It was cold in Philadelphia, but not quite cold enough to snow. Luckily Steve had brought a heavy coat and Detective Rogers had turned on the heat in the car.

He had caught the earliest flight possible but it was still dinnertime when the wheels touched down in the City of Brotherly Love. But for what he wanted to do, the timing was perfect.

"Just so ya know, when you called yesterday, I had one of our patrol cars swing by that address you gave us. They ran the plate from the car in the driveway and we confirmed that a Mrs. Eleanor Mercer lives there. Alone, as far as we know."

Steve glanced across the front seat with an impressed smile. "Wow, thanks, that's great."

Rogers chuckled. "Well, I'm not done yet. I also put our boys to work on tracking down her husband. I took them a copy of that DMV photo you faxed us and our fellas got ahold of the motor vehicle departments here and those of our neighboring states and, well, I think we tracked him down."

"Are you serious?" Steve almost laughed, amazed and impressed.

The chuckles turned into a deep belly laugh as the Philadelphia detective swung the dark green unmarked sedan onto a tree-lined street in a well-kept middle-class neighborhood. "Well, if it's the same man, and we're pretty sure it is, he's living in Hagerstown, Maryland."

"Hagerstown," Steve mused, "where is that exactly?"

"Northwest of Washington and Baltimore. It's about a three-hour drive from here if you take the interstate." Rogers glanced over. "Mrs. Mercer is home; I had one of my men do a drive-by just before your plane landed. She'll probably be in all night. Ladies like her don't like to drive much after dark."

"Yeah. Thanks." Steve was quiet for a few seconds, thinking. "Ah, Stan, I know I don't have any official status here… Hell, I'm not even a cop in San Francisco anymore… But do you have any objection if I talk to Mrs. Mercer alone? I'll tell her it's not official or anything, I just want some information… I just think she might be more open if it's just me and there's not some guy with a badge listening to her every word, you know what I mean?"

"So you don't think she knows anything about what happened with your former partner?"

Steve had spent almost half an hour on the phone with Detective Rogers the day before, telling him everything he felt comfortable sharing about what was happening in San Francisco. He had gotten Rogers' name from Captain Roy Devitt, who had met the Philadelphia detective on a course years ago and kept in touch.

"Well, as of right now I don't," Steve admitted, "and we know for sure, of course, that no woman could have killed our victim. At least no woman I've ever run across. Of course, a woman could have hired someone, but this just doesn't feel like that, to any of us. Our list of subjects has been whittled down to just a handful and the Mercers are still a loose end. She has a son around thirty and a daughter around twenty. The daughter's not in the picture, of course, but the son needs to be accounted for. And there could be other male relatives we're unaware of."

"What about the father? Do you think he could've been involved?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't know but I don't think so. They were divorced two years before the daughter was killed and he left town right after the papers were served. We knew he moved back east right away, so he's probably been in Hagerstown since then."

Rogers had pulled the car to a stop at the curb in front of a well-cared-for red brick single home on a tree-lined street. "We're here," Rogers announced, putting the car in Park and turning off the engine.

The lights in the front room were on behind the sheer curtains. Steve turned to Rogers and smiled. "I, ah, I don't know how long this is going to take. I can grab a cab to the hotel when I finish –"

"Don't worry about it, professor," the avuncular detective chuckled, "I've gotten pretty good over the years waiting in cars. And there's a coffee shop just a few blocks from here. If I get too cold, I can zip over there and get myself a cuppa joe."

Steve grinned. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"When I'm done here, remind me to tell you about my former partner's observations on stake-outs." He laughed as he reached for the door handle and got out. "Thanks a lot, Stan."

"Good luck!"

Steve slammed the door, pulling his coat closed as he walked up the flagstone walkway to the front door. He glanced back at the unmarked car before he knocked on the door; it was too dark to see the bell.

After a couple of seconds of silence, he heard the muted sound of footsteps on a hardwood floor and the overhead light snapped on. A face briefly appeared in the opaque glass panel beside the door before it opened a few inches.

"Yes, can I help you?" came a pleasant voice from behind the chain guard.

"Mrs. Mercer?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Mercer, you probably don't remember me, but my name is Steve Keller. I used to be a homicide detective in San Francisco."

He heard the sharp intake of breath and he waited. Eventually she asked quietly, "You were one of the men investigating my daughter's death, weren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's right, with my partner, Lieutenant Mike Stone… Jeannie's dad."

"Yes, yes, I remember you both." The door closed and he could hear the chain rattle, then the door opened again, almost all the way this time. A pleasant-looking, blondish-grey, middle-aged woman took a step backwards, her haunted eyes boring into his face. "Yes," she said slowly, "yes, I remember you…" She swallowed heavily, biting her lips, obviously trying to control the emotions that had suddenly flooded back. "But what are you…?"

"I don't mean to upset you, Mrs. Mercer, but I need to ask you some questions, if you don't mind?"

"Some questions?" she asked, frowning, a hand going to her mouth. "About Valerie?"

"Ah, no ma'am, about Leonard Cord."

The frown instantly disappeared, replaced by a look of loathing that was as startling as it was sudden. "What about him?" she spat out, her voice cold and hard.

Steve hesitated, taken aback, then looked around, pulling his coat closer around his neck. "Ah, ma'am, if I could go inside, I can explain everything to you." He was desperate to get into the house; he didn't want her closing the door in his face.

She hesitated and his heart skipped a beat. Then she took another step back and opened the door a little wider. Trying not to sigh in relief, he nodded his appreciation as he stepped across the threshold.

# # # # #

Mike walked slowly towards his bunk and, with his left hand supporting his lower chest, eased himself down onto the blanket with a low moan. Taking a couple of seconds for the ache to subside, he dropped his hand to the bed and smiled.

He glanced at his watch; it was only 6:30 but it felt much later. He had just finished dinner, at a table with Ben Driscoll and a bunch of the players, after a long afternoon standing on the sidelines of the basketball court.

The other players had eyed him skeptically when Driscoll 'introduced' him; most were suspicious at first, questioning how in the world a con like Driscoll would know someone like this 'old honky', but Driscoll quickly shut them down.

Mike had kept to himself when the game resumed, watching the action without comment from a perch on the bench of a picnic table nearby. But about a half hour later, he called Driscoll over and quietly whispered something in his ear. With a grin, Driscoll jogged back onto the court, and within seconds he had snagged a rebound, raced down the court and, evading a defender, dropped in a shot off the backboard.

Celebrating with a loud whoop and open arms as he raced back up the court, Driscoll stared at Mike in delight. The older man laughed, clapping his hands as he got to his feet and moved closer to the sidelines.

Within minutes, several of the other players had approached him, asking for tips. By the time the game ended, Mike was 'one of the guys'. He accompanied Driscoll to the showers, waiting outside till the players re-emerged, and they headed to the mess hall in a cluster.

Mike had glanced over his shoulder, smiling slightly. The same guard had been following him all day, surreptitiously shooting glances in his direction and looking away when Mike turned towards him. Mike dropped his head and sighed, not unhappily. He knew what that was all about; he knew they were worried about him in the warden's office.

Now, dinner finished, he had made his way back to his bunk. He was tired and sore, and the spectre of Ryan Sheffield's death still weighed heavily on his heart. But it had felt good to be outside, participating in an activity that he loved, if only for a few short hours in a very long week.

Moving slowly, he stood again and stripped off his shoes, socks, shirt and pants, putting them away in his locker. Then, in his t-shirt and boxer shorts, crawled under the sheet and heavy wool blanket and closed his eyes. But, exhausted as he was, sleep would not come easily.

# # # # #

Mrs. Mercer took Steve's coat, draping it over the newel post of the banister to the second floor, then led him into the small, tidy living room. She gestured towards the sofa for him to sit.

As he did so, she asked, "Would you like a cup of coffee? I still have some from dinner."

He smiled warmly and nodded. "Yes, that would be great, thank you. It was a long flight."

"You flew in today?" she asked as she disappeared into the small kitchen.

"Yes, ah, just landed about an hour ago." He raised his voice slightly to make sure he was loud enough. He could hear a cupboard being opened, the soft thud of a mug set down on a counter, the splash of coffee being poured.

He glanced around the room, taking particular interest in the family photos on the mantel. He recognized an old colour portrait of Valerie, most likely a high school picture. There was also what he assumed to be a more recent shot of a young, handsome blonde man in a suit and tie, smiling confidently at the camera.

"Milk and sugar?"

"Just a bit of milk, please."

The fridge was opened then closed several seconds later. A spoon could be heard rattling against the ceramic. She came back into the living room with the mug in both hands and set it on a coaster on the coffee table near her guest.

"Thank you very much," Steve smiled gratefully as he picked it up and took a sip, nodding happily. "Thank you, I needed that. The airlines really don't make very good coffee."

She had taken a seat in the armchair beside the sofa, her hands in her lap. She chuckled nervously. "So, Inspector Keller, what is it you want to ask me?"

"Ah, I'm, ah, I'm really not a police inspector anymore, Mrs. Mercer. I left the force about three years ago. I'm a criminology professor at Berkeley now."

Her eyebrows rose slightly. "Oh, I see. So this is not an official police visit?"

"No, ma'am, it's not. It's personal." He watched as she frowned, confused, and he continued quickly. "I'm here to help a friend. Jeannie's father, actually. He's in a lot of trouble and I'm trying to help him out." He was trying to be deliberately vague, at least for the time being.

"I see," she said slowly, trying to read between the lines. "Then if I may ask, Mr. Keller, what does this have to do with me? And what have you come all this way to ask me?"

His smile disappeared for a split second. "Please, call me Steve." He sat back and crossed his legs, hoping to appear casual and disarming.

"All right," she said softly, "if you call me Eleanor." Her smile was gracious and he grinned and nodded.

"Okay," he agreed reluctantly, uncomfortable calling an older woman by her given name. "Um, when was the last time you heard anything about Leonard Cord?"

The darkness returned to her eyes and the smile disappeared. She inhaled angrily before saying, "I haven't heard anything about that man since he was sent to prison over six years ago," she said curtly, "after he murdered my daughter."

Her pain was still just under the surface, he knew. He hated bringing it back up, he hated to pursue this any further but he had to, not only for Mike but for himself and the others.

He swallowed heavily and dropped his eyes briefly before he continued. "So you didn't hear anything about him recently, about six weeks or so ago?"

"Six weeks ago? No, why should I? What happened?" She sounded alarmed and suddenly afraid. "Did he escape?"

"Ah, no, ma'am, no, he didn't escape. He, ah," he cleared his throat uncomfortably, "he was released, accidentally."

"Accidentally? What do you mean he was released accidentally?" Her eyes were wide, terrified, and she leaned forward, her entire body rigid with fear.

Steve held up his hands, shaking his head. "No, no, he's not free, he's not a threat…" He paused and took a quick breath. "He's dead, Mrs. Mercer. He was killed. He was murdered."

He watched as her face changed. She stared at him, the fear, worry and hate slowly transforming into a relieved and almost joyful demeanor. And he watched as, almost imperceptibly, she glanced proudly towards the mantel and the photo of her son.

She looked back at him, straight into his eyes. "Good," she said simply, and his blood ran cold.