Kerri was stunned that Falco had shown up in sharply pressed dress trousers and an equally well-starched button-down shirt. Though he certainly looked the part of a detective—sans the tie that most of the males wore—he also appeared incredibly uncomfortable.

A grin tugged at her lips, but she resisted the impulse. This was no time to be caught on camera smiling. This was a somber occasion. Two people were dead, possibly three, as well as an unborn child. No matter that this was day four of the investigation, they were no closer to solving the case.

And Sela Abbott remained missing.

For this press conference most of the detectives in the Major Investigations Division were present. Kerri glanced at Sykes and Peterson. If not for a holdup at Starbucks, those two would have been under the gun on this one. Lucky bastards. Maybe she would have had some time to work things out with her daughter if not for this case.

Kerri forced her attention forward. The truth was, she was glad she’d caught this one. The vics deserved the best investigators, and according to Falco, she was the best. Then again, this case might very well prove him wrong.

Besides, if she wasn’t here, she would be at home, where her daughter would be refusing to speak with her again since today’s early-morning phone conversation with Nick had gone so badly. The man had been married to her long enough to know that he should not call to raise hell with her before she had her first cup of coffee.

And now this—she surveyed the crowd of cops and reporters in the audience—was the kickoff to her workday.

Sometimes the tug-of-war between work and home was so closely matched there was no winning either way.

She resisted the urge to shake her head. Two things she understood for certain. Whether she had landed this case or not, she would still be working long hours. She always did. Maybe that had been her MO these past several months because she wanted to avoid confrontations with her daughter and the reality that her husband had cheated on her and left her for someone else.

The entire situation was new territory for both her and Tori. It was like finding their way through a minefield.

The LT and the chief of police took a final question, and Kerri readied to move. She wanted out of here as soon as possible. She and Falco had a double homicide to investigate. But this was the way things were done in cases like this one. Always. The chief was certain it helped keep the community calm and reassured them, seeing the detectives assigned to the case during a press conference.

Politicians were all the same, and the chief was definitely a politician.

The instant the chief walked away from the podium, the LT right behind him, Kerri elbowed Falco and moved in the opposite direction. The reporters would follow the chief. She and Falco were halfway to where his Charger was parked when her cell vibrated in her pocket.

If it was her ex again . . .

The screen showed a number she didn’t recognize. She couldn’t readily identify the area code either.

“Devlin.”

Falco unlocked his car, and Kerri climbed in while the male voice on the other end, a Sergeant Rossi from San Francisco PD, explained that there was no record of criminal activities or domestic disturbances for Sela Rollins Abbott or her mother, Jacqueline Rollins. The same for Ben Abbott.

Kerri thanked him and slid the phone back into her pocket.

“San Francisco PD had nothing,” she told Falco as he eased away from the curb. It was a miracle his car hadn’t been towed since he’d parked in a no-parking zone.

He’d mentioned as he’d rolled into the spot this morning that the last time he’d done so, a street sweeper had plowed into the official BPD cruiser he’d been using. At least that explained one of the accidents on his record.

“I guess that means we move backward to San Diego,” he suggested.

Kerri nodded, her gaze on the traffic he expertly navigated. He wasn’t a bad driver at all. She’d chauffeured Boswell around for so long she’d forgotten how nice it was to be a passenger. “I’ll make the call.” It was Saturday, but law enforcement was twenty-four seven. She turned to Falco. “We headed to talk to the housekeeper, Angie Cowart?”

“We are. She lives over on Forty-Second Avenue.”

Kerri made the call to San Diego PD while Falco drove to the housekeeper’s address.

The dispatcher in San Diego would leave an urgent message for the liaison officer, who would call Kerri back as soon as possible. Whatever that meant in West Coast time. She hoped the folks there worked faster than the ones in San Francisco. But given it was Saturday, the dispatcher hadn’t made any promises.

“Looks like someone’s home,” Falco announced as he pulled in the drive behind an older-model Ford pickup.

“I guess Jenkins kept her word and didn’t warn Cowart.” Kerri hadn’t really expected she would.

They emerged from the car, Falco slipping into his trademark leather jacket, and started for the porch.

Kerri had wondered how long he would be able to survive without it.

The Forty-Second Avenue area was shabby for sure, and the house was likely a rental whose landlord refused to maintain it properly. But it wasn’t the worst neighborhood in the city by any means.

The landscape was a little overgrown, and the house badly needed a coat of paint, but the place was clean. No garbage lying around. No defunct vehicles up on blocks. On the porch two pots of blooming flowers welcomed guests. Two plastic chairs with a table between them sat at the far end of the space. Clean and charming.

Falco knocked on the screen door.

A burst of ferocious barking had them both stepping back.

The tan-colored pit bull shoved his nose against the screen and snarled as if he’d had to pause to catch his breath before launching into a second barking rant.

“Take it easy, boy,” Falco offered, which prompted a round of threatening growls.

“Maybe it’s the jacket,” Kerri suggested. “He probably doesn’t recognize that you’re a cop.”

“Funny, Devlin.”

“May I help you?”

The hesitant voice came from deep inside the house, in the shadows well beyond the now-slobbering dog.

“Ma’am, I’m Detective Devlin, and this is my partner, Detective Falco. We need a few moments of your time.”

The barking resumed, as if the dog wanted to warn his master that trouble was on her doorstep.

“Khaki, go!”

The dog swung his head back and looked at her but didn’t make a move to obey the order.

“Go! Now!”

The muscled animal reluctantly turned the rest of his body around and trotted off.

Falco glanced at Kerri and mouthed the word Khaki as he made a what-the-hell face.

The dog was kind of khaki colored.

A woman, approximately midtwenties, appeared at the door. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a plain white tee and jeans. “I’ve already talked to you.” This she directed at Falco. “I don’t know anything.”

A sure sign that she did. “Ms. Cowart”—Kerri stepped closer to the screen door—“we just need to go over a few details. I’m certain you’ve told us everything you know, but it never hurts to go over information twice. This is very important.”

“Should I call for a warrant, Devlin?” Falco asked.

The younger woman gasped. Kerri turned to her partner. “I don’t believe that will be necessary.” She shifted her attention back to the door. “I’m sure Ms. Cowart wants to help us.”

“Yes. Please. Come in. You don’t need a warrant. I have nothing to hide.”

She backed away from the door as Falco reached to open it. Once they were beyond the threshold, Cowart just stood in the middle of the room, wringing her hands.

“Do you mind if we sit down?” Kerri nodded to the sofa and chair facing the old console-style television set.

Head bobbing up and down, Cowart said, “Sure. Sure.”

They settled around the likely inoperative television. Cowart continued to wring her hands, the fear obvious on her face.

“Mrs. Chapin mentioned an older blue car parked near the Abbotts’ gate last week,” Falco said. “Do you remember the one she was talking about.”

Cowart stared at her hands a moment.

“Anything you can tell us,” Kerri put in, “could be crucial to finding Mrs. Abbott alive.”

The housekeeper’s head came up, her eyes wide with fear. “It belongs to Joey. Joey Keaton. He’s Ms. Jenkins’s nephew. He does yard work sometimes for the Abbotts—when their regular landscaper is behind.”

“Angie, may I call you Angie?”

She nodded without meeting Kerri’s gaze.

“Why were you concerned about telling us this?”

Cowart stared at her hands again. “Because he . . . he’s my boyfriend.”

Now Kerri got the picture. The two may have been having secret rendezvous when Angie was on the Chapin clock.

Kerri said, “We’ll need to speak with him, Angie. Do you have a phone number?”

She nodded. “But his minutes are out, so it’s not working right now.”

“How can we find him?” Falco pressed.

“He’s living with Ms. Jenkins until he finds more work. His family is all gone now. His aunt is all he has left.”