to his investigation. The list was categorized from top to bottom with the most important at the top:

Investigating Officer

Crime scene

Vehicle

Widow

Albert Taylor

Insurance agent

Ridge placed a bold mark next to Albert Taylor's name, because he had already spoken to Taylor. He hadn't written down Taylor's name because he liked to fill pages and pages of legal paper; he wrote down and checked off Taylor's name because he didn't want to miss a single detail. He stared at the list for a long time, and despite his methodical desire to first see the vehicle along with the crime scene, he decided that there was one person that he must talk to first.

### Chapter 55

Ridge rang the brass doorbell next to the oak front door. He waited patiently and listened for any evidence that someone was home. As he rang the bell for the second time, he guessed that the door and all its ornate design probably cost more than his first car, maybe even his first two cars combined.

The elaborate front door was representative of the affluent house. It sat on an over-sized lot in the Cherry Creek area of Denver, one of the older and more expensive neighborhoods in Colorado. The house screamed of old money and refinement. There were also two matching Mercedes Benz E350 Sedans parked in the driveway.

Ridge could see a shadow moving toward the front door through the etched glass panels. He made out a diminutive figure coming down the hall at a cautious pace. The figure was back-lit by sunlight streaming through a wall of windows at the back of the house, and the figure clearly belonged to that of a woman. Ridge watched intently as the woman stopped about ten feet from the front door and picked up something off a hallway stand. He could not see exactly what she retrieved off the table until she lifted the item to her face. He recognized at that moment as she slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses, then she started slowly walking toward the door. When the woman finally reached the front door, she asked in a voice barely loud enough to hear, "Who is it?"

Ridge pulled his gold shield out of his suit pocket and held it up to the etched glass so that the woman on the other side could at least partially make out the badge.

"Detective Mike Ridgeland, Denver Police Department."

He could see the outline of the woman through the glass panels. She was not in a hurry to open the door for anyone, even though her presence behind the etched glass was so obvious. Ridge watched as she slowly moved her left hand up to where he suspected the deadbolt was secured in place. He heard the bolt snap back. There was more shuffling from behind the door, and he heard the door latch click as it slowly opened.

The woman that opened the door looked like she had not slept in days. There wasn't any evidence that she had been in close contact with a hair brush or any make-up within the last forty-eight hours. Her mouth seemed to be pulled down into a permanent look of despair. Although Ridge could not see directly into her eyes, he was sure that they were red and swollen from crying, and maybe from something worse.

"Mrs. Borga?" Ridge asked.

The woman tried to answer but the sound she made resembled a choked response, like her words were stuck behind a wall of misery. She swallowed hard and managed to push out a single syllable that sounded faintly like a "Yes."

Ridge tried not to stare at the broken woman standing in front of him. He could not stop himself from thinking that if anyone else had walked up to the house at this exact moment, they would have thought that the house was now occupied by a bag lady.

He noticed that the pullover sweater she was wearing was inside out, and her expensive sweatpants were on backwards. Her disheveled ensemble was complete with a pair of heavy woolen socks that didn't quite match. In fact, nothing matched. The sweater didn't match the sweatpants, and the woolen socks looked like they belonged in a hunting magazine. All in all, Mrs. Paul Borga looked like a woman that simply didn't give a damn about anything.

After a moment or two of dead silence, Ridge thought he detected the faint smell of something burning in the house. He looked over her left shoulder and noticed a light cloud of smoke seeping from a room at the end of the hallway.

"I think something's burning," Ridge said, as he pointed behind her.

Mrs. Borga turned her head slowly and looked back down the hall as if the smoke was none of her concern. She didn't move in the direction of the smoke, she just stared at it like she was watching a disaster film.

Ridge didn't wait for an invitation. He slipped around the lethargic woman and ran down the hall in the direction of the smoke. He turned left at the end of the hallway and disappeared out of sight.

Ridge entered the kitchen, he squinted through the smoke at a very expensive skillet sitting atop of a red-hot burner. It had some sort of vegetable and pasta dish smoldering in the pan. He grabbed a pot holder and pushed the smoky concoction off the burner just a split second before the contents burst into flames.

As the flames licked at the edge of the pan, Ridge didn't have time to hunt for a fire extinguisher. He remembered that the best way to extinguish a kitchen fire was with baking soda. He knew just where he would probably find a box. He threw open the refrigerator door and pushed his way to the back of the shelves. He found the box and tore the top off then doused the growing flames with the white powder.

Somewhere between the front door and the smoke-filled kitchen, the smoke alarm began its ear-piercing scream. Ridge slid open all the windows in the kitchen and turned the ventilating fan over the stove on high. Then he grabbed a kitchen towel from a rack beside the sink and waved the towel furiously around the kitchen like he was forcing the smoke to find a way out.

When the smoke dissipated, and the shrieking smoke detector ceased its eighty-five-decibel assault on his eardrums, Ridge could hear Lydia Borga carrying on a one-sided conversation in the hall. He stepped out into the hallway and saw her speaking into the handset of the hall phone. Ridge recognized the manner and cadence of the conversation. Lydia was explaining to the security service that there had been a minor incident in the kitchen, but everything was under control. He watched her say goodbye and slowly put the receiver back in its cradle like she was setting down a delicate piece of crystal.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She took a shallow breath and said without any conviction,

"Yes, I guess so."

Ridge grabbed a glass out of a polished oak cabinet and filled it halfway with some cold water from the dispenser on the refrigerator. Then he went back out into the hallway where he noticed that Lydia had wandered off into another room in the massive house. He walked down the hall looking into each room and up the spiral staircase, just in case she had decided that after all the commotion she needed an escape.

Ridge found her sitting in the main living room of the house staring down at the floor like she was completely lost. He walked over and held out the glass of water, hoping that he would see some sign of life in the dazed woman's eyes. Ridge stood in the middle of the living room for a long minute. Then he did the one thing that years of experience had taught him in these situations, he took control. In a firm, but kind voice, he said,

"Here, I brought you something to drink."

He watched as both of her hands came up and grabbed hold of the glass, but only her hands came up. The rest of her body remained sullen and dejected. Ridge uttered one word, "Drink."

She brought the glass up to her mouth, but the glass was less than half full. In order to drink even the slightest bit of water she would have to lift her head from its current downcast position.

Ridge knew this when he had filled the water glass less than half-full. During his time in the military, he had seen dozens of people in this withdrawn state of collapse.

The human body had built-in safeguards for dealing with horrific personal situations, from car wrecks to battle fatigue. During personal tragedies, it was as if the human body tried to return to a previous state of safety and security, the fetal position.

Ridge had learned early on that the best way to pull someone out of an emotional trauma was to have their body functions lead the way. If he could get her body to perform the simplest of tasks, her mind would follow. He watched as Lydia struggled almost violently with lifting her head to get a small drink of water. He could tell that she desperately wanted the cool drink of water. The question was, did she want the water bad enough to go against everything that her body was telling her, to shut down?

Ridge did not bend down and try to help her feel better about the pain she was going through. He waited until he saw what he was looking for, her head slowly tilting up. Then he did what he had done dozens of times in similar situations, he spoke her name. It was not a request or in the tone of a question, it was a gentle command, "Lydia."

She heard the gentle but commanding tone in his voice, and her head continued up past the rim of the glass. It was as if he had lifted her head simply by saying her name. She held the glass with one hand and reached up with the other. She took off the oversized sunglasses that were covering her swollen eyes.

Lydia's eyes came to rest on the kind and understanding face of Detective Mike Ridgeland, and she smiled up at him. There was a look of relief on her face, like he had just pulled her from a rushing river. It was as if he had rescued her just before she went under for the last time. Ridge smiled back at her without showing any signs of the sickening disgust at what the sunglasses were hiding.

Both of her eyes showed the remnants of recent violence. Her right eye was swollen black and blue along her upper cheek bone, and her left eye had a nasty looking gash that ran down and across her left eyebrow. The injuries were very fresh and were in the early stages of healing. It was clear she had not been treated by a doctor, and if she didn't get some much-needed care, there would be a permanent scar over her left eye. Ridge held out his hand and said,

"Come on, you need some medical attention."

She set the water glass down on the coffee table and allowed Ridge to help her to her feet. When she was standing on her own, Ridge asked her where she kept her first aid kit. Lydia told him that she kept it in the master bathroom upstairs. He escorted her back down the hall to the kitchen and she sat down in the breakfast nook. Then he went upstairs to retrieve the first aid kit. When he got back downstairs, Lydia was resting her chin on her hands and staring out the window at the manicured back yard.

Ridge set the first aid kit down on the table and pulled out a chair so that he was facing her. He opened the kit and pulled out everything he needed to clean and bandage her wounds. His hands moved quickly and competently over her injuries, and before she realized it, he was finished. The first full coherent sentence she uttered was a compliment to her rescuer.

"You've done this before, haven't you?"

"Once or twice," he said casually as he packed up the first aid kit.

Lydia sat with her hands in her lap and her eyes fixed on the polished granite counter top spread out in front of her. Ridge could tell that she was slipping back into a state of mild shock and sadness. He reached over and placed his hand on top of her two hands and asked in a calm voice,

"Can I get you anything else?"

His touch made her jump like she had been poked with a sharp object, but it brought her to her feet and out of her pending funk, like a stiff shot of whiskey. Lydia stood in the middle of her fashionable kitchen. She looked down at the mismatched collection of clothes she had thrown on and realized for the first time just how ridiculous she must look. Her face flushed red and she looked at Ridge like she was seeing him for the first time, like a stranger that had just stepped in front of her on a busy sidewalk. Her embarrassed look was almost child-like. It instantly wiped ten years of pain from her bruised face. She looked nothing like the grief-stricken widow that had answered the door less than an hour ago. There was also a trace of a sparkle in her green eyes. Without any hesitation, she raised her entire body erect and said,

"Detective Ridgeland, if you will excuse me I need to go upstairs and freshen up. I will be back as soon as I can to answer any questions that you have for me. Please make yourself at home. There is plenty of food in the fridge."

Then she stepped around the chair where he had been sitting and headed down the hall for the staircase. Ridge watched her go, and silently hoped that it was not just an act. Was she going upstairs to get better or to harm herself?

Ridge got his answer a few minutes later when he heard the shower running. The running shower was a sign that she wanted to live. He realized that it might be a while before she returned. He wandered over to the polished chrome refrigerator and opened the door.

There must have been a couple hundred dollars' worth of deli meats and cheeses stacked on top of each other. No doubt gifts and token gestures of good will delivered by friends and neighbors, people trying to console a grieving widow that had just lost her husband, and a pillar of the community.

Ridge took three of the designer take-out trays out of the fridge and set to work piecing together some sort of lunch for himself and his host. He could still hear the shower pounding away upstairs, like a thousand tiny jets of relief. A steady stream of hot water providing some comfort to a bruised and battered body is just what she needed.

The truth was, that there had been a dozen times where Ridge had looked and felt physically worse than Lydia. But, he could never remember feeling as emotionally beaten as she looked.

About halfway through preparing their lunch, he got the gnawing desire to call one of the names on his list. He pulled out his phone and leaned against the counter as he dialed, and on the third ring he heard a man's voice say, "Hello."

### Chapter 56

The insurance agent seemed genuinely pleased to hear from Detective Ridgeland. Ridge could hear the man's smile spilling across the phone line. It was so sincere that Ridge found himself smiling back in return. Cooper made some small talk about his insurance business and inquired how his investigation was going. Ridge gave him the standard police response,

"You know; crime never sleeps...."

Cooper finished the sentence, "Yeah, but it does take arrest."

They both laughed hard at the old cop joke. A static silence fell across the phone line and both men waited for the other man to speak, to see where the conversation would go next. Cooper broke the silence by repeating his earlier question, in a slightly more serious tone. He asked Ridge if he still had his doubts about the deaths of his clients. There was a long pause, and Cooper waited patiently while the Detective decided just how much information he was willing to reveal.

Cooper's patience was the result of his fifty plus years on this planet, and thirty years as an insurance agent. He had the ability to remain unhurried while everyone else around him thought that they needed to answer every question and respond to every situation.

Robert Cooper lived by the adage.

"Never miss a chance to keep your mouth shut."

He grew up before thirty second sound bites and gotcha journalism. He remembered watching his father start each day by reading the morning paper from cover to cover and finishing his day by watching the evening news with Walter Cronkite.

He respected people that listened to every side of a story before they made up their minds, and he admired people that actually thought about what they were going to say before they said it.

Cooper remembered watching a Senate confirmation hearing of one of the sitting Supreme Court Justices. The publicized Senate hearings were twenty years after the infamous Watergate incident, and the media was in full attack mode leading up to the hearings. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein had inspired an entire generation of journalistic piranhas that called themselves journalists.

There was one image that stuck in his mind from those Senate hearings. Even to this day, he could still see the image in his mind like it was a replay of the evening news last night. Shortly before the Senate hearings, Cooper installed a nineteen-inch color television in the corner of his office. It was mounted on one of those self-suspending arms that you saw in hospital rooms and motels. He was watching the hearings with the detached interest of a news junkie when Senator Edward Kennedy asked a provocative question of the potential Supreme Court nominee. The question was not what grabbed Cooper's interest, but how the nominee responded to the question. The nominee's response made him put down the file he was reading and focus all his attention on the television.

After hearing the question, the nominee thought for a long moment, then said,

"That is an interesting question, Senator Kennedy. Let me think about that for a minute."

Then the nominee did just that. He sat back in his chair and thought about the question. The Senate chamber was packed to the rafters with spectators and television cameras and millions of television viewers watching. The Supreme Court nominee took a thoughtful two minutes to think about the question he had been asked.

### Chapter 57

To this day, Cooper did not remember the question or the answer. He did remember the moment when a man with millions of eyes on him, took the time to think about what he was going to say. And at this exact moment, Ridge reminded Cooper of that Supreme Court nominee.

When Ridge finally replied to Cooper's question, it sounded a lot like an answer that a Supreme Court nominee might give.

"I'm discovering that the deeper I dig the less I want to be proved right," Ridge said thoughtfully.

Cooper let the comment sink in for a long moment, then he asked in his cut-to-the-bone manner,

"How can I help you, Detective?"

Cooper could hear Ridge draw a short deep breath before he began,

"I have reason to believe that there is another murder, similar to the ones I have been investigating."

Cooper didn't hesitate, "Do you have a name?"

"Borga, Paul Borga," Ridge said quietly.

At that moment, Ridge heard the shower turn off upstairs. He didn't want Lydia to hear him use her husband's name on the phone.

"That doesn't sound familiar but let me check." Cooper said.

It was Ridge's turn to wait as he heard rapid fingers tapping on a keypad. He thought that Cooper must be using a headset, because it sounded like all ten fingers were flying across the keyboard like a concert pianist. It only took about thirty seconds for Cooper to confirm that there was no one on his client list with that name.

Cooper could almost feel the mild disappointment seeping over the phone. Detective Ridgeland had asked the question about Paul Borga being one of Cooper's clients, like he already knew the answer. He did what most people do when their certainty was shattered. He asked,

"Are you sure?"

Cooper responded patiently but firmly,

"Sorry detective, no Paul Borga in the system."

There was a moment of silence and Ridge thanked Cooper for his time and hung up the phone. This just didn't make sense. Paul Borga was dead. Robert Taylor had told him that the exact same flowers were ordered for Lydia Borga. And she was clearly the victim of a brutal beating, but where was the blood money?

He could hear Lydia moving around upstairs. She was probably finding clothes that matched and putting on enough make-up to cover her bruises. She would be back downstairs in a few minutes, and Ridge went back to fixing their lunch. As he put the finishing touches on their salads, he thought about what he was missing. He was going through the motions of slicing some smoked salmon, when he looked down at the handle of the knife he was holding. He recognized the brand of the knife from when he was stationed in Germany. It was a Wusthof Ikon Blackwood chef's knife, made in Solingen, Germany. If he remembered correctly, the nine-inch Chef's knife cost almost three hundred dollars. It wasn't the only expensive knife in the kitchen. There was a complete set of the high-priced knives sticking out of an African Blackwood block.

He stared at the knife like it was part of the answer he was searching for. What was he missing? Ridge turned the knife over in his hand and looked over at the rest of the knives sticking out of the wood block. Then his mind dilated like he had just stepped out of a dark tunnel. The answer was not just staring him in the face, he was holding it in his hand. Lydia had not received a huge insurance settlement because she didn't need the money. Paul and Lydia Borga were already rich.

Ridge was working under the supposition that the deaths of the husbands were a means to an end. He believed that the men were killed to pay insurance money to the widows. He was now realizing that the money was simply a by-product of the murders, the money was just a tool to help the women start a new life. A life without having to worry about their safety or security. The reason that they were murdered was deeper than just a sizable insurance settlement. It was not just about getting even. It was about starting over with a clean slate.

Whoever was committing these murders was attempting to provide a way for these widows to initiate a life without pain or fear. A life that didn't involve always wondering when the next beating would come, or how they could conceal their bruises from friends and family. The murders were not about revenge or retribution. They were not only about money or a lifestyle change. They were about the ultimate gift, freedom.

### Chapter 58

Ridge heard Lydia coming down the stairs just as he put the finishing touches on the two salads. He was wiping off the expensive knife and sliding it back into the wooden block when she stepped out of the hallway and into the kitchen.

Lydia went a little farther than a hot shower and a little makeup. She looked like she was dressed for a garden party at the country club. Her hair was still a little wet from the shower and was pulled up in a French bun. Her make-up was expertly applied, it almost covered the black and blue bruise under her right eye. The swelling was still there, but it was less noticeable with the shading she had applied. She was now wearing a pastel summer dress and a pair of beach sandals. It looked like she had even taken a few minutes to paint the nails of her finger and toes.

Ridge could tell that there was still a little sadness that a hot shower, a change of clothes, and a little make-up could not hide, but he was sure that the gradual healing process had begun.

Lydia looked at the two salads that Ridge had prepared for them,

"Isn't this a little above and beyond the call of duty, Detective Ridgeland?" she asked.

He gave her a culpable smile and said, "Our motto: Protect and Serve."

"I didn't know that lunch fell under the category of serve," she said.

Ridge set the plates down on the table and invited Lydia to have a seat. While she sat down, he poured them each a glass of iced tea. Lydia waited for Ridge to sit down before she uttered a short prayer and crossed herself. He guessed that she was giving thanks for more than just the salad sitting in front of her.

They ate in silence as Lydia waited for the inevitable questions to come. Ridge watched for obvious signs that she was ready to discuss what had happened to her. He could tell with each bite that Lydia was re-claiming some of her self-respect. The subtle changes in her posture were gradually shaking off the carnage that she had lived through over the last week, probably over the last few years. The intervals between the uncomfortable silence that she spent staring down into her salad and glancing up just long enough to flash a timid smile at Ridge were becoming shorter and shorter.

The small talk changed from light comments about how good the salad was to more serious topics, like how long Ridge had been a detective. Lydia then asked Ridge if he was married or had a steady girlfriend. At that point in the conversation, Ridge knew that she was as ready as she was going to be for his questions.

He began, "Lydia, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

He watched her set her fork down and take a long drink of her iced tea and realized that she was stalling for time. She took a deep breath, preparing for the ordeal. Then she said, "Go ahead, I will tell you anything that you want to know. I owe you that much."

"Mrs. Borga, you don't owe me anything. I just want to make sure that you are okay."

Ridge began, "Did you ever tell anyone about your husband's behavior?"

"Nobody that could do anything about it," she said.

Ridge was sure that he knew what she meant by her last comment, but he wanted to hear her say it. He didn't want to coax anything out of her that she wasn't willing to volunteer on her own.

"I called a domestic abuse hotline a couple of months ago," she said.

Ridge heard a click in his head as loud as the sound a .357 magnum revolver makes when the hammer snaps back into the firing position.

There was a common thread that ran through this case that Ridge just couldn't ignore. The main thread was that five men were dead. The second thread pointed to severe domestic violence. There was a minor but not insignificant thread that none of the couples involved had any children.

Ridge was not sure how much weight this small fact carried, maybe none, but it was a footnote in his mental file. The next thread was the five matching flower bouquets from the same florist. The last thread was the most powerful, the money. That was until Robert Cooper informed him that he had no insurance policy on the latest accident victim.

Ridge was struggling with justifying why the Borga's wealth prevented whoever was committing the murders from taking out an insurance policy on Paul Borga. It was a logical conclusion, but it was still a break in the pattern.

"Do you remember anything about the person you spoke to on the hotline?" he asked.

"No, I'm afraid not," Lydia said apologetically.

"How long did the call last?" Ridge asked.

"I don't know, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes."

Lydia Borga leaned forward in her chair, and asked,

"What does who I spoke to six months ago have to do with my husband's death?"

"Maybe nothing," Ridge said and shrugged dismissively.

Lydia could tell that he was not being totally honest with her by the way he gave her a forced smile. The smile was followed by his eyes glancing down at the empty salad plate in front of him. Ridge thought about what he would say next. Then he looked up at her and asked,

"Mrs. Borga, do you mind me asking how much your husband was worth?"

Lydia smiled and let out a faint laugh. The combination of her laughter and the amused look on her face surprised him. It was the first real sign of life he saw in her eyes since they had met. The look confused him.

"Did I say something funny?" he asked.

"Detective Ridgeland, my husband wasn't worth anything."

Then she added, "In more ways than one."

Ridge still had a bewildered look on his face. Lydia decided to clear up his confusion,

"Detective Ridgeland, all of this is mine."

Ridge heard the hint of ownership in her voice. She was not speaking in the future tense. Lydia was not suggesting that since her husband had died she would now inherit their community property. He understood that everything the couple owned came from Lydia. Paul Borga had married money.

She continued, "My husband didn't have a dime to his name when we got married. When we first met, he was a handsome assistant bank manager, with a big title and two-hundred thousand dollars in student loans."

Lydia smiled again when she saw the curious look on the detective's face. She tried to answer his question before he could ask it,

"I can't explain why I didn't divorce him, Detective. I have asked myself that question a thousand times."

"Did you have a prenup?" Ridge asked.

"No, but that was not the reason. If I had divorced Paul, and he had gotten half of everything, I would still have had enough money to last me for three lifetimes."

"Do you mind me asking...?"

"Coal and gas mining," Lydia interrupted.

"My father started a company back in the early fifties that was heavily involved in coal mining and natural gas exploration. When he sold the company, and retired in 1998, he made a rather unique arrangement with the international conglomerate that bought his company. He settled for a lump sum that was less than the company was worth, along with an annual percentage of the gross sales of the company. They would pay his heirs for as long as the facilities produced coal, based on the mineral rights of the locations not just the ownership of the company."

"So, it didn't matter what name was on the front door of the company, your family receives a share of the revenue based on the mineral rights of the coal reserves."

"In a nutshell, yes," Lydia said.

"The meek shall inherit the earth, but the smart will keep the mineral rights," Ridge said with a slight grin.

"Sounds like your father was a sharp guy," Ridge added.

"He was," Lydia said with a look of sadness in her eyes.

"With all this wealth, why did your husband stay in banking?" Ridge asked.

"Prestige, status, control, pick one," Lydia said with obvious disdain.

"Which one do you vote for?" Ridge asked.

Lydia didn't hesitate for a second,

"Control. Everything in Paul's life was about absolute control. The tellers at the bank had a nickname for my husband when it came to approving loans: 'The Terminator.' The head teller told me in confidence one time, over a glass of Chardonnay, that Paul truly enjoyed turning people down for loans."

"Then why did the bank keep him?" asked Ridge.

"Because the loans that he did approve were some of the most profitable loans in any of the bank branches." There was a slight pause and then she added, "And his father was on the board of directors of the bank."

Ridge gave her a knowing glance and stood up to take his plate over to the sink. Lydia also stood and walked over to the sink, set her plate down on top of his, and said,

"Detective, I don't mean to be rude, but I really could use a nap. It's been a tough week for me."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to overstay my welcome. I need to get going myself."

Lydia walked Ridge to the front door and stuck out her hand,

"Thank you, Detective Ridgeland, you are truly a life saver."

Ridge shook her hand and stepped out into the bright afternoon sun. He walked to his car and climbed in. Ridge pulled out of the opulent driveway and turned right toward the police impound lot. This is where Paul Borga's Range Rover was taken after they pulled it out of the Boulder River.

### Chapter 59

The metal gates slid back on their galvanized rails, and Ridge pulled his Crown Victoria through the opening and onto the police impound lot. The older black lady at the front desk of the impound lot checked him in and gave him a rough idea of where the Range Rover was dropped in the yard.

Ridge made his way to the far back corner of the lot and drove along at a walking pace until he found Borga's Range Rover parked in the last row. The car's nose was sticking nose out with its back bumper snugged up tight against the tall barbed wire fence. It was not going to be easy for him to make a complete circle around the vehicle, to say nothing of the two-foot-high weeds that had almost overtaken the fence line of the impound lot.

Ridge climbed out of his car and took a cursory look at the vehicle. The roof was caved in about eight inches and the front windshield was gone. There were deep dents across the hood and down both sides of the vehicle. All the side windows were either broken out or smashed beyond recognition and both side mirrors were missing. In a word, the Range Rover was demolished.

As Ridge stood studying the vehicle, he pulled out his pack of gum and slipped two pieces out into his mouth. He folded the wrappers and put them in his pocket without taking his eyes off the vehicle. Just as he started to walk down the driver's side of the vehicle, he heard what sounded like a golf cart come to a stop behind his car. He looked over the hood and saw a tall thin black man about forty-five years old, with a full head of coal black hair and a broad friendly smile, walking toward him.

"Detective Ridge, what are you doing slumming around the repo-graveyard? Did you get demoted to traffic investigations?"

"I'm in the market for a good used car, any suggestions Denny?" Ridge asked.

Dennis Washington burst out laughing in a deep baritone voice that could be heard all the way across the impound lot. He stuck out his big paw and shook hands with Detective Ridgeland like they were old friends that hadn't seen each other in years. Then he pointed at the Range Rover and said, "Pulled this one in myself, what you want to know about her?"

"Looks pretty bad, did they have a hard time fishing it out of the river?" Ridge asked.

"Lord yes, they shut the highway down for three hours and brought in a crane. The darn thing flipped over in mid-air and landed upside down between two boulders."

"I read the report. They couldn't get the body out until after they had pulled it out of the river," Ridge offered.

"Yep, good thing the guy was belted in or he might have floated away when they started winching it up the river bank," Denny said with a devilish laugh.

"Denny, did you notice anything out of the ordinary when you were strapping it down to the wrecker?" Ridge asked.

Denny stuck his mammoth hands into his coveralls and leaned in close to Ridge,

"Detective Ridge are you asking me for my professional opinion?"

"I am," said Ridge, without any hesitation.

The smile on Denny's face broadened. His chest puffed out and Ridge thought that the buttons on his overalls would pop off.

"Well, since you asked, there was something a little strange about the back-left quarter panel."

"How strange?" Ridge asked.

"Come on, take a look." Denny said as he stepped around Ridge and led the way to where the back bumper was pressed up against the fence.

When Denny reached the back of the vehicle, he knelt down and ran his fingers over the rear quarter panel.

"Do you see this, detective? It looks like it was hit by another vehicle." Denny said.

"Denny, you're right, but there was an accident report turned in the day before you fished this vehicle out of the river. The guy that owned this vehicle called his insurance agent and claimed that he was the victim of a hit and run, the day before."

"I got that information as well, Detective, but that is what is so strange about this fender bender."

Denny motioned Ridge to look closer at the point of impact.

"Look here detective, the metal under the bumper is pinched together."

Ridge looked as close as he could to where Denny was pointing. There was a piece of metal that looked like it had been squeezed together in a vise.

"Isn't that pretty common in an accident?" Ridge asked.

### Chapter 60

Dennis Jacob Washington started working at the police impound yard when he was a junior in high school. Working at the impound yard was the only job Denny ever had, and he enjoyed working there more than he would ever admit. He loved arranging the cars so that they could be picked up and claimed without causing their owners too much grief. He enjoyed helping the poor souls that came to retrieve their cars and showing them the best way to haul them away. But mostly, Denny loved figuring out how cars wound up in his impound yard.

The steady stream of cops, tow truck drivers, and civilians that made their way through the impound yard looked at Denny as just a regular guy. A guy that was content with working at a low skilled job, without much chance of advancement. Some of the unenlightened nicknamed him Dumb Denny. None of the small-minded assholes that referred to Denny by this insult were brave enough to say it to his face. The whispers and stifled laughter when he was around reminded Denny of what his father used to tell him.

"Denny my boy, the people that know the least about you always have the most to say."

When Denny suspected that he was the butt of one of these petty insults by someone that knew nothing about him, he would simply stare at the person for a long moment with a devious smile and utter a single syllable, "Huh." This modest reply usually elicited two responses. The person that Denny aimed the "Huh" at, would normally retreat into embarrassed silence. And the people that knew Denny best would burst out into a roaring laughter.

The people that had been around Denny for a while knew exactly what the single syllable statement implied. It was Denny's way of saying,

"I think that you are completely full of crap, and you don't know a damn thing about me."

There was a lot of implication contained in the three little letters, but Denny mastered the retort with the ease of a New York comic in a Harlem night club.

Yes, Denny had a talent for seeing things that other people missed, especially when it came to wrecked cars. And if anyone really took the time to get to know Denny, they were usually amazed at his capabilities.

Whenever a new vehicle came onto the yard, Denny would analyze the vehicle like he was investigating a major crime. He would study the vehicle from every angle and try to determine the exact nature of the accident. Next, Denny would write down what he thought had happened in a black leather-bound notebook that he kept in the breast pocket of his overalls. Finally, he would go to the office and read the accident report to see if he was right, and more times than not he was dead on.

Denny's subtle investigation skills were the source of fascination and great amusement among the staff of the impound yard. It also garnered attention from the cops and investigators that visited the yard on a routine basis. He extended this insightful little guessing game to include cars that were impounded for other reasons besides being in an accident. The list of reasons that a car could be impounded were a lot longer than most people knew, and Denny knew them all, from being crucial evidence in a crime to non-payment of child support. There were dozens of reasons why vehicles wound up in his care. And Denny had become very perceptive at discerning why a vehicle rolled through the security gate and into his world. He had even gotten to the point where he could tell between a car that was impounded for pot and one that was impounded for alcohol.

Denny had even won his share of wagers based on his insights and prognostications. Once or twice he had even been called as a witness in traffic court based on his observations.

### Chapter 61

Denny leaned back against the fence and looked at Ridge like he was about to explain multiplying fractions to his youngest son.

"Detective Ridge, if a car gets hit from a slight angle, the sheet metal will bend away from the impact. It folds in that direction. If the car is hit again at a different angle, the sheet metal will fold back in the other direction."

Denny let that sink in for a moment and then pointed back to the piece of sheet metal under the bumper. It looked like it was folded in two different directions and came to rest sticking straight up out of the point of impact.

"Denny are you saying that this car was hit twice in the same place?" Ridge asked.

"Looks like that to me," Denny said in a confident tone.

"Did you mention this to the accident investigators?" asked Ridge.

Denny smiled a devious smile and stood up with his back to the fence. Ridge followed suit and stood up facing him.

"Detective Ridge, have you ever heard the old saying,

'Don't ask for my opinion and then get mad when I tell you the truth."

Ridge leaned back against the fender of the Range Rover and pulled his pack of gum out of his suit pocket. He offered the pack to Denny, and asked,

"Denny am I the only cop in the Rockies that asks your opinion?"

Denny kept his eyes locked on the Detective, but he responded with a disarming smile and a slight dip of his head. A look that resembled mutual respect between equals, rather than a decorated detective shooting the breeze with a wrecker jockey.

"No, but you're one of the few cops who actually listens to what I got to say."

The moment the words left Denny's mouth his smile got a little wider and he gave Ridge a deliberate wink. Ridge reached back and rested both hands on the fender. He was waiting for Denny to parcel out the rest of what he wanted to show him.

"I'm guessing that you found something else that you want me to see?" Ridge asked slowly.

Denny stepped past Ridge and grabbed onto the driver's side door handle of the Range Rover with his massive hands. He pulled with all his might, but only managed to pry the door open just enough so he could squeeze his big frame sideways into the driver's side of the Range Rover. Ridge could tell that Denny was reaching down onto the floorboard of the vehicle for something. When Denny forced his way back out of the car he was holding a clear plastic bag with what looked like shattered pieces of red plastic. He handed the bag to Ridge and waited for the detective to take a long hard look at the contents of the bag.

"Tail light?" Ridge said without much interest.

Denny just nodded his head and offered a muffled, "Uh huh."

After looking back and forth between the bag and Denny's broad smile, Ridge got a speculative look on his face, and asked,

"Denny, where did you sweep these up in relation to the crash?"

"Just to the right of the center line, Detective Ridge."

Ridge smiled like he had just got the punchline to a joke.

"I wonder why pieces of the tail-light would be doing that close to the center of the highway..."

Denny finished his sentence for him,

"Especially when the car supposedly didn't make contact with anything on that highway, until it struck the guardrail and flipped over into the river."

"Denny, did you know that someone might be stopping by to have a closer look at what's left of the vehicle?" Ridge asked.

"Knowing and suspecting are two completely different things, Detective."

Ridge smiled and shook his head,

"You missed your calling Denny. You should have been a detective."

"No sir, Detective Ridge. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. Besides, you detectives have way too many people breathing down your necks for my taste."

Ridge let out a short but biting laugh, and said,

"That's for damn sure Denny, that's for damn sure."

Ridge shook hands with Denny and thanked him for his 'brilliant observations.' The genuine compliment was reflected in the broad smile and sincere delight in Denny's dark brown eyes.

Ridge climbed back into his car and watched as Denny made a U-turn in his golf cart and went off to find another automotive mystery to puzzle out. As Denny disappeared out of sight in a cloud of dust, Ridge pulled out his pocket notebook and drew a line through the entry labeled vehicle. Then he looked over his list to see what was left for him to do surrounding this latest investigation.

His eyes stopped at the name of the investigating officer. He asked himself if he should even bother speaking to the officer after the illuminating conversation he just had with Denny. He had already read the official report filed by the officer, so he knew the basic facts surrounding the incident. What he didn't know was what the officer thought about what she saw when she first arrived at the accident scene.

Ridge called the sheriff's office and discovered that the deputy that was first on the scene was on duty, and he was currently doing some target practice at the training center.

### Chapter 62

Ridge stood behind the protective glass barrier and watched as the deputy slid her service weapon out of its holster and fired all nine rounds from her Sig Sauer 226 like she had done it a thousand times in row without a break. He could see the rounds punch holes in the red center mass of the black silhouette target. It was a tight pattern that reminded him that he also needed a little practice time on the range. There was a black dot in the middle of the red field that was a little larger than a quarter. Most of the nine holes in the target were grouped less than two inches from the black center dot, with three of the holes inside the black dot.

When the deputy finished firing, she holstered her weapon and pressed the button on the wall of the shooting station. She waited for the target to slide down the wire and reach her. As the target came closer, she pulled off her ear and eye protection and set them on the counter. When the target stopped in front of her, she pulled it down and studied it like she was examining a very old oil painting.

Ridge knew exactly what she was doing. She was not admiring how well the shots were placed. She was trying to figure out how she could place all nine shots in the black dot. He had performed the same ritual every single time he visited the practice range.

"Nice shooting," Ridge said.

His words caught her attention, but she didn't turn around or alter her breathing. Having that sixth sense that someone was close by was as essential to being a cop as placing three rounds out of nine in the middle of a very small target. Without turning around, she held the target up to the light so that she could study it a little closer, maybe even so he could see it better.

"Any suggestions?" she asked with genuine curiosity.

"Just one," Ridge said in a casual tone.

Still holding the target up to the light, Deputy Morgan glanced over her left shoulder with a look of open anticipation. Ridge could see in her eyes that she was hoping for that one tiny nugget of wisdom that would help her place all nine rounds in the center of the target. Ridge took a sip out of the tall coffee he had picked up on the way out to the range, he gave her a knowing smile and said,

"Get out of your own way."

She gave him a slight frown and turned back toward the target.

Deputy Alissa Morgan's auburn ponytail pulled tight behind her head and a pair of green eyes that jumped off her pale skin like a pair of opals lying on a sandy white beach. He watched the piercing look in her green eyes when he had not delivered the response she was hoping for. Ridge tried to make up for it by adding,

"Your form is technically perfect."

"Then why aren't all nine shots in the black circle?" she asked with a little indignation.

"You're getting in your own way," Ridge repeated candidly.

She tilted her head slightly to one side and looked at him like he had slipped off the deep end of the sanity pool.

"Hang another target," he said without any explanation.

With temperate hesitation, Deputy Morgan clipped another target to the wire and pushed the button that sent the target sliding away from her. She put her safety gear on and reloaded her weapon. When she was ready, Ridge told her to aim her weapon at the target, but not to pull the trigger. After a long minute, Ridge said in a voice just above a whisper,

"Focus as hard as you can on just the black dot." He said nothing while she focused. Then he continued,

"Block out everything else except the black dot."

He let her concentrate for twenty seconds on nothing but the black dot, then he said in a slow steady voice, "Now, close your eyes."

Even from where Ridge was standing behind the young deputy, he could tell that her body was more relaxed, and her mind was at ease. He could hear her slow, even breathing, and see that the muscles in her neck and shoulders were less strained. When Ridge could tell that she was totally relaxed, he said,

"When I count to three, open your eyes and fire." He waited until she reached the bottom of her next breath and began to count.

"One." She breathed in.

"Two." She breathed out.

"Three," Ridge said, and he watched her finger slowly squeeze the trigger one time after another, until the Sig Sauer was empty.

After the last bullet left the end of the muzzle, Deputy Morgan held the pistol straight out in front of her like she was frozen in place. Her body was completely motionless and Ridge was having a hard time seeing her shallow breathing. He rotated his eyes from the young deputy to the target. It was then that he saw why she was not moving. She was savoring the moment. The holes that the nine slugs had made in the target were grouped together so tightly that it almost looked like one large circle with smaller half circles around the edges.

From where Ridge stood he was sure that some of the rounds had passed through the circle without touching any of the target. The close-knit collection of circles was not dead center in the middle of the black dot, they were just slightly to the right of center. But the correction that she would need to make to put all nine shots dead center was miniscule.

Deputy Morgan turned and looked at Ridge like he had shared a profound secret with her. She wore an astonished smile on her face and a look in her eyes that resembled pure amazement.

"See, you just need to get out of your own way," he said as if he had nothing to do with what just happened.

"I owe you one, detective," she said gratefully.

"No, you would have figured it out on your own. I just helped you with a little focus."

She looked at him skeptically and shot him a smile that told him that she knew better.

"So, did you come all the way out here just to give me some private shooting lessons, Detective, or is there something else on your mind?" she asked.

"I wanted to talk to you about that vehicle that was pulled out of Boulder River the other day. I understand that you were first on the scene?"

She nodded thoughtfully like she was remembering the entire scene from start to finish, then she said,

"There is not much to tell, it just looked like the guy driving that car had some really bad luck."

"How bad?" Ridge asked.

The Deputy thought for a moment and then said with a slight hesitation,

"Well, there didn't appear to be any reason for him to lose control of the vehicle like he did."

"What do you mean? People lose control of their vehicles all the time." Ridge stated.

"Yes, but there is always a reason," she said firmly.

Ridge didn't say anything. Morgan started running down the list of reasons why the Range Rover should not have lost control, let alone winding up in the river like it did.

"For one, the accident happened in broad daylight without any trace of moisture on the road. Second, it was too late in the morning for an animal like a deer or an elk to run across the road in front of the driver. The nearest game trail to the river is a half a mile up the road. Third, there were no tracks in the dirt alongside the road where he might have overcompensated when his tires slipped off the highway. I don't have to tell you how many accidents that little maneuver causes on those winding canyon roads."

Ridge listened very carefully to everything she had to say, and then he said,

"I read your report. No one saw the accident happen."

"No, Detective. A call came into dispatch around eight thirty in the morning from a fisherman, asking if someone had reported a vehicle upside down in the Boulder River."

"How did the guy look after they pulled him out of the river?"

"Very dead." Then she added,

"There was a pretty nasty gash on the left side of his head and the driver's side window had a spider-web crack in it. I think that his head struck the side window during the roll-over and my guess is that it knocked him out cold."

"Why do you think that?" he asked.

"There was no evidence that he attempted to roll down the side window to escape. There was only the cracked window and a four-inch gash down the left side of his skull."

"Anything else?" Ridge asked.

Morgan thought for a moment and then added,

"Yes, the knuckles on his right hand were bruised like he had punched something in the last few days. No broken bones or stitches, but the guy had definitely smashed into something within the last week."

### Chapter 63

Ridge took out his pack of gum and offered the deputy a piece, then he pulled out two fresh sticks and popped them in his mouth. He remembered reading something on the daily report a day or two ago about a civilian that was beaten badly outside of a trendy restaurant in downtown Denver.

According to bystanders outside the restaurant, a well-dressed man in his mid-forties just started beating another patron over almost nothing. The guy that ended up in the hospital had accidentally stepped on the wingtips of the attacker's shoes while they were standing in line waiting to get into the restaurant. The man apologized profusely, but this just emboldened the attacker.

The more the man tried to apologize the angrier he became. Suddenly the attacker grabbed the apologetic man by the lapels of his coat and started hitting him repeatedly in the face. He continued hitting him until the man looked like a bloody rag doll.

As quickly as it had begun, the attacker stopped hitting the man and let go of his lapels. The man with the bloody face fell to the ground in a heap. He was clearly unconscious. The bystanders were so shocked and surprised that no one moved as the attacker straightened his suit coat. Then he grabbed his date by the arm and disappeared around the corner.

The people in line outside the restaurant gave a brief description of the man to the police. The entire thing happened so fast and everyone was so shocked that no one really got a good look at the attacker. It was one of those unreal occurrences where the savagery of the moment suspended the belief system of every person watching. It was only a flash of time when people's eyes can't believe what they are seeing, and their minds won't grasp the depth of brutality right in front of them.

The only identifying piece of information given to the police came from a young girl that was acting as the sidewalk hostess for the restaurant. The girl was moving up and down the sidewalk with her leather-bound notepad, taking names and assuring patrons that the meal would be well worth the wait.

She was an attractive girl in her early twenties, with a blonde ponytail and a sparkling pair of light blue eyes that could charm the most impatient of customers.

When the commotion began, she was making her way back to the front of the line. She had heard the initial outburst by the attacker, and the heartfelt apology by the man that committed the egregious error. When she turned toward the escalating violence, her blue eyes had stopped on the woman that was with the attacker. The woman was staring down at the ground without a trace of hope on her face. She was clearly embarrassed and resigned to what was about to happen.

The hostess told the police that she had seen dozens of these minor sidewalk confrontations during her time as a hostess. Most of the time the man's date could exercise some well-placed feminine control over a man. Most women could use their feminine influence to calm down an impatient or angry guy that spent a little too much time at happy hour. But this woman was different, the look on her face was that of total resignation. It was as if she knew where the confrontation was headed, and she knew that there was nothing she could do that would stop the inevitable. She even looked as if she were relieved that the man's anger was directed somewhere else for a change. The hostess explained further, that after the attacker finished beating the man and dropped him to the sidewalk, he turned to the woman and commanded,

"Let's go."

Ridge made a mental note to read the official police report on the restaurant incident when he got back to headquarters. He and Deputy Morgan talked a few more minutes about the accident and about how difficult it was to extract the Range Rover from the river. Morgan told him that when they were finally able to lift the Range Rover out of the water, the kayak that was strapped to the roof came loose from its straps and started floating down the river. It looked like it was a lone horse riding away from a battle without its rider. She told Ridge that the kayak was a little bruised and beaten, but with a little care, someone downstream would end up with a very nice kayak. Ridge found himself thinking about Lydia. She was also a little bruised and beaten, but someone downstream would end up with a hell of a woman.

### Chapter 64

Jackie grabbed her oversized bag along with her favorite travel mug of coffee and headed for the front door of the crisis center. She volunteered for the Sunday morning shift after she spoke to Ridge earlier in the week. The shift was from six o'clock AM. to eleven o'clock AM. and it was probably one of the easier shifts that someone could volunteer for at the crisis center.

Sunday morning seemed to be an innate cosmic timeout for wife beaters and domestic violence. It may have been because most acts of domestic violence occurred on Friday and Saturday nights, which also coincided with the massive consumption of alcohol and drugs. Jackie speculated that most wife beaters were probably passed out or hung over on Sunday mornings from drunken binges, or it was also possible that some of the more prominent wife beaters were sitting in the choir lofts and polished pews of local churches, pretending to be fine upstanding members of society. Or maybe, just maybe, even the evilest didn't want to commit acts of violence on a Sunday morning. Even the worst scumbags didn't want to risk the wrath of God on what is considered by many to be the Lord's day.

Jackie could always tell when she got a call on a Sunday morning from a wife or girlfriend of a passed-out abuser. The voice on the other end of the line was always less than a whisper, like the girl was afraid to wake her boyfriend or husband.

On more than one occasion, Jackie found herself wanting to say to the girl cowering in fear on the other end of the line,

"Listen honey, now would be a perfect time to go to the kitchen, grab the heaviest frying pan you can find, and beat the living shit out of that worthless bastard that you are living with. Then pack all your things that you care about and get the hell out of there."

As much as Jackie would have loved to blurt out those pearls of wisdom, she knew that it might cause more problems for the girl than it would solve. She knew from her years of training and experience that for someone to walk away from a life of abuse, there needed to be a plan. A plan which included a safe place, both emotionally and physically. The escape plan would also require money and a support group of people to lean on. All the things that would give the abused woman the best chance of getting away and staying out of an abusive lifestyle. Although she favored the beating the bastard within an inch of his worthless life option.

Jackie stopped at a few cubicles on her way out of the crisis center and spoke to people she had not seen in months. She missed the women that gave so much in return for so little reward. They were women who were victims of domestic abuse themselves. They not only escaped from its horror but decided to help other women do the same.

Jackie was almost to the front desk when she recognized an attractive African-American woman as she stepped through the front door of the crisis center. The woman was tall and athletically built with a light brown complexion and deep set dark brown eyes that looked almost translucent.

"Good morning Tina. Nice to see you again," Jackie said warmly.

The two women hugged, and Jackie asked Tina if she was still putting up with all the old cronies and flirtatious cops at the diner. Tina held out her hand and pointed her index finger at her palm,

"Got them right there, sweetie," Tina said with a devious smirk.

The two women burst out laughing at the thought of Tina bustling around the diner pouring coffee and charming the steady stream of regulars that considered the diner their second home.

### Chapter 65

The two women met shortly after Tina moved to Denver five years ago. They were in the same Brazilian Jujitsu class together and despite their differences they had become friendly rivals on the competition mat. Both women were lean and athletic, but each had subtle differences in their fighting styles that made their frequent bouts very interesting to watch. Tina was taller and had a longer reach than Jackie. Jackie had a tenacious close-in fighting style that made her a perfect candidate for Brazilian Jujitsu, especially since this style of martial arts focused on leverage and ground fighting.

They became natural competitors, since most of the rest of the class were not anxious to take on either one of them. Although both women had won their fair share of matches, their competitions usually ended in a draw, or the instructor used their stalemate as a teaching tool for the class.

It was Jackie's idea for Tina to volunteer at the crisis center and they had even worked the same shift at the center for almost a year. That was until Jackie's work schedule got so overloaded that she decided to take a break from her volunteer work. Tina continued to volunteer at the crisis center, as it gave her a great deal of satisfaction to help women that were in some very tough situations. She saw her work at the crisis center as giving a purpose to her own life, as well as a personal mission to put a halt to the egregious violence committed against women. She felt a great kinship for the women that thought they were too weak to defend themselves or too scared to act.

The two women talked for another fifteen minutes and promised to get together to catch up. As Jackie stepped out the front door of the crisis center and walked down the granite steps, she caught herself wondering just how long someone could volunteer at a place like that and not be affected by the heartache that came sliding over the phone lines with every call. The never-ending sadness was so real that you could imagine the tears and bruises without seeing them.

Jackie thought about Tina. She seemed just as friendly as the last time that she saw her, there was a harder edge to her smile and her eyes didn't seem as brilliant as she remembered them.

Jackie thought about the daily grind of her own job, the stacks of paperwork and the endless files that needed her undivided attention. She thought about the risky home visits and the tedious court appearances that never seemed to solve anything. But even among all the setbacks and the stress, there were the sporadic successes that made the job worth all the pain. She walked on down the stairs and decided her old friend was just having an off day.

### Chapter 66

The next morning Jackie ran into Ridge coming out of the elevator on his way to the records department and asked him how his case was coming. In passing, she told him that she spent a few hours answering phones in the crisis center the previous day.

"How did that go?" he asked.

"Pretty calm. I did get one interesting call from a local doctor who told me that she wasn't getting enough love from her boyfriend," Jackie said with a sly smile.

"Oh really?" Ridge said, knowing that he was about to get sucker-punched.

"Yeah, poor girl just isn't getting enough loving. She is dating some hot shot detective that spends way too much time chasing theories and not enough time chasing her around the bedroom."

"Rotten bugger should be horsewhipped," Ridge said.

"I agree," Jackie said.

As Ridge turned to go, Jackie added,

"Hey, I saw your favorite waitress yesterday at the crisis center."

Ridge stopped and turned back around.

"Really, what was she doing there?"

"Tina has worked there for three or four years. She is one of the best phone counselors they have."

Ridge felt a slight shudder run up his spine, but he just smiled back at Jackie and said nonchalantly, "I'll bet she is."

### Chapter 67

Ridge was watching Tina move around the diner with the curious interest of a man trying to convince himself how ludicrous his suspicions were. The question he kept asking himself was, "Is it possible?"

He was laughing and making small talk with Audrey, but a suspect part of his mind was still rolling the question around in his head, like the tumblers inside a safe. His trance was broken when he heard Audrey utter her favorite version of a swear word, "Oh flip."

The next thing Ridge knew, Audrey was clicking off her pager and sticking the device back into her pocket. Then she was sliding out of the booth as she tried to polish off the rest of her tea. He recognized the sudden urgency on her face and in her body language.

"Mrs. Sanchez just went into labor." She said, as way of explanation. She had eaten all her fries but there was still half a sandwich sitting on her plate untouched.

"Do you want me to wrap that up and drop it off at the clinic?" Ridge asked without conviction. As she leaned over to kiss him, she gave him a knowing smile.

"I saw you eying the other half of my sandwich, Detective Ridgeland."

She stopped inches from his face, waiting for him to admit to his guilt at coveting her sandwich.

"I can't get anything past you, can I?" he said. He was caught red-handed. Audrey shook her head slowly from side to side, still giving him a victorious smirk.

"Not on your best day, Detective," she added.

Ridge glanced over her shoulder at the cadre of old timers seated around their regular table, who weren't even trying to hide their amusement at his predicament.

"Don't you have an emergency to tend to?" he asked, prodding her to get back to work and end his public humiliation. She relented and kissed him just long enough to restore at least some of his dignity. She pulled away and winked at him.

"See you tonight," she said softly.

As she turned and walked toward the door, she stopped at the old timers' table. She poked the closest member of the group in the shoulder and chided them for teasing Ridge.

"You jokers take it easy on my detective," she said sternly.

The oldest member of the group said with a devious grin,

"Don't worry Doc, we won't beat him up too bad."

Audrey winked at the old gentleman and gave his ear a quick flick of her finger before she turned and headed out the door. The old guy yelped and grabbed the side of his head, while the rest of the table hooted with laughter. The victim of the chiding was rubbing his ear, but there was a broad smile on his face. He would take an ear flicking from the lovely Dr. Nichols any day of the week.

Audrey didn't even bother to stop at the cash register and try to pay for their meal. In the past she had made several attempts to buy their lunch, but her efforts always failed. Apparently, Ridge had made some sort of pre-arranged deal with Tina and the rest of the wait staff at the diner. Whenever she tried to pay the wait staff they always given her the same answer.

"It's already been taken care of," was all they would say.

Audrey didn't think for a minute that Ridge was exploiting his position as a police officer for a free meal. He was way too honest for that old game. He probably had a running tab or they had his credit card on file. She had also noticed that no matter what their arrangement, Ridge always left a generous cash tip on the table.

Audrey had asked him once as they were walking out of an upscale restaurant why he didn't include the tip on his credit card. Ridge didn't make a big deal out of it, he just smiled innocently and said without any malice,

"It's nobody's business except the server how much I tip."

Ridge got up from the booth and headed for the cash register. He was almost to the counter when a Fed-Ex delivery driver burst through the front door with a package under his arm. Ridge stopped and nodded at the delivery driver to go ahead of him and take care of his business.

"Never let it be said that I stood in the way of progress," Ridge said with a smile.

The Fed-Ex guy thanked him for the courtesy and handed Tina the package. He then punched a few buttons on the mobile signature pad and asked her to sign. The guy was clearly new, so he asked Tina how to spell her last name. Ridge could see over the Fed-Ex guy's left shoulder that Tina signed her name in a big bold script that had a very distinct flair to it. He could barely make out her first name and what looked like an "A" in between her first and the last name.

As the Fed-Ex guy bolted out the front door, Ridge asked as casually as he could,

"What does the A stand for?"

Tina replied without any reservation, "Alexis."

### Chapter 68

Ridge shuddered and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A stark clarity hit him like a blast of cold wind blowing down a narrow canyon. The question in the back of his mind was becoming very clear.

He didn't want to believe it, but Detective Ridgeland was no longer straddling the fence between maybe and possibly. He had fallen off that fence and was coming to grips with the real possibility that the charming vibrant girl standing in front of him was somehow involved in the murder of five men.

Ridge watched the last year rewind like the scene from a movie playing in reverse. Time slowed to a crawl as Ridge could envision in slow motion a Hollywood stuntman traveling backward through a massive plate glass window. The shattered glass sucking back into its original smooth shape as the stuntman disappeared behind the tinted glass that he had just crashed through. The glass quivered and flexed in and out like it was trying to find a middle ground. Ridge knew that the image of the glass settling back into place was his own mind trying to come to grips with the realization that Tina was connected to the murderers.

Ridge could see the pieces fall into place. From the widows' stories about calling the hotline, to the elaborate bouquet of flowers that were sent to each widow. He remembered how all the widows told him how warm and caring the girl on the other end of the hotline was, how she identified with their circumstances and understood their plight. Ridge thought back to how they used the same term 'girl with the slight New York accent in their description of the hotline volunteer, which described Tina's voice perfectly. And one of the widows said in a hushed, embarrassed tone,

"I don't mean to sound racist, but she sounded African-American."

He ran the events backward through his mind and tried to find a hole in his logic, a flaw in what he knew to be true. His mind grabbed at little snippets of conversations he had heard other cops having in the diner. The more he thought about those conversations, the more he realized that Tina always seemed to linger in the general area of their discussions. She would stand on the edge of their conversations and listen like a law student gathering information for a term paper.

Ridge repeated her full name with deliberate formality,

"Tina Alexis Patrick."

He heard his mind toss the two names back and forth, Alex and Alexis, Alexis and Alex. The name on the credit card to the flower shop, Alex. The name on the bank account, Alex. Was he grasping at straws?

"Mike are you okay?" It was Tina's voice. She was looking at him with concern. Ridge looked around and saw that there were two people behind him in line, waiting to pay their bill. There were also several of the regulars looking at him like he was a mental sabbatical. "Sorry, the doc has that effect on me," he said dismissively.

As he turned to go, he heard Tina's voice from behind the cash register,

"Mike aren't you forgetting something?"

She was holding up the plastic container that held the other half of Audrey's sandwich. Ridge gave another embarrassed laugh and smiled at Tina as he took the container.

"Maybe you need to get your ears flicked by the good doctor, Detective." said the old guy, still rubbing his ear.

The diner erupted in laughter and Ridge nodded at the old guy like he was conceding his point. As Ridge turned and walked out of the diner, he could still hear remnants of laughter from the old cronies around the big table, but his thoughts were not on Doctor Nichols.

### Chapter 69

Ridge sat in front of his computer punching buttons and searching files like a man on a mission. The name at the top of the computer database in front of him was Tina Alexis Patrick, and there was a substantial chunk of time missing from the first seven years of her life.

The records showed that Tina had been adopted at the age of seven by a couple in their mid-forties, Walter and Diane Patrick. The couple had been tragically killed by a drunk driver on the day Tina graduated from college fourteen years later.

There was no evidence that Tina had ever been in any trouble with the law, even though she had moved around quite a bit since her adoptive parents were killed. The longest time she lived in one place was her current address in downtown Denver. Ridge let out a low whistle when he recognized the address of the building where she now lived. The first thought that ran through his mind when he saw the address was, How the hell can she afford to live there on a waitress' salary? Another little fact that made Ridge sit up and twist in his chair was that Tina had a degree in Criminal Psychology from NYU.

He knew she was very intelligent and he suspected that there was much more to Tina than being a waitress at a diner. It was like those stories you hear about a guy with a double doctorate in physics driving a truck for a living, or those successful business people that sell their businesses for millions of dollars, so they can just write or paint for a living.

Ridge sat back in his chair and stared at his computer. He knew that there probably wasn't a chance in hell that he was going to be able to get his hands-on Tina's adoption files, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try. He picked up the phone and dialed Jackie's office.

### Chapter 70

Jackie hung up the phone and sat back in amazement. She could not believe how vague and secretive Ridge was being about asking her if she could find out adoption information on a mutual friend of theirs. He asked her to trust him that someone they both knew might be in trouble, and he made her promise not to share what she found out with anyone but him. Before he told her who it was, he made her promise not to tell anyone about his inquiry. After Jackie reminded him that information like that was almost impossible to get, she promised that she would at least try. When Ridge told her who he was trying to get the adoption records on, Jackie almost fell out of her chair.

Jackie suspected that the inquiry had something to do with the case that she and Ridge had spoken about, but her mind would not make the leap to how Tina could possibly be involved. She asked herself if Tina might be a target or a witness or a possible victim? Why would Ridge want to know about what had happened to Tina that lead to her subsequent adoption? Her mind was still reeling as she picked up the phone and called an old friend of hers at the New York Department of Child Welfare.

### Chapter 71

Thirty minutes later, Jackie placed the receiver back in its cradle and thought about the few details that her friend shared with her. The conversation started out with the typical friendly chatter that old friends exchange when they haven't spoken to each other in a while. They laughed about how the professors at Syracuse were pretty much clueless about how the real world worked, outside the hallowed halls of academia.

Jackie and Melissa had graduated together at the top of their class at Syracuse University, and they were each offered good jobs in vibrant and exciting cities. Jackie went to Denver and Melissa was hired by the State of New York in Albany. They wrote to each other a few times after they went their separate ways, but eventually the modern electronic relationship replaced letter writing. The two colleagues were now friends on Facebook and Linked-in, and of course the occasional quick e-mail or text.

After a few minutes of chit chat, Melissa asked,

"Jack, what is it?"

Jackie didn't even try to be covert, "Mel, I need a favor."

"Am I going to be breaking any laws?" Melissa asked candidly.

"Maybe a rule or two," Jackie said honestly.

"Let's have it," Melissa asked flatly.

Jackie told her friend that someone she knew might be in danger, and she gave her the name of the person that she was interested in finding out about. Melissa continued to make small talk, but Jackie could hear Melissa's fingers flying over her keyboard and searching for any information that she could dig up. After a few minutes, Melissa lowered her voice to a whisper and said discreetly,

"Not much Jack. The child ended up in the system because her father beat her mother to death in front of her, and then the father disappeared off the face of the planet."

Jackie could hear the finality in Melissa's voice and she knew that the information that she gave her was all the information she had. They talked for a few more minutes and as they hung up Jackie said,

"Thanks a million, Mel. I owe you."

"No problem, I know you wouldn't have asked if it wasn't extremely serious."

There was a pregnant pause and Jackie thanked her again.

"No sweat, honey. Now go get yourself a weekend boyfriend and have some fun."

Jackie laughed. They both hung up the phone promising to get together soon, maybe a week in Cabo or St. Croix.

### Chapter 72

Professor Hill leaned against the bar and studied his friend intently. His opening question hit Ridge before their first round arrived,

"Do you remember our first argument?"

"Hell, who doesn't? There were people that remember our argument that weren't even there," Hill said with a laugh.

Ridge thought about Tanya Shearer. How she had recounted the story that was repeated in every law firm in Denver. The basic story was still intact, but he remembered thinking that the details of the story had grown exponentially with time and telling. He laughed to himself at how a good story seemed to get better with each telling.

Their cold beers appeared on the counter and Ridge nodded his head in the direction of the secluded section of the bar. They were not even settled into the booth yet when Ridge hit Professor Hill with a question,

"Paul how far is too far?"

He asked the question like he was establishing a philosophical basis for a discussion, but there was a hard edge to his voice like the answer was a matter of life or death.

Hill didn't say a word. He knew that more was coming, and he was prepared to wait and see where this conversation was headed. After a long minute, Ridge continued,

"Where do you draw the line between victims and criminals?"

"You're going to have to give me a few parameters, flatfoot," Hill said sarcastically.

Ridge thought for a moment and began,

"Okay, two crimes at either end of the criminal spectrum. First crime: one night some guy steals your garden hose out of your front yard. What do you do?"

"I would bitch and moan about the lack of respect for personal property and the next day I go and buy a new garden hose," Professor Hill said.

"Do you call the police?" Ridge asked.

"Why bother, there is nothing they can do about a stolen garden hose. It would just waste my time and theirs and create more useless paperwork in the bowels of government."

"Crime number two: a meth addict bursts through your front door one night with a twelve-inch knife in his hand. He sees your lovely wife standing in the living room wearing all the diamond rings and bracelets that you have bought her over the course of your marriage. The meth head attacks her with the knife extended and blood in his eyes. Now you just happen to be coming down the stairs with your favorite shotgun. What do you do?"

"I would blow his God damned head off," Hill said without any hesitation. Then he took a long sip of his beer. He added,

"Are those our parameters for this discussion?" Hill asked.

"They are."

"Those are fairly wide boundaries," Hill added.

"I didn't want any uncertainty between the two extremes," Ridge said.

"How effective are the police?" Ridge queried.

"Let me get this straight. The cop is differing to the professor how effective cops are?" Hill asked.

"Yep," was all he said.

Hill took a deep breath and began,

"Let's see, if my memory serves me right. Only two thirds of murders are solved in the United States, only forty-seven percent of violent crimes are solved, a mere thirty-nine percent of rapes are solved, and only twenty-nine percent of robberies are solved. Should I continue?" asked Hill.

"So, what do you conclude from those figures?" Ridge asked.

Hill took another sip of his beer and said bluntly,

"I would conclude that the relationship between solving crimes and the police in this country is a colossal failure. No offense," Hill added.

"None taken," Ridge responded.

"So back to my original question, how far is too far?" Ridge asked.

"Are you asking me if I endorse vigilantism?" Hill asked.

"Not at all, professor. I am fairly certain that I know where you stand on that issue."

"Let's try your area of expertise. How effective are the courts in deterring or even slowing the crime rate in the United States?" Ridge asked.

Hill burst out laughing and almost choked on his beer.

"My God, Mike. The only thing worse than the police for deterring crime in this country is the courts. The court system in this country is not about preventing crime or justice.

It's about raising revenue to build new buildings and feeding the giant clanking bureaucracy that is the judicial system."

Hill took a long drink of his beer and pressed on. Ridge knew that he was on a roll.

"Mike, have you ever sat for a day in the traffic courts in this city? It's a money machine that rivals the strip in Las Vegas. Last year, there were over ten thousand arrests for drunk driving in Colorado and a good percentage of those arrested were repeat offenders.

In 2004, a girl named Sonja Devries was hit and killed by a drunk driver. The guy had a blood alcohol level three times the legal limit. The real kicker was that the guy had been arrested eight times before for drunk driving."

Ridge watched his friend and patiently waited for him to run out of steam.

"My dear friend, the court system in this country has nothing to do with deterrence, justice, or even fairness. Our legal system is about the big 'R', Revenue. You've seen the buildings that cities and counties have erected over the last twenty years. Hell, you work in one of those architectural monstrosities. They look more like luxury hotels and casinos than court houses. Maybe our local municipalities should add a few slot machines to our public buildings. At least then the people that walked into those buildings might stand a chance of getting some of their money back. They already have the cash machines installed in every municipal building in the country."

Hill polished off the rest of his beer and slammed his glass down on their table.

"Another round, wench," he bellowed.

The waitress slowly sauntered over to their table and set her palms down flat on the table top. She leaned in close enough for the professor to get a whiff of her delicate perfume and said,

"Professor let's get one thing straight. If you get yourself all worked up into a lather and have a heart attack, I am not going to give you mouth to mouth resuscitation." Then she winked and pinched his left cheek just before she turned to get two more beers.

"Ah, my boy, the lass truly loves me," Hill said gallantly.

Ridge interrupted the professor's moment of self-aggrandizing.

"So, we have established that the police do an average job at best when it comes to preventing and solving crime. And we both agree that the court system is worse than the police when it comes to preventing crime," Ridge said.

"We do," acknowledged Hill.

Ridge stared at his friend with a very strange look on his face. Hill picked up on the look and asked slyly,

"Ridge, you look way too conflicted for a man with three beers under your belt and one in your hand."

"I am trying to figure out how a man that spends his days teaching the law seems to be one of its toughest critics."

Hill set his glass down and leaned across the table like he was about to share a secret, "Mike, my criticism of the law is not with the laws themselves, but the men and women that administer those laws, usually for their own aggrandizement."

"Should we lock up people that commit one crime and are guilty of stopping or preventing another crime?" Ridge asked.

"According to the letter of the law, yes." Hill said.

"Black and white?" asked Ridge.

"Black and white," responded Hill.

"So, there is no gray area when it comes to the law?" asked Ridge.

"My boy, it's a matter of degrees. You wouldn't chop off an eight-year old's hand for stealing a candy bar, would you?" Hill asked.

"No, but would you send a man to jail for killing a career criminal, that had brutally raped and beaten his wife?" Ridge asked.

The silence was deafening, as the two men sat staring at each other across the table.

"Then why do we even have judges?" asked Ridge.

"Interpretation," said Hill.

"Sounds like a gray area to me." Ridge said.

Hill burst out laughing and ordered another round.

"Mike, I think that one of the greatest comments ever made about the American legal system came from a political appointee in the Reagan White House. He said that if the American Civil Liberties Union interpreted the Second Amendment like the other nine amendments to the Bill of Rights, we would all be forced to carry guns." It was Ridge's turn to laugh at the protracted circular argument that they had just found themselves in.

The waitress brought their next round, and the two friends concluded that they had solved enough of society's ills tonight. They moved on to a more interesting topic, what the hell the female species really wanted.

### Chapter 73

The sun was streaming through the kitchen window of Audrey's seventh floor apartment in downtown Denver. Ridge was sitting at the breakfast bar sipping a cup of black coffee and nursing a slight hangover from the previous night's BS session with Professor Hill. In their case, BS stood for beer and sociology.

Nothing was ever solved at these impromptu philosophical discussions, but they did have a hell of a good time attacking each other and flirting with the waitresses. Ridge's hangover was not helped by the fact that he switched to wine when he met with Audrey for a late dinner after his BS session with his friend.

"Must have been a hell of a good discussion?" Audrey asked with a mischievous smile in her eyes. She was enjoying Mike's momentary lack of composure. He was always so together and unflappable, that it secretly tickled her when he was off his game, if only for the morning.

"When are you going to learn, you can't keep up with that old goat, especially when it comes to drinking?"

Ridge just looked over the rim of his coffee cup and grunted something about it being her fault for introducing wine into the night's activities. She walked around behind him and ran her fingers through the hair on the back of his neck and whispered softly,

"I am so sorry, next time I will allow you two characters to continue to down massive amounts of beer, until the two of you get stinking drunk, and get tossed out of that bar on your asses."

Ridge reached back and grabbed her hand. He pulled it around in front of him and kissed her fingers. Then he said with mock gratitude,

"Thank you for rescuing me. I am eternally grateful."

"So, what was the topic of discussion last night?" she asked.

Ridge set his cup down and folded his arms in front of him like he needed the support of the counter to stay focused.

"We were debating the moral and ethical dilemma of prosecuting someone that kills a killer."

"Boy you two, sound like a ton of fun. No wonder the girls flock to your table."

Ridge picked up his coffee cup and asked, "So, what do you think?"

"About what?" Audrey asked, trying to sidestep the question. It was way too early in the morning to get into such a heady argument, especially when the person asking the question looked like he was still under the influence of alcohol.

Ridge pressed on undeterred,

"Should we prosecute someone that takes the law into their own hands?"

Audrey leaned against the kitchen counter and took a drink of her orange juice as she thought about the question. After a long thoughtful moment, she said,

"Mike, when I was in my residency, I spent six months in a trauma ward. Some of the cases that came through the doors of that ward would have curled even your hair.

Stabbings and gunshot wounds were the norm. The things people did to each other were almost unimaginable. There were times when we would be trying to save two gang members' lives that had shot or stabbed each other. And there they were, lying six feet apart in the trauma ward like they were involved in the same car accident. There were times when wads of money and bags of drugs would fall out of coat pockets. Guns, knives, and clubs would hit the floor as they slid out of hidden compartments in clothing. It was the most insane example of human depravity that you could imagine."

"Your point being?" Ridge asked.

"Mike, you know my point. It was not my job to decide who I did or didn't save. It was my job to patch them up and send them on their merry way to whatever fate the courts decided."

Audrey paused and then asked him cautiously,

"Have you ever considered taking the law into your own hands?"

"I would be lying if I said that I have never thought about it, but there is a fine line between thinking about it and actually doing it. There is a big difference between us and the average citizen. You and I are trained to perform our jobs without the luxury of having to consider what will happen if we don't do our job to the best of our ability."

"Why should we give the average citizen a pass for not thinking about the result of their reckless decision?" she said.

Ridge winced at her rebuttal and asked in a contrite tone.

"Can I retract my earlier question, and request that we adjourn to the shower under unconditional terms of surrender?"

Audrey smiled and undid her robe as she walked past him headed for the shower.

### Chapter 74

Ridge sat in his regular booth and looked around the diner like there was a huge hole in the room. All the regulars were seated around the table in the center of the diner. There were a handful of uniformed cops in booths and seated at the counter, but something was missing. One of the waitresses walked over and poured him a cup of coffee. She was new and she asked him if he wanted a menu. Ridge declined the menu and asked casually where Tina was today. The waitress smiled and told him that she called in sick today.

One of the old guys turned toward Ridge and offered his own explanation, "Detective, I think she's playing hooky today."

"Why do you say that, Ernie?" Ridge asked.

"I think that she is taking care of some personal business before she moves."

The words struck him like a punch in the side of the head. He responded with a one-word question, "Move?"

"Yeah, you didn't hear?" Tina gave her two weeks' notice. She said something about going back to school or moving to a warmer climate."

Ridge sat back and stared out the window. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small yellow card with a pink string attached to it. There were two words written on the card. Ridge had stopped by Albert Taylor's flower shop that morning. He asked Taylor to duplicate one of the cards that he sent with the flower arrangements to the widows. He had no idea when or where he was going to put the card to use, but he wanted to have it with him in case the opportunity presented itself. He finished his coffee, paid his bill, and walked out of the diner. He was not sure what he was going to say, but he knew exactly where he was headed.

### Chapter 75

Tina heard the knock at her door. She set down the box she was carrying and walked to the front door. She was expecting another delivery of moving supplies from the local hardware store, so she didn't even bother to look through the peep hole in the door. When she opened the door and saw Ridge leaning against the door frame, she was taken by surprise.

"Detective Ridgeland, to what do I owe the honor?"

"I had to hear from the old timers' table that you were running away,"

Ridge made the statement in a friendly relaxed tone, but the last two words hung in the air like an indictment.

Tina let the moment pass and then she invited him in with a flurry of her arms.

"Sorry for the mess, I am knee-deep in packing."

"I can see that. Have you been planning this for a while?"

"I have been thinking about it for a while, but I decided last week that this was as good a time as any to make a change. My lease is up at the end of this month, and if I was going to move I wanted to do it when the weather was good. Who wants to move when there is a foot of snow on the ground?"

Tina turned and walked across the living room to the kitchen. Ridge followed her without being invited. When she reached the kitchen, she said,

"I just made a fresh pot of coffee; would you like a cup?"

"Absolutely. Do I need to leave a tip this time?" Ridge asked.

"I think that we can skip the tip this time."

Ridge sat down at the island and took a good look around the apartment.

"Nice place. Maybe I should get a job waiting tables."

Tina gave him the practiced answer to the question.

"My parents were very well off," she said without apology.

Ridge accepted the explanation at face value and moved on.

"It seems like you have done this a time or two?" Ridge said looking around the apartment. Tina could tell that he already knew the answer to his assertion.

"A few times, I get a little restless if I'm in one place for too long." she said candidly.

"Some people would argue that people who move a lot are either chasing after something or running away from something."

"I guess that could be true," she said.

"Which one are you?" he asked.

"Maybe a little of both," she said with a little sadness.

"Where are you thinking about moving to?" Ridge asked.

"I have some friends in Miami. I am thinking about being a beach bum for a while."

"Sounds like a good plan. I did that for a while after I got out of the military. It really helped me to clear my head and help me decide what I wanted to do."

"Where at?" she asked.

"Hawaii, the island of Lanai."

"Wow, you really went native," she said.

"Yeah, when I heard that Lanai didn't have any stoplights I was sold."

"Are you going to go back to school?" Ridge asked.

"Maybe. How many waitresses do you know that have a master's degree?"

Just then the doorbell rang, and Tina excused herself. She went to the front door and Ridge listened while he heard a delivery person drop off a box of supplies. He finished his coffee and reached into his coat pocket. Tina came back into the room just as Ridge set his cup down.

"Well, I better get going. I just wanted to stop by and wish you good luck. Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"No, I think I have a handle on everything," she said.

Ridge got up and stuck out his hand,

"Good luck Tina, we'll see you around."

The acknowledgment sounded more like an admonition than a genuine desire for her to have a good day. Then he turned and headed for the door. Tina followed him to the door and thanked him for stopping by, despite the feeling deep in her stomach that Detective Ridgeland knew more than he was saying.

She let him out and double locked the door then went back to the kitchen to clean up. When she picked up Ridge's coffee cup, she saw something that stopped her heart. Under the cup, there was a small yellow card with a pink string attached to it. Her fingers were cold as she reached for the card. She turned the card over even though she already knew what was written on the front of the card. When she saw the words, she let out a long slow breath. Then, she looked at her front door and uttered the only words that she could think of,

"He knows." The statement was not one of fear, just an acknowledgment of a fact. The words were void of any emotion or surprise. They sounded more like a conclusion than an alarm bell going off in her head.

### Chapter 76

For the next two days, Ridge spent ninety percent of his time buried in his computer researching the life of Tina Alexis Patrick. He looked at all the places she had lived since her parents were killed. He dug into local news stories to see if there were any mysterious deaths of men accused of spousal abuse. Tina had lived in Dallas, San Diego, and Chicago since her parents were killed. She also spent one year traveling around Europe. Ridge wrote that off as a youthful romantic notion of seeing the world.

There were a couple of cases that aroused his interest. One was in Chicago and one was in San Diego, but when Ridge called the investigating officer on each case, he didn't discover anything that followed the same pattern of the cases he was working on. There were no large insurance settlements and no extravagant flower arrangements with strange notes attached.

Based on the little bit of information that Jackie provided to him about the death of Tina's birth mother and the disappearance of her father, Ridge did an archive search of newspapers in the approximate area where Tina was adopted. He also looked at dates based on her age.

In a small local newspaper in upstate New York, he found a story about a woman who was beaten to death when her husband came home in a drunken rage. The story went on to tell how the couple had a five-year-old daughter that had witnessed the entire thing. The girl was turned over to the New York child welfare department, since her only living relative had become the subject of a three-state man hunt.

There were two black and white pictures associated with the article. The first picture was a shot of a dilapidated old house that looked like it could have been knocked over if someone leaned against it. The second picture was a heartbreaking photo of a little girl being led away from the house by what looked like a middle-aged woman, possibly a social worker.

The picture of the girl and the women was taken from the back so he couldn't see her face, but Ridge was sure that it was a very young and much traumatized Tina Alexis Patrick.

None of the information Ridge received over the last two days helped him figure out how he was going to proceed. He was torn between doing his job and doing what was right.

Ridge had not been to the diner since he had spoken to Tina in her apartment. He heard from a couple uniformed cops that Tina was still working at the diner. When he ran into one of the cops in the break room, he said,

"Hey Mike, your other office seems to be a little empty this week."

Ridge gave him a plausible excuse about being buried in paperwork, and nonchalantly asked him how Tina was doing.

"She's good, but she seems a little distracted. Maybe she's just got a lot on her mind with getting ready to move."

"Probably," Ridge said agreeably.

The next morning, Ridge walked into his office and found an envelope on his desk. The envelope was addressed to Detective Michael Ridgeland, and it displayed all the appropriate delivery information and postage. However, the name of the sender was only vaguely familiar: Neil Stammer. Ridge knew that he recognized the name, but he couldn't quite place it.

Ridge opened the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper. There were only two typed lines on the paper. The first line was the street address that was on the outside of the envelope. The second line was a strange comment that made no sense at all.

"The fireworks begin around ten pm on Friday night"

Ridge turned the paper over a couple times and reexamined the envelope. Nothing jumped out at him as to why he had received such a strange letter.

Ridge fired up his computer and punched in the address on the piece of paper. The address was in a rundown neighborhood in Aurora, Colorado, but the name on the envelope did not match the current residents living at the address. However, the current occupants of the house did have an ongoing history with the Denver PD, a history that grabbed Detective Ridgeland's undivided attention.

Ridge looked at the name on the outside of the envelope again. He repeated the name out loud, Neil Stammer. He repeated it again and again, but his mind just couldn't place the name. Ridge sat back in his chair and gazed at the letter. He was more than a little confused.

He pulled up the last reported visit to the house by the Denver PD and saw that it was less than two weeks ago. Ridge recognized the name of one of the officers that responded to the call. It was the rookie he met on the train platform.

"Small world," he said as he picked up the phone and called down to dispatch. The officer was on duty and he left a message for the officer to call him.

After Ridge hung up the phone, he leaned back in his chair and picked up the envelope again. He stared at the name in the corner of the envelope and tried to remember where he had heard that name before. "Neil Stammer," he said again, and then the recognition hit him like a bolt out of the blue.

Neil Stammer was a child abuser and kidnapper that had evaded the FBI for fourteen years. He spoke several languages and moved across the country and around the world without being caught for more than a decade. After years of avoiding capture, Neil Stammer had finally been arrested in Nepal, and returned to New Mexico for trial. The arrest was the result of a lot of hard work and a little luck by FBI Special Agent, Russ Wilson.

Recognizing the name on the envelope did not help Ridge understand what this strange letter had to do with his current case, or the address of the current occupants at that address.

### Chapter 77

Ridge pulled over to the curb in the beat up old Chevy Caprice that he borrowed from Denny at the impound lot. The Chevy didn't look anything like a police car, and it had just enough rust and damage over its exterior to look like it belonged in the neighborhood. He parked the car on the opposite side of the street, two doors down from the address. He rolled his window down. It was a warm evening and he could hear the Friday night sounds of a neighborhood on a payday weekend.

There was a small gang of boys hanging out on the corner, a half a block up from where he was parked. There were parties going on in backyards and basements. He could hear the volume of the night increase as the amount of alcohol was consumed. And of course, there was the occasional barking dog and angry mother calling to an unruly teenager.

It was a little after nine pm., and from where he was parked Ridge had a clear line of sight to the front door of the house. There didn't seem to be anything unusual going on at the house. In fact, the house barely looked inhabited. It was dark inside except for the blue flicker of a television in the front room. There was no porch light on, and he couldn't see any movement in the house.

Ridge was thinking about the conversation with the patrol officer yesterday afternoon. The officer told him that he and his partner were dispatched to the residence a couple weeks ago, for a reported domestic disturbance. One of the neighbors had called 911 claiming that it sounded like someone was being murdered in the house.

The rookie officer related an account of the incident that was as routine as a thousand other domestic calls. Someone calls 911, the police show up, and the husband and wife answer the door looking like they have gone fifteen rounds in the cage of death and claim that nothing was wrong.

The two officers split up the pair and spoke to them where the other spouse could not hear. The rookie told Ridge that he spoke to the wife and his partner spoke to the husband. He tried his best to convince the wife to press charges, but she just looked at him through terror-filled eyes and swore that everything was alright.

"Ridge, I did my best, but the woman absolutely refused to do anything to put a stop to whatever madness was going on inside that house."

"I'm sure you did everything you could, some people just don't understand that their lives aren't going to get any better until they do something about the mess they are in," Ridge mused.

"I know, Detective. It just seemed that they were old enough to know better,"

"What were they like?" asked Ridge.

"They were an African-American couple. He was in his late fifties and she looked to be about ten years younger than him. The wife was fairly attractive, despite the weathered look of a woman that lived a hard life."

The young cop paused as if he was trying to solve a puzzle,

"I just don't understand why someone would stay in that situation?"

"It amazes me too," Ridge said.

Ridge was replaying the conversation in his head when he saw an old pickup turn the corner and make its way down the street. The truck was missing one headlight and he could hear a hole in the muffler that made the truck louder than normal. Either the blinker didn't work or the driver just didn't care as he swung the pickup into the driveway. The driveway belonged to the house he was watching. Ridge heard the brakes howl as the truck came to a stop.

At the same time, the truck stopped in the driveway, Ridge noticed that the blue light from the television inside the house went off. A moment or two later he saw the front door open. There was a figure standing in the doorway. He could not make out the person clearly, but he was sure that it was a woman. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard the door on the truck open and a woman's voice call out from the doorway,

"Virgil are you drunk again?"

He heard the man mumble something unintelligible and Ridge thought to himself,

"Oh Christ, this ought to be interesting."

Virgil was not fall-down drunk, but he was definitely intoxicated. He walked with a slight waver up the stone pathway and needed to hold onto to the handrail to make it up the steps to the front porch. The woman did not move. She was still standing in the doorway like she was not going to let Ol' Virgil in her house. Virgil stopped less than two feet from the woman and swayed back and forth like he was deciding what he was going to do next.

"You can sleep in that damned truck tonight you, old fool," she shouted into his face.

The challenge was more than Virgil, was willing to allow in his present condition. He leaned forward and hit the woman as hard as he could right square in the face. The woman disappeared from the doorway and Ridge heard Virgil let out a victorious laugh, just before he stepped through the doorway.

Ridge exploded out of the Chevy and crossed the street at a dead run. He leaped the fence and cleared the front steps without touching any of them. Within five seconds, he went from sitting in the Chevy to standing in the doorway of the old house. He could see that the woman was trying to get to her feet, and Virgil was standing over her with a hand full of her hair. He was trying to pull her to her feet. Ridge was positive that the man wasn't helping the woman up so he could console her. He was mumbling something about teaching her a lesson when Ridge yanked his service weapon out of its holster and hollered,

"Police! Don't move."

The only light in the room was coming from the street lights spilling in through the living room windows. Ridge could see that Virgil kept a hold of the woman's hair, but he straightened up a few inches and stared at Ridge like he couldn't quite make out what he was seeing. Then he made the biggest mistake of his life. Virgil reached around behind him like he was grabbing something out of the back of his belt. He brought his hand around and Ridge could see something metal and shiny in his hand. Ridge didn't wait to see if it was a knife or a gun. He aimed center mass at Virgil and pulled the trigger three times. Virgil flew backwards and landed face up in the middle of a glass coffee table. The glass shattered, and the woman started to scream her husband's name over and over as she rose to her feet and looked down at her husband.

### Epilogue

Two weeks later, Detective Ridgeland walked into his office and sat down behind a pile of paperwork. He was cleared of any wrongdoing in the fatal shooting of Virgil M. Thompson. The District attorney ruled that the use of deadly force was justified based on the facts of the case. The testimony of Thompson's wife had also helped to clear him in the subsequent investigation.

After the shooting, Ridge was placed on administrative leave. He spent most of the two weeks taking care of personal business. He phoned a few old friends from the Air Force as well as a couple BS sessions with his drinking buddy. Audrey persuaded him to grab his tool box and act as the clinics official handyman, besides, he looked sexy in his leather tool belt. She also insisted that he spend a couple days fly fishing. Fishing the Poudre River was the best therapy during his time off. The gentle mountain stream lay sixty miles north of Denver. He usually would have fished the Boulder River, but that was just a little too close to home, in more ways than one.

The first day back at his desk Ridge went through a stack of paperwork six inches thick on his desk and a couple hundred e-mails. He also had over thirty voice mails on his office phone. Two of those voice mails were more than a little interesting. Albert Taylor left a voice-mail two-days after the shooting notifying Ridge that there was another special order of those flowers. The address that he left on the voice mail was the same address where he had shot and killed Virgil Thompson.

Robert Cooper left a similar voice mail letting him know that he had another million-dollar check for a woman with the last name of Thompson.

Ridge sat back in his chair and looked at the massive amount of work that had piled up in his absence. He knew that he should focus on getting back to work, but the two phone messages from Taylor and Cooper were eating away at him like an open wound.

The flowers could have been arranged in a single day after the news of Virgil Thompson's shooting hit the press, but the insurance money would have had to been set into motion months ago. There was no way that could have been done after the shooting.

Ridge was rolling this around in his head when he heard a knock at his door. He looked up and saw the Chief of Detectives standing in the doorway with a big welcome back smile on his face.

"I'm glad you're back, Mike. Congratulations on the unanimous decision to clear your name," the Chief said.

"Thanks, boss," Ridge said.

"By the way, thanks for solving that other cold case in the process."

Ridge looked at the chief like he was totally perplexed. The chief looked back at him like something had slipped through the cracks.

"You didn't hear? The District Attorney was supposed to call you. The guy you shot, Virgil Thompson, that was an alias. His real name was Virgil Carter. The medical examiner ran his fingerprints, and it turns out the guy was wanted for killing his wife in upstate New York thirty years ago."

The blood rushed out of Mike's face and pooled in his stomach.

"Are you okay?" asked the chief. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I'm fine, just a little amazed how some of these guys can stay under the radar for so long," Ridge said.

"Yeah, this guy was a slippery one. He had a dozen confrontations with the law over the years, but no one ever connected the dots. So far, we have traced him back to Chicago, San Diego, and Dallas."

Ridge felt another shudder run down the back of his neck, but he managed to keep a mildly dispassionate look on his face. Then he reached over and slid the pile of paperwork toward the middle of his desk. The Chief of Detectives took the hint.

"Okay, I will let you get back to work. Welcome back Mike."

The elevator door opened, and Ridge stepped out into the lushly decorated hallway. He walked down the hall and stopped in front of the apartment door where he had stood less than three weeks ago. He had a lot of questions that he wanted answered, and there was only one person that could answer them for him.

The biggest question, had he been used? How could Tina have possibly known what would happen to Virgil Thompson? Had he been played or was she just preparing for the inevitable? Did Tina have a plan to kill Virgil Thompson and did he get in the way of that plan? And most importantly, did she know who Virgil Thompson really was?

Ridge pressed the doorbell and waited. He pushed it again, but he recognized the sound of a doorbell in an empty apartment. There was a hollow empty sound to it. He was standing there thinking about what he was going to do next when he heard the click of a door opening behind him. He turned around and saw a distinguished older lady standing in the doorway of her own apartment.

"Are you Detective Ridgeland?" the lady asked in a gentle southern accent.

"Yes, I am," Ridge said, slightly astonished.

"Tina said that you might be stopping by. I am Gloria Turner," she said.

"Has she moved?" Ridge asked, even though he already knew the answer to his question.

"Yes, such a pity. I am really going to miss her. She was a beautiful girl and so interesting to talk to."

"Yes, she was," Ridge said earnestly.

Gloria startled like she had just remembered something important. Then she reached into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out a key.

"Tina left me the key to her apartment to give to the landlord, and to let you in. She said that she left you a note," Gloria said.

Gloria padded across the hallway and pressed the key into the slot. Then she swung the door open and stood out of the way so Ridge could go in. He stepped inside the apartment and looked around. The place was as clean and empty as a brand-new house. There were no signs that anyone had ever lived there. There were no nail holes in the walls or indentations in the carpet where furniture had been. There was no dust in the corners or streaks on the windows. The entire apartment had been sanitized, Ridge was sure that if the crime lab went through the apartment they wouldn't even find a stray fingerprint.

Gloria stayed at the door while Ridge walked around the apartment. When he got to the kitchen, he saw what she had left for him. There was a small yellow card with a pink string attached to it laying on the island. The card was face up and he could read the message that Albert Taylor had written on the card just three weeks ago. Out of habit, Ridge picked up the card and flipped it over. When he saw what was on the other side of the card a bitter smile crossed his lips. Written on the back of the card were two words:

Thank You

Ridge ran his fingers over the two words on the back of the card. He thought about the motto that was drilled into him during his time in the PJ's, "So that others might live."

Was this the reason that he had not arrested Tina Patrick the moment his gut told him that she was behind the murders? Or, was it the knowledge of what the four widows would be subjected to if Tina's arrest led to a conviction. Ridge knew without a shadow of a doubt that the ripple effect of a single arrest would subsequently destroy four additional lives.

In a voice that was barely above a whisper he said, "You're welcome." Then he slipped the card into his pocket and walked out of the apartment.

### Aguilla Island

The brilliant yellow sun touching the horizon was mixing with the turquoise blue water of the Caribbean. The result was a bright orange streak that stretched from the end of the earth right up to where the beach and the water merged. The snow-white sand on the pristine beach was starting to darken with the coming of night. The dark blue water shimmered as the waves gently slid up and down the beach and tiny waves of white foam played at the edge of an expensive lounge chair.

Sitting in a lone chair was a slender woman in her mid-thirties with light brown skin and dark brown eyes. She was wearing a white two-piece bikini that made her skin look even more radiant than it already appeared. She held a Rum Punch Sangria in one hand, and a copy of "Love When You Say You Love" by Odilia Rivera Santos in the other hand. She was watching the sun slowly drop into the sea.

As the sky deepened and the stars began their nightly dance against the black sky, Tina Patrick's brown eyes filled with tears. She lifted her face to the heavens and spoke in a voice that was hardly a whisper, "Rest in peace, Momma."

The End

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