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thing, checking for prints and fibers and DNA. They’re working near the body and Schroder is talking to two people.
    You didn’t care enough.
    Was it worth it?
    One statement. One question. I stare at a vase full of lilacs on the dining table and think about those words while watching a ladybug climb the stem, going about its day-to-day job but somewhat lost, maybe confused by the amount of light for this time of evening.
    I start with the bedroom. There is fingerprint powder over plenty of surfaces. The forensic guys are working fast. Maybe they’re keen to get home or back to the other scene, or maybe they’re sensing more bodies to come their way tonight. The bed is made up and nondescript, the kind of flower-patterned duvet cover everybody’s widowed grandparent would sleep under. There’s a bookcase with a wide selection of books. Acouple of potted plants, a painting of a landscape, and nothing in here to suggest why the owner angered somebody enough to stab him over and over. There are photographs on the dresser, the victim and his children, of grandchildren, photos this man would have looked at every night going through his bedtime routine. Nothing with his wife.
    I put on the same pair of gloves from the last scene, only now they’re on inside out. I go through the drawers and cupboards, Schroder joining me a few minutes into the search, the smell of beer no longer as strong.
    “Any theories?” he asks.
    “Victim one was a lawyer,” I answer. “Maybe he upset somebody.”
    “He hasn’t been a lawyer for ten years,” he says. “Why wait all that time?”
    “Maybe the person he pissed off was in jail,” I say, “and just got out.”
    “It’s possible, but our victim wasn’t a criminal lawyer, he was a divorce lawyer.”
    “Some would find that more of a reason to want him dead,” I tell him.
    “Victim two is seventy-eight years old,” he says, “but taught high school for forty years. Retired thirteen years ago.”
    “Family?”
    “Divorced. Two children.”
    “That explains the photographs,” I tell him. “You check out who his divorce lawyer was?”
    “It’s getting looked at as we speak.”
    I look through an address book and find no mention of Herbert Poole. “Maybe they were friends long ago. Maybe Albert taught Herb’s kids, or Herb got Albert his divorce. You know the reasons for the divorce? Was his wife having an affair? Anything there that can lead back?”
    “Jesus, Tate, we’ve been here fifteen minutes. Cut me some slack.”
    I breathe out heavily. “Okay, point taken. I’m just throwing ideas out there,” I say. “And I’m out of practice. Any prints?” I ask.
    “Yeah, lots of them, but we just gotta narrow them down. Could be none of them belong to our suspect.”
    “Any witnesses?”
    “Not yet, but we haven’t started canvassing yet.”
    “What do you make of the messages?” I ask.
    He shrugs. “One of them is a question,” he says, “and one a statement. Was it worth it? That could be anything. Could mean was his TV worth the thousand bucks he paid for it, or was the hooker he paid for last night worth the hundred bucks? Could reference anything.”
    “Same with the statement,” I say. “You didn’t care enough. Probably means he didn’t care enough about somebody, rather than some thing. Anybody spoken with Herbert Poole’s kids?”
    “Yeah. It’s on the list,” he says.
    “It’s a long list.”
    “And only getting longer.”
    “So what do you want me to do? I’m not much help here looking at a dead man, and anything here will be found anyway. Put me to use.”
    “Look, Theo,” he says, and here it comes, the thing that all evening he has only ever been a moment away from saying. It was only a matter of time. “I appreciate all the help, but right now it’s best if you just go home.”
    “So that’s it? Thanks, Theo, for the ride?”
    He holds up his hand. “Let me finish,” he says. “The boss is on his way,” he says, and I