KENT CALLED around eight thirty Sunday morning.

“Detective Hart, the governor can meet you and Mr. Murphy at his aunt’s house in twenty minutes.”

Abby said she’d be there and hung up to call Murphy. The call went to voice mail, and she wondered if that meant he’d be a no-show. It bugged her that the prospect of his absence pinched her with disappointment, so she concentrated instead on what she’d say to Rollins.

Help me dig up some new leads and find the killers.

Would he?

Expecting an early call, she’d already dressed in black slacks, a dark-blue homicide polo shirt, and black high-heeled boots. The boots added two inches to her height, and she hoped they made her more imposing. She didn’t want Rollins dismissing her as a little girl. Pinning her hair back, she stepped to the sink and poured the rest of her coffee into a travel mug. Bandit lay curled up on the small dog bed in the corner of the kitchen, watching her.

For someone who’d never had a dog and who knew she shouldn’t get attached, Abby felt more than a little pleased that the small guy had settled in so nicely. He’d slept on her bed, down at the foot; he’d done his business when she let him outside; and when she prepared his food, he pranced about in such a way that she couldn’t help but smile.

What will I do if Rollins wants the dog?

Shaking the question from her mind, she picked up her coffee and her purse and headed out to meet the governor, wondering how on earth she’d be able to broach the subject of the Triple Seven.

She’d started her car and was almost out of the driveway when she realized she needed to pray. Abby blew out a breath and bowed her head. Lord, you know I’ve wanted this moment for practically my whole life. I want to find my parents’ killers. If Rollins knows anything, please help me get the information. Amen.

There was only one black Cadillac Escalade parked in front of Cora Murray’s home. Kent had asked her to phone in her duty log-on information, to stay off the radio, so she knew he wanted this visit to be quick and quiet, with no news agency involvement. Evidently he was certain the governor’s visit would be under the radar if his instructions were followed. Enough under that the security detail was not needed.

It so impressed Abby that Rollins was not going to turn this into a campaign stop that she believed the governor really did feel the loss of his great-aunt.

She pulled her plain car into the alley and parked. Kent and another man got out of the Cadillac at the same time she climbed out of her car. She met them on the porch.

“Mr. Murphy?” Kent asked.

“I called him.” Abby couldn’t help but note that because of her boots she looked down on the man. But the way he carried himself didn’t make him any less intimidating. He definitely had what cops called a “command presence.”

Just then a four-door pickup pulled in behind her plain car. Abby didn’t miss the fact that both Kent and the security man with him reached right hands into their jackets.

A flustered Murphy jumped out of the truck and hurried to where she stood. She nodded to him and then looked back at Kent, who had relaxed.

“If you’ll open the door, I’ll get the governor,” the chief of staff said.

“Sorry I’m late,” Murphy whispered to her as he followed her to the door.

“Nothing’s happened yet, so you’re right on time.” A thrill rippled through her at his closeness and the feel of his warm breath on her ear.

She opened the pocketknife on her key chain to cut the crime scene seal and nearly sliced her finger.

Get a grip, she told herself as she stuck her key in the lock public service had put on the door. When she turned, Kent and Governor and Mrs. Rollins were walking toward the house. Mrs. Rollins held her husband’s arm and whispered in his ear as they walked. Abby watched the pair and wondered at their relationship. They were married a couple of years after the Triple Seven fire, so she was not mentioned in any of the old homicide reports. Abby really didn’t understand women who were content to be in the background. Maybe because I’m not married, she thought. What will it be like with Ethan? He’d never said out loud that he wanted her to quit and follow him, but her intuition told her there would be no friction if she did just that.

Chiding herself for a wandering mind, Abby turned to Kent, someone she could understand. He was all about safety. Ramrod straight, his hard eyes roaming, danger humming around him like a bee . . . Yes, she got Kent. Lowell and Alyssa Rollins carried themselves like royalty —expensive clothes, dismissive gazes. They trusted Kent implicitly, she could tell.

She was aware of Murphy stiffening on her right. The governor looked at him first.

“Mr. Murphy, I presume. I’m glad you could make it. I wanted to personally thank you for notifying the police when my aunt was attacked.” He held his hand out.

Murphy shook it. “No thanks necessary. I did what anyone would have done. Just wish I could have stopped what happened.”

“You’re modest.” Alyssa Rollins smiled and gripped Murphy’s hand in both of hers.

“Cora will be missed,” Rollins said wistfully before turning to Abby.

“Detective Hart.” He extended his hand. The smell of Old Spice hit Abby like a fragrant wave. Asa had used the same aftershave, and it was not unpleasant, even if a bit overdone.

“Governor Rollins.” She shook the bony hand and noted the firm grip, taking the opportunity to assess the governor, wondering if this visit would be emotional and difficult for him.

“I appreciate your meeting us here this morning,” he said, appearing composed and steady.

“I second that.” Alyssa Rollins gave Abby an appraising gaze but didn’t extend her hand. Instead she held on to her husband’s arm.

Abby concentrated on the governor. “If you can help determine what’s missing from your aunt’s belongings, you’re doing the investigation a favor. And I had one question about the disposition of your aunt’s dog.”

“Cora had a dog?” Rollins raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, a small one. Do you want him or have an opinion on where he should go?”

“I’m allergic to dogs,” Alyssa said. “Do what you think is best for the animal.”

“I agree with Alyssa,” Rollins said with a nod and motioned for Kent to enter the bungalow first.

A huge chunk of Abby’s nervousness evaporated in a poof, and she knew she could focus completely on the other questions she needed to ask the governor.

Kent brushed past and flipped on the hall light as he strode toward the living room.

Rollins turned to Abby. “Do you mind if Mr. Murphy joins us? I’ve been told he’s contacted my office several times. I’d like to give him the opportunity to ask his questions. Since I must hurry back to Sacramento, I thought it prudent to handle this before I leave.”

Her curiosity was piqued and she was nonplussed. She thought Murphy was only here because he’d seen the suspect. What did he want to ask the governor?

Abby said, “It’s your call. The crime scene has been thoroughly processed. The home will be released as soon as we know who to release it to.”

“I believe lawyers are working on that as we speak.”

“Okay, and I need to mention that nothing has been cleaned up.” Abby looked from one Rollins to the other and then to Murphy, wondering if any of them would react.

All of them offered stoic expressions, so Abby turned to follow Kent, speaking to Governor Rollins as she walked. “I’ll show you some photos of objects recovered from the suspect’s possession and living area. I need to know if you recognize anything.”

The governor and his wife followed Kent and Abby while Murphy brought up the rear. The second security man stayed outside.

“Umm.” Rollins mumbled something as the four of them crowded together in the small living room. The place smelled unpleasantly musty, and the evidence of fingerprint powder gave everything the tint of an old photograph. The alley window was boarded up, so very little natural light made it into the room.

For a few silent seconds Rollins looked around the room. “It’s been years since I’ve been in this house.” His tone was wistful and soft, not the commanding, authoritative voice from the press conference. Abby heard the vibration of underlying emotion but didn’t think it indicated he’d break.

“The most vivid memory I have is of a Christmas we spent here.” He waved his hand toward the corner of the room. “Aunt Cora had the tree there. She made the best cinnamon hot chocolate. I’ve never been able to duplicate it.” There was a faraway look in his eyes, and he paused before continuing.

“I was about eight or nine and my brother, Louis, was nine or ten. Cora gave us hot chocolate and sat us in front of the tree after dinner while the adults drank coffee in the kitchen.” He held his hands together in front of him and closed his eyes. “I think that was the best childhood Christmas I can remember. Later Christmases were never as fun or as peaceful.”

Kent cleared his throat and Rollins took the cue. He turned toward Abby. “I apologize for the woolgathering. You have something you want me to look at?”

Abby stepped forward to hand the governor a folder of photos, items found in Davis’s possession or at his grandmother’s house.

“Can you identify any of these items? And please, walk around; tell me if anything stands out as missing.”

He studied the photos and picked out one of a small gold music box and another of a porcelain ballerina. “These both belonged to my aunt. Louis got paddled for trying to play with the ballerina. It held great sentimental value for my aunt, but I’m not sure of its monetary value.”

Abby felt the familiar zing of things falling into place, a case coming together. One thing remained —would she get the chance to ask Rollins about the Triple Seven? She took a breath to speak, but Rollins beat her to it.

“I know you speak to a lot of victims of violence, Detective Hart, but have you ever lost someone close to you in a tragic fashion?”

Snapping the folder closed, Abby averted her gaze. This was her opening, and suddenly indecision roiled her insides like a bad meal.

Looking up, she seized the moment. “Yes, I have.”

Everyone stared at her. Abby stepped through the open door.

“You don’t remember me, Governor Rollins, but you worked with my parents, Buck and Patricia Morgan.”