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would have to be fast acting, because there was no sign of a struggle. No defensive wounds. No skin under his nails. He didn’t fall to his knees or hit his head. I can’t picture how someone could get close enough to inject him and he didn’t at least try to get away. But you saw the room—it was tidy.”
    Lucy could picture a couple different scenarios, but one seemed the most plausible. She said, “That lends credence to the fact that a prostitute was in the room and Worthington intended to have sex with her. Maybe they were kissing and the girl puts the needle into his neck. He pushes her away, but can’t move. Collapses onto the bed. That would have to be an extremely fast-acting drug.”
    She walked around the table, collecting her thoughts. “But why? What’s the motive? Did she kill him for kicks?”
    “A Thelma-and-Louise spree,” Julie suggested.
    “That doesn’t feel right. You say he didn’t have sex, that he was fully dressed when he died. No evidence that he hurt the prostitute—the taxi driver didn’t mention the girl was injured, and he doesn’t have any bruises or cuts on his hands. This wasn’t random. He was lured from Dallas for one hour of sex with a prostitute.”
    “If,” Barry interjected, “his wife knew about his fetish, she could have hired someone.”
    Lucy’s eyes widened. “I thought you didn’t believe she had anything to do with this.”
    “You got me thinking about the possibility,” he said.
    She almost smiled. “How would his death, if it was ruled natural causes, benefit her politically?”
    “Sympathy votes.”
    “I’d think she’d get more negative press than sympathy,” Lucy said.
    “She’d be a widow. Her opponent wouldn’t be able to run any real negative ads against her or her record without being made to look like a jerk. Eventually, the circumstances would fade away, leaving behind only the fact that she lost her husband during the campaign. There could be extenuating circumstances—does she gain financially from his death?” Barry was on a roll. “I’m not saying I think she’s behind it—I don’t know. But it sounds to me like Julie is calling this a homicide.”
    “I’m right here,” Julie said, holding up her hands. “And I haven’t made my official determination. I’m calling his death suspicious right now. When I get the lab results on what he was injected with and talk to the ME about my findings, I’ll revise that. But unofficially? Hell yeah, someone killed him. Whether the girl did it on her own or was hired to do it, who knows? That’s where you two come in.”
    Barry was thanking Julie when Lucy interrupted. “What did his liver look like?”
    “It was a bit enlarged. I took tissue samples, which is standard protocol in a suspicious death like this with no obvious COD.”
    Liver tests could take a day or a week, depending. But there was something familiar about Worthington’s death.
    “What are you thinking?” Julie asked her.
    “I worked a case when I was on vacation last Christmas—”
    Julie interrupted. “Why am I not surprised that you worked while on vacation?”
    Lucy rolled her eyes. “Not my choice. I sort of walked into a situation. Anyway, a nurse used a neuromuscular blocker to kill her victims. Reaction time is fast, death usually less than thirty minutes, depending on the dose. Almost impossible to detect unless you know what to test for.”
    “I’ll make sure I checked all the boxes,” Julie said. “And give the lab a heads-up.”
    “Thank you, Julie,” Lucy said.
    “Just doing my job.”

 
     
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    The elegant chain hotel where Worthington’s phone was still transmitting was only a few miles from the White Knight, but a world of difference. Grand entrance off a busy street, elegant furniture set out in intimate groupings, a restaurant to the right with a hostess and white linen tablecloths, a bar to the left with businessmen and businesswomen drinking alone or in small