Hangman. Faye Kellerman

area was furnished with the basics—a sectional couch with a chaise, a couple of end tables, and a trunk for a coffee table. There was a square dining table and four chairs. The kitchen was tiny with beige tiled countertops and newer white appliances. A flat screen had been mounted to the wall opposite the couch. The place could have belonged to anyone USA except for the only revealing item in the space—a bookshelf.

      Not many books but lots of DVDs. More important were the framed pictures of Adrianna in life. She’d been an attractive woman with long brunette hair and a wide smile. She stood on the slopes holding her skis with a goofy grin, she posed with her girlfriends at a restaurant holding up a margarita glass, she stood tall in a cap and gown, with her parents on either side. There were several shots of her with the same man—average height, spiky sandy-colored hair, light eyes, and several piercings in each earlobe. Good-looking guy. Probably Garth Hammerling. Decker placed one of his pictures in his briefcase.

      He moved on to the bathroom—OTC analgesics, face creams, birth control pills, and a nice-size bag of weed. He left everything as is and went on to the spare bedroom, which Adrianna had set up as an office. There was a cheap desk that held a Dell laptop and a printer, a rocking chair, and a foldout sofa bed.

      A computer was a valuable thing. He unplugged the laptop, closed the lid, and gently slid it into a carrying case. Then he began to rifle through her desk—pencils, papers, receipts, paper clips, rubber bands, tape, Postits, and dozens of loose photographs.

      He flipped through some of the pictures.

      Adrianna had an orderly mind. On the backs of most of the photos, she had labeled the people and dated them. The same names and faces kept coming up: Sela Graydon, Crystal Larabee, Mandy Ko walski, Garth Hammerling—the cute guy in the framed, living-room picture—and a few of Garth’s friends, Aaron Otis and Greg Reyburn. Again, Decker selected several pictures and stowed them in his attaché.

      Not much else inside the desk. One drawer was dedicated to printing paper; another contained a tangle of cable cords. He got up and surveyed the clothes closet. It was used as a spare, holding heavy winter coats, a set of skis, a boogie board, six black party dresses, and a set of luggage.

      Her bedroom was also neat. A pink paisley comforter sat atop a queen bed. Two night lamps on either side sat on two identical nightstands, which held a clock radio, a land phone, and a pad and pencil. Decker picked up the blank pad of paper and the pencil. Using a light touch, he rubbed the side of the pencil tip against the pad, the indentations revealing a former grocery list. He put the pad down.

      A flat screen had been placed atop an open console. Her clothes closet, on the other hand, was jammed. It was neatish but not compulsive. Different sections for blouses, shirts, skirts, pants, and dresses, but not colorcoded. Formal wear sat with casual wear. She had lots of shoes and lots of running shoes. Dozens of purses, belts, and scarves, and ten pairs of sunglasses. Nothing designer, just megaquantity.

      Decker checked his watch. It was time to get back, just in case Donatti decided to be a speed demon and come in early. He didn’t want Chris picking up Gabe without his being there. He gave the bedroom a final onceover. On impulse, he walked over to the right nightstand and pulled out the small top drawer. It was crammed with a Sudoku book, several mechanical pencils, a nail file, several Tampex, and a pad of Postits. The left night-stand drawer had a wheel of birth control pills, the remote control for the TV, and a latched leather-bound book. Decker picked it up

      A diary.

      Didn’t come across those too often. How lucky is that?

      He stowed the diary in his briefcase.

      His bedtime reading.

      CRYSTAL LARABEE’S APARTMENT was a two-story white stucco building of sixties vintage. She was on the second floor and Marge pitied the person who lived below her. It was amazing how much noise she could make wearing cork-sole wedged shoes. As soon as she kicked them off—with a thud—Marge realized that Crystal was a very petite woman, about five feet tall. The cuffs of her jeans dragged along the floor. She plopped down on her couch and threw her legs on a glass coffee table.

      “What time is it? I wanna go to sleep.”

      “It’s not late,” Marge lied. “We’ll only be a few minutes.”

      She yawned. “I’m tired.”

      The doorbell rang.

      “Who the hell is that?” Crystal said.

      “My partner.”

      “The guy?”

      “Yeah, the guy.” Marge got up and opened the door. “This is Detective Oliver. He drove your car home from the Port Hole.”

      “He did?” Crystal rubbed her eyes and noticed black on her fingers. “I gotta wash my face.” She ran her tongue over her teeth and grimaced. “My mouth is yucky. I don’ feel so good. Can’t this wait?”

      “How about if you wash your face, I’ll put on some coffee,” Marge said. “You do have coffee, right?”

      “Yeah.”

      “So I’ll make some coffee, okay?”

      “Whatever.” She disappeared into a bedroom.

      Oliver rolled his eyes. “How much do you think we’ll get out of her?”

      “At this point, I’m just aiming for the name of the hunk that Adri-anna was flirting with. Or maybe he was flirting with Adrianna .”

      The two detectives took in Crystal’s living space. The carpet hadn’t been vacuumed for a while and the blinds were speckled in dust. Copies of Cosmo, People, and Us magazines were strewn on tabletops and littered the floor. Furniture was simple: sofa, an ottoman, end tables, a dinette set, and a flat screen on a stand. Messy but not filthy.

      The kitchen was another story: dishes in the sink, sticky countertops, grit on the floor, and an overflowing garbage can under the sink. Marge found some coffee in the fridge and milk that was fortunately not beyond its expiration date. She brewed up a pot of strong coffee, found some clean mismatched mugs—she rinsed them out anyway—and poured a cup for Oliver and for herself.

      It was taking a while for Crystal to make her appearance. Marge got up from the couch. “Let me see what’s going on.”

      She found Crystal in her bedroom, stripped to her skivvies and fast asleep atop her comforter.

      “Oh boy.” Marge gave her a gentle shake. “Crystal, we need a few minutes.” Another shake. “Wake up, honey.”

      Crystal opened her eyes. “Wha?”

      “Last night, honey,” Marge said. “We need to talk about last night.”

      “I was at the Port Hole.”

      “Not tonight, Crystal, last night. At Garage…where you were working.”

      Crystal rolled over. “I took the day off.”

      Marge shook her. “I want to talk about Adrianna, Crystal. She was flirting with a man at Garage. I want to talk about that man.”

      Crystal turned over and faced Marge. “Huh?”

      “Last night at Garage. You were comping them both free drinks. You could get into trouble for that.”

      That got her attention. She sat up. “You’re not gonna say something?”

      “Not if you talk to us,” Marge said. “Put on a robe, come out into the living room, and let us talk to you for a few minutes. Then you can go to sleep.”

      “Okay.” Crystal blinked several times. Her lids, freed from the crushing weight of the mascara, could move. With a scrubbed face and no makeup, she looked far more vulnerable. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

      “We’ll be waiting in the living room.”

      A sec was fifteen minutes, but she did come out, and when she did,