ABBY WATCHED LIL’ SPORTY for a few minutes from behind two-way glass. Roper stood to her right and Lieutenant Jacoby and Sergeant Page were on her left. She felt a tingle in the back of her neck, a sensation that told her she was on the right track. Abby trusted her instincts, but instincts alone would not gain a conviction. And if Sporty was their man, the hard work of building a solid case was just beginning.

The ex-jockey could easily be mistaken for a teen from a distance. As she reviewed the window entries in her mind, she knew he would have had no problem climbing into the victims’ residences. And the two victims were frail; the killer didn’t have to be big and strong. But a nonviolent burglar making the leap to serial killer nagged. Lil’ Sporty’s last arrest had been eighteen months ago, on a charge of receiving stolen property, and he’d spent six months in jail. Abby wondered if something had happened there to push the burglar to murder. She felt in her gut that the posing of the victims was the key. Almost as if he wanted to leave the women at peace.

As he fidgeted at the interview table, she noted his grimy hands and face. He’d definitely been living in the gutter for a time. By the way he sweated as he twitched in the chair, Abby guessed he needed a fix. His arrest record was long, and being interviewed was nothing new to Lil’ Sporty, so Abby knew she’d have to tread lightly. They had little physical evidence, and if he shut up and called for a lawyer, they’d have no interview.

“Found a couple of interesting items in his bag,” Page told Abby. He handed her an inventory sheet.

She immediately saw property from the first victim —gold coins. The victim’s daughter had told her that her mother had collected them, and Sporty had ten.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Page said. “I asked about the coins. Sporty says a friend paid a debt with them.”

“He name the friend?”

“Someone he just barely met.” Page rolled his eyes. “I didn’t want to press and have him scream, ‘Lawyer.’ You’d be madder at me than him.”

Abby tilted her head in agreement, then looked at the other items: two rings and a couple of knickknacks. They might have belonged to Cora, but unless someone could tell them for sure . . .

“No gloves or burglar tools?” Bill asked Page.

“No, but he’s been to this rodeo more than once. I’m sure he dumped anything and everything that could immediately connect him to actual burgling, especially if he thought someone saw him. Glad that PI came along when he did. We’re still looking for where Sporty stayed. He says he’s been on the streets, but . . .” Page shook his head.

“I’ll see if I can get anything out of him. At least he hasn’t lawyered up.”

She stepped out to the hallway vending machine. Mountain Dew and a Snickers bar were the ticket. Coming to ground like he was, Sporty would need the caffeine and the sugar.

After petting Bandit once, noting he seemed content in Roper’s arms, Abby headed into the interview room. Page held the door open for her, and she walked in to have a conversation with a murder suspect.

Davis looked up at her when she stepped into the room, a grimy finger in the corner of his mouth. His gaze went directly to the food in her hand.

“How’s the arm?” Abby nodded to the only clean patch on the man, the bandage covering his stitches.

He looked from her to the Snickers and back again, then sniffled.

“You hungry, Mr. Davis?” Abby asked as she sat across from the burglar.

He swallowed and she saw the Adam’s apple in his throat work. “I could eat.”

She slid the soda and the candy bar across the table, and he grabbed them, opening the can and drinking at least half before he ripped the wrapper from the candy bar and bit into it.

Abby waited a beat while she watched Lil’ Sporty. He was used to telling lies and half-truths to evade in interviews, but if she could find a connection, something that would make him drop his guard, she might get the whole truth from him.

“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Davis?”

His cheek bulged with Snickers bar as he nodded. “You’re mad I ran, so you’re gonna try and blame me for something, I bet.” Bits of chocolate spittle dotted his lower lip.

“I have questions for you.” Abby pulled out a Miranda rights form and placed a mini recorder on the desk. She read Davis his rights and explained about the taped interview while he stuffed the rest of the candy bar into his mouth and drained the last bit of soda from the can.

“Yeah, I’ll talk,” he said after he swallowed. He picked up the pen Abby gave him and scrawled his name on the form, smudging the paper with chocolate and grime. “I didn’t do nothing.”

Abby arched an eyebrow, thinking about the particulars on his arrest record. It didn’t surprise her that he’d quickly signed away his rights. Many career criminals thought easy cooperation would throw the investigators off the scent. They’d make up a plausible story about whatever was asked and outsmart the investigators.

Not me. Not today, Abby thought. “First off, I have easy questions for you. Where are you staying?”

“On the streets.” He wiped his nose with a sleeve. “I told Sergeant Page that.”

“Before that, an address for parole or government checks?”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “No one wants to rent to an ex-con.”

“You’ve stayed at the Pacific Hotel before; they don’t care about your record.”

“Streets are easier.”

Abby folded her arms and decided to go a different direction. “What about family? Where does your mother live?”

Davis’s head jerked her way, wariness in his eyes. “My mom? She’s dead. Died when I was five.”

Abby knew from his file his mother was deceased, but she hadn’t known when she died. Now she had a connection.

“Sorry to hear that. I know how that goes. I lost my mom when I was six.”

Davis ran one hand over the dark stubble on his shaved head before dropping it to the table and rolling the empty soda can back and forth, now watching Abby guardedly. She could see he was wondering where she was going with the line of questioning.

“I was bounced around in foster homes for a bit. Group homes, social services, you probably know the drill. Who raised you?”

Sporty sat up and sniffled. “Grandma. Grew up in Los Alamitos.” He looked away.

“Did you learn to ride horses there at the track?”

“Yep. Because of my size I was good at it for a while.”

“Is your grandma still in Los Al?”

He shook his head. “No, we moved to Shady Acres about three years ago.”

Shady Acres was a trailer park on the west side, on the other side of Santa Fe about five blocks from Cora Murray’s home and within the radius where she expected the killer to live.

He continued to fidget with the empty pop can and appeared to have more to say, so Abby waited.

“She died when I was in jail last. Fell, broke her hip, and no one heard her calling for help. Took three days, but she died. She suffered.”

Abby held her breath, watching Davis carefully.

“I hate to think of her suffering,” he said in a whisper. “I should have been there. I would have heard her. I would have helped.” A tear made a slow trail down his grimy cheek. “Old people shouldn’t be left alone.”

Abby exhaled, leaned forward, and asked in a quiet voice, “Is that why you killed the old women?”

Lil’ Sporty nodded without looking at her. “I did them a favor. They won’t suffer —” His head jerked up, and realization spread across his face like a curtain. “I want my lawyer.”

Biting back frustration, Abby kept her face expressionless. She had to stop now, but she had enough. There was a foot in the door and she’d find enough evidence to force the door open. She told Davis he’d be booked, then left to confer with Page and Jacoby about getting a search warrant for the trailer Grandma had lived, and died, in.