Monday morning found Hathaway already in the office when Lewis arrived. Without a word, Lewis poured the remaining half-cup of coffee into his mug, dumped out the used grounds, and set another pot to brewing. Hathaway sneaked a couple of peeks at Lewis, but each time his senior officer was looking elsewhere—his computer screen, the window, the framed photograph of Val. Despite the silence, or maybe because of it, Hathaway could easily imagine a brooding hostility poised right beneath the surface, and he resolved to say nothing unless it was necessary.

An hour later, Hathaway felt like he was going to implode from the tension. He was debating how to open a conversation when the telephone rang.

"Yeah, Lewis . . . . Yeah, okay. We'll be right there." Lewis looked directly at Hathaway for the first time in a week. What struck James was how gaunt and exhausted Lewis looked. Like he hadn't eaten or slept in a long time. James realized he himself probably looked almost as rough.

"There's a body been found in Jericho."

"Right. Let's go." James recognized they were both making a determined effort toward acting as if everything were normal.

They arrived shortly after. Dr. Hobson and the SOCO crew were already there, but there wasn't much activity. Hobson met them at the front door.

"This one's not pretty. Been dead a while, and in this heat, well . . ."

"Yeah, I noticed the smell." Lewis was matter-of-fact about dead bodies. Had been for years. Hathaway, on the other hand, had a bad feeling about what the sick-sweet odor was doing to the stability of his stomach.

Hobson led them into the house and down the hall to a bedroom. "Right. Well, here's your corpse." She pulled back the plastic sheet covering the body on the bed. James couldn't look. He was losing the battle with the bile rising in his throat.

Hobson continued. "Probably natural causes. Heart attack most likely, then couldn't get to the phone. Though it looks like perhaps a rat has been at him as well."

When Hathaway returned from heaving his breakfast into the garden, he was finally able to look at the body. The man was thin, and a bit of grey streaked his hair. Sixty maybe, certainly not older. About the same age as Lewis, James thought with a disturbing twinge. He glanced at his partner to see how he was taking this. Expressionless. Silent.

There were no obvious signs of criminal involvement. The smell had been noticed by Mr. Langston, the next-door neighbor. When Mr. Langston connected the smell with the fact that he hadn't seen his neighbor, Jacob Green, in days, he had called the police. Not that he saw Mr. Green very often. He really didn't know him, but generally said good morning to him at least two or three times a week.

James conducted the standard interview with Mr. Langston, but didn't learn much more. Langston had moved in five years ago, shortly after Green's wife, Joanna, had died, leaving her husband alone. Langston had never properly introduced himself, and his now-deceased neighbor had been retired and didn't go out much. Nor did anyone seem to visit.

Hathaway scanned the house for anything out of place, but nothing appeared to be disturbed. No sign of a break-in, nothing noticeably missing. The house was spartan and not terribly clean. Fridge was nearly empty, a cup and saucer waited in the sink to be washed. The front room seemed faded and not very comfortable. The desk bore several framed photographs of the man posing with a woman, obviously his wife. They spanned a range of years, one showed them as a young couple on the deck of a ship. The most recent had them cheek-to-cheek over a table setting, as if it were taken by the waiter in a restaurant. The man had aged some since that one was taken.

Hathaway sorted through the small pile of letters and bills that had collected under the mail slot in the front hall door. Amid the mass-mailings and notices was a hand-written note, and James tore it open. It was from an Alice Spooner of Bath. The letter read:

Dearest Jacob,

I wanted to thank you for the birthday card you sent. I should have written sooner, but my arthritis kept me from doing much. I miss our communications very much and would like to continue them soon. To this end, I hope to visit you before the end of summer. Please, PLEASE, Jacob, write me or call me and tell me I'm not out of my mind for trying to keep alive the flame we shared. I love you, as you know, and it breaks my heart to think of you all alone there.

All my love,

Alice

Hathaway looked around to find Lewis and show him the letter. Where was the man? Certainly he had left James all the donkey work—interview the neighbor, check the rooms, sift through the mail.

James found him standing perfectly still in the front room. He was staring at the photos on the desk. As far as James could tell, that was all he had done since seeing the body. Laura stood off to one side, studying Lewis, concern in her eyes. She glanced at James and bit her lower lip when their eyes met.

Deep breath. Brace for an explosion.

"Sir, are you all right?"

Lewis kept staring at the images on the desk. Then he whispered,

"No, Jim. Not really. Did you find anything?" Slowly, he turned and looked at Hathaway with the haunted eyes of a man who has seen his own corpse.