I

Barbara Heiland lay on the slab with her feet protruding out from under a white sheet. A tag dangled from her big toe with her name – last name then first – and a number written on it. It was a grim finale for the vibrant beauty, but her time ended before that beauty withered away. She would be remembered as the model with the raven hair in the aubergine dress, and her death would grant her fame, albeit the wrong kind.

"Time of death is estimated at between eight and ten pm," Doc Bergman, the county coroner, said, adjusting his reading glasses as he read the autopsy report to Steve. "That leaves one hour after Mrs. Brandin's phone call ended when she could have gone over to that apartment and killed her."

"Given the distance from her house to the apartment building and amount of traffic in that area at that hour, it's a stretch," Steve replied. "But we still haven't determined if she really made that call and was on the phone in her house from eight to nine."

"I can tell you this much, Steve," Bergman lifted his glasses so they lay on top of his head. "It was a crime of passion. There were a total of eight stab wounds – three to the chest, one to the throat, two on her right arm, and one to her stomach. The first two stab wounds to her chest were enough to kill her. The cause of death was exsanguination. She may have lived for at least two hours after being stabbed, when the last of her organs shut down." It was a grim picture to imagine, one that Doc was used to describing and Steve was used to hearing, but it still didn't diminish its grisliness.

"Whoever did this was angry. They came into that apartment wanting to carve her up," Doc added.

"And they brought their own knife," Steve said. "We didn't find the murder weapon anywhere in that apartment and the girl who identified her said no knives were missing. It may have been spurred on by anger, but it was planned anger, Doc – anger that was building up inside the killer long enough to explode and turn them into a butcher. Is there more?"

"There was blood and tissue under her fingernails, indicating she scratched her attacker. I sent it to Che. Look for someone with scratch marks on them."

"That may eliminate our two prime suspects already," Steve replied as he recalled first seeing the Brandins that morning. "Neither of the Brandins had visible scratch marks on their faces or throats, and didn't act like they were in pain from any scratches on their bodies." It was one thing to question them. Asking them to submit to an examination to see if they were scratched was another.

Doc waved his hand. "Don't rule them out so quickly," he warned. "One or both of them had at least fourteen hours to recover from those scratches before you got to them. It's amazing what some ointment cream can do in that time."

"I'll keep it in mind." Steve was no more reassured by Doc's statement than he was before. They had a suspect whose alibi might clear her, another suspect who is married to the previously-mentioned one and was refusing to cooperate, and a possible third, whose alibi ties in with the first. Maybe Steve was jumping to conclusions and getting impatient, but with a girl lying dead on a mortuary slab with eight knife wounds in her, he had good reason to be impatient. "What else did you find?"

Doc wrinkled his nose. "I found some bruising on the right side of her face, indicating that someone who is left-handed hit her, possibly to incapacitate her so it would be easier to stab her."

"Both the Brandins are right-handed," Steve was thinking out.

"That means you got to widen your suspect pool …" Doc took off his reading glasses. "Why zero in on the Brandins so much? I thought they were friends of yours."

"They are, but I have to cover all angles, Doc. I can't let anyone think I'm going easy on them because they are my friends."

"You can't go too easy on them, Steve, but you can't go too hard on them, either. Going too far to either side is dangerous."

Steve sighed. "I don't see any side that is safe."

II

Richard Schulman had a polished voice which sounded like it came from a New England prep school, and the physical appearance to match. His hair was smooth and sandalwood-colored, slicked back by pomade. His eyes were a piercing blue, and his alabaster skin had not spent one moment in the Hawaiian sun. A real blueblood, Steve thought. Schulman's were neatly manicured and his suit, tie, and shoes all looked like they came from an expensive men's store rather than the bargain basement out of which Steve and Danno shopped. The tie was light blue and silk, on which gray paisleys were embroidered. His shirt was a matching light blue, and his suit was a finely-tailored charcoal gray whose pants ended just above his shiny black leather Oxfords. That attention to detail could transcend to other aspects of Schulman's life and environment. He's astute and notices the fine details.

"I only knew Barbara through Sheila," he asserted. "I saw her at the apartment a few times, but we only said, 'Hello' and 'Goodbye' … that sort of thing. I never knew her at all." He tapped a fresh cigarette against a silver tin, but didn't light it. Danno recognized the crown in between two leaves printed on the cigarette as Tareyton's logo.

Schulman's mannerisms were grating on Steve's nerves. He smelled the phoniness a mile away, but the young lawyer was not dropping any pretense. Schulman's gold cufflinks glinted in the light from the ceiling, making the two detectives notice them for the first time. Were they a gift from Sheila? Steve could tell they were expensive and on a secretary's or junior lawyer's salary, a large expenditure.

"Did Sheila ever talk about Barbara?" Danno asked.

"Not that I recall," Schulman replied. He pushed the cigarette around on the silver tin's surface. "I never asked her about the people she associated with. I wasn't interested in them, and she never mentioned them to me."

"Where were you last night, from between eight pm and ten pm?" Steve asked.

"I was at home, going over a case with Mrs. Brandin – we were talking on the phone for at least an hour …" he put the cigarette down and laced his manicured fingers together. "It was a case about a royalty dispute that we're currently litigating."

Steve knew that would be his answer. Either it was the truth or the Brandins got to Schulman after they left their house. Steve got up, which gave Danno the cue to rise.

"We'll be in touch." Steve handed him his business card. "If you remember anything, give us a call." Schulman accepted the card casually, looked at it for minute, then put it in his pocket.

"I'll help in any way I can," he replied. "I know that Sheila and Barbara were friends. Sheila did say they knew each other for several years. She is devastated, to say the least, so I hope you catch the monster that did this."

"Thank you. We'll be in touch," Steve said as he and Danno exited.

Outside, Steve acted like he was breathing clean air for the first time. Danno knew what it meant – his boss smelled a rat.

"I never saw anything this phony since that counterfeit art ring we busted last month," Steve told his partner. "The only things that are real about him were his clothes and the cufflinks. The cufflinks alone must have set him back a couple of hundred dollars."

"And on a junior partner's salary," Danno asked. "Maybe he's got some business on the side."

"And I bet it's not legal," Steve added. "Maybe he's got blackmail or something black market going on. Have Nishimura check his background, as well as Sheila Vansaun's. I have a feeling those two are also mixed up in this. His corroborating Margaret Brandin's alibi is too convenient."

Steve slammed the door on the Park Lane as he and Danno got in.

III

Sheila Vansaun tried to keep focused as she walked down the corner to wait for the bus. The people around her went about their business, hurrying by her to catch the same bus or cross the street before the light changed colors. She clutched at her handbag and looked to either side. She made it to the bus stop just as the bus parked in front. She got on, paid the fare, and found a seat in the back. The bus was not that crowded, and she hoped it didn't pick up too many more passengers on the way back to Honolulu. Her boss told her she could take the entire day off, when she called to tell him about Barbara, and she decide to take advantage of it. When she reached her stop, she got off in front of a row of houses hidden behind long front yards and clumps of trees. She walked down the driveway that led to one house in particular. An open window displayed a TV, with the channel tuned to a network that was showing an old western movie. The sounds of gunshots and horses whinnying could be heard outside. Despite that, the occupant still heard the doorbell when Sheila pressed it. The gunshots and whinnying softened to the point where they were no longer heard, and the door opened.

"Come on in," the man said. Sheila stepped inside the modernly-furnished living room. "Sit down anywhere you like."

She sat on the yellow couch that was positioned opposite the window. "I was lucky," she said. "Mr. Palmer gave me the day off. I was able to get so much done today."

"Did the police suspect anything?" the man asked, handing her a drink. Sheila took a sip.

"Not a thing, Ethan," she replied. "They bought the upset friend act – hook, line, and sinker."

"You'll need to keep playing it till we get what we want," Ethan reminded her. "You'll need to put on that act for Palmer when you go back to work. He may let his guard down, and we can get into his office and into that safe."

"Why can't we do with him what we were doing with the judge?" Sheila asked.

"You saw where it got Barbara. Do you want to die, too?" Ethan's green eyes glared at Sheila as he sat next to her. The softness in them told her he was speaking out of apprehension than malice.

"Barbara got too confident for her own good," Sheila derided. "I could easily get Palmer in the same position – and know when to stop."

"It's too risky." Ethan shook his head. "Judge Brandin is too volatile right now. He might break and expose our whole operation. We have to keep an eye on him. Playing the same game with Palmer would be foolish. We'll do it the traditional way – breaking and entering."

He clinked his glass to hers.

"Suit yourself," Sheila replied. "As long as no one else has to die." She looked into Ethan's face – not just his eyes, but the entirety of it, from his hairline down to his lantern jaw. The gray-blue eyes told her nothing, but the lines in his forehead and around his mouth told her of much despair, turmoil, and trauma. It was not easy being a spy, especially when one had been dormant for so long, just waiting for his chance to spring into action, but when the phone call came and the all the meetings were done, he had to step into the spy's shoes as though his last assignment was only yesterday.

Ethan coughed to settle his throat. "You know full-well that in this business, life is not always guaranteed – but death is." He pushed a tuft of Sheila's blonde hair aside from her forehead and looked into her tired and timorous eyes.