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She cleared her throat. “Do you remember the killer the newspapers called the Handyman?”
    â€œVaguely. You never caught him.”
    Although June stated it as a simple fact, it stung like an admonition. “We didn’t have much to go on,” she said. “We do now.”
    For a moment, June stared at her. Then she shook her head. “But what does this have to do with Sammy? I thought the Handyman killed women?”
    Patti explained about the find in City Park. “Sammy’s badge was in the grave.”
    June gasped. “That can’t…My God, Patti…this means—”
    â€œThat the Handyman killed Sammy.”
    The server arrived with their food. June gazed blankly at hers, then lifted her eyes to Patti. “Suddenly I’m not so hungry.”
    Patti reached across the table and covered her hand. “This doesn’t change how he died. It doesn’t make it worse or more painful.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œNo. But it does give me a lead. Finally.” She smiled grimly. “I’m going to get him. And I’m going to make him pay.”
    June fell silent. They both picked at their food. Patti saw that her friend was upset.
    â€œWhat?” she asked, pushing her own plate away.
    â€œI’m worried about you.”
    â€œNow, there’s something new.”
    June waved off the teasing sarcasm. “You act so tough, but I know—”
    â€œThe real me?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œTough exterior, soft, chewy center?” Patti teased.
    â€œYes. And it’s not funny.”
    â€œI’m a police captain. Being soft is a liability.”
    June leaned forward. “I don’t want you hurt any more than you already have been. First the heart attack, then Katrina and Sammy…”
    â€œThanks, but…I think closure is the only thing that’ll stop the hurt.”
    June opened her mouth as if to argue her point, but closed it as Patti’s cell phone buzzed. “Captain O’Shay.”
    â€œAunt Patti. It’s Spencer. We got a hit.”
    â€œTell me.”
    â€œEx-con. Did time for aggravated rape.”
    â€œPick him up. I’m on my way.”

12
    Saturday, April 21, 2007
2:10 p.m.
    B y the time Patti arrived back at headquarters, the suspect had been picked up. Spencer met her outside the door to the interview room.
    â€œThat was quick,” she said.
    â€œSent a couple of uniforms. He was climbing into his van when they pulled up. Name’s Ben Franklin—” She cocked an eyebrow and he grinned.
    â€œI asked. No relation. Did time for aggravated rape and assault. Served seven of his ten years.”
    â€œHow long’s he been out?”
    â€œJust over two years.”
    Timing worked with what they had so far. “And he’s managed to keep his nose clean?”
    â€œTo fly under the radar,” Spencer corrected. “The officer who picked him up saw some suspicious-looking items in his van. Half-dozen flat-screen TVs. Light fixtures.”
    He had her with the last. “Light fixtures?” she repeated.
    â€œThat’s right. Chandeliers. Lots of sparkle. Officer White confronted Franklin about the items. Asked for receipts, which he couldn’t produce.”
    â€œBig surprise. Have an inventory yet?”
    â€œWorking on it now.” He motioned the room. “Maybe I should do this?”
    â€œI’m not that rusty, Detective.” She reached for the door. “You monitor.”
    Each interview room was outfitted with a video camera so interviews could be taped for later review or to be used as evidence in a trial. In addition, others could monitor the process from a room down the hall.
    He caught her arm. “I don’t think this arrangement is a good idea.”
    She looked at him, eyebrow cocked. “And why’s that, Detective?”
    â€œIf we’re going strictly by-the-book, you’re too personally involved in the