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doesn’t mean the killer wasn’t angry at the victim or that they weren’t unbalanced. It only means they weren’t swept up by emotion. There was some rational thought going on at the time of the murder. Still, I can’t speak with any authority here. It’s only a snap judgment. You should talk to a psychologist if you want a better picture of your murderer.”
    â€œI will.” He cocked his head, thinking about her use of the word “efficient” to describe the victim’s death. Efficient . This was not a word that evoked images of uncontrollable rage or anger or any other strong emotion. To him, it sounded premeditated. He hesitated at the door. “I don’t know. There’s something.”
    â€œWhat are you thinking?”
    â€œIt’s more of a feeling. I think whoever we’re dealing with is pretty smart. Really smart. And cold.” The office had been mostly undisturbed, nothing but the victim’s glasses missing. There could be no doubt Dr. Michael had been targeted. A crime of passion? Maybe, but also very, very personal. “I just hope, for all our sakes, he’s made a mistake.”

 
    Chapter Nine
    G EORGE SQU INTED AT his watch and sipped the icy beer. Sarah wasn’t due for another half hour. Beads of perspiration on his brow congealed to a single trickle down his cheek. He turned on the fans, avoiding running the air conditioner. He didn’t need prying questions from his father. Checking the time again, he sighed.
    Outside, he watched the sunlight reflected on the water. Dancing sparkles like diamonds popped up and disappeared in the ripples before reappearing again. A pair of boats cruised into view, their wake disturbing the crystal beauty of the water. He grabbed a lawn chair and another beer. Moving closer to the river, he sat under a large oak tree. He took a long swig of beer and wiped his mouth. George had avoided his friends and Mary Helen for days. He’d kept to the library during the day and escaped to the cottage each evening. The separation from Sarah, although less than a week, felt like an eternity. In the heat, his T-­shirt clung to his skin. He stretched his legs and shut his eyes to the glare of the sun. His mind drifted.
    â€œGeorge?” a woman’s voice called his name, the lilting tone tinged with irritation. “George, are you listening to me?” His eyes popped open. “Good God, are you asleep?”
    â€œNo. No.” He raised his head and sat up straight. “I’m awake.”
    Mary Helen glared at him. “We were saying how important it is to establish where you were last night—­the whole night.” She emphasized the final three words.
    â€œThat’s right,” Larry said. He held a memo pad in his hands. “So, George, what time did you arrive at the club?”
    â€œI don’t know exactly. Before six, I guess.”
    â€œCan’t you be more specific?” his wife asked.
    George bowed his head and let out a breath. He stood and walked to the great window overlooking the front yard. Condensation in the windows crept from the corners to the middle. He reached up and traced the lines in the windows with his finger. “Five forty-­five.”
    â€œThat’s fine, George,” Larry said, making notes. “Can you tell me who saw you, what you ate, how long you were there?”
    The pain in his head throbbed and the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened. “Jesus,” he said, and wheeled around, “is this necessary? I haven’t done anything.” No one spoke. Larry shifted in his chair and looked down at his notes. Mary Helen stiffened, her tiny hands gripping the arms of the settee. He rubbed his temples and sank onto the sofa. “I’m sorry,” he said, avoiding Mary Helen’s piercing gaze. “I just have this terrible headache and I don’t know why we’re doing this.”
    An