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keys.
    Jane read out the number.
    “Thanks. If you need me I’m at Hank Doherty’s house.” She gave Jane the number, then hung up. When she turned around a man was standing in the doorway. He was in his late thirties, at least six-four and two hundred and fifty pounds, of athletic build, wearing a wash-and-wear suit.
    “I’m Bob Hurst,” he said.
    “Holly Barker,” she replied, extending a hand. “Pardon my gloves.”
    “Heard about you, glad to meet you.”
    “Same here.”

    “What we got?”
    “Hank Doherty, apparently. Dead, shotgun to the face.”
    Hurst nodded, walked around the desk and took a good look. “Looks like a police weapon,” he said.
    “It’s Chief Marley’s,” she replied. “I checked the serial number.”
    He looked at her oddly. “That’s kind of weird.”
    “Yeah.”
    “I’ve had a walk-through. It’s all in good order; nothing seems to have been stolen. The safe’s open, and it doesn’t seem like a robbery.”
    “From what I know of Hank, it could be suicide,” Hurst said.
    “With the chief’s shotgun?”
    “Well, there is that.”
    “Let’s treat it as a homicide until we know more. You work the scene, I’ll go through the desk and the safe.”
    “Right.”
    Holly went and sat behind the desk. She gave her first attention to the letter from Mrs. Eleanor Warner. It was two pages of affectionate chat, with talk of her children. Mrs. Warner was Hank’s daughter.
    Holly went through the bills and other mail and found nothing remarkable. Finally, she came to a bound document under a blank legal pad. The cover, apparently printed from a computer, was set in large type. It read:
     
    DAISY
    EXCELLENT WORKING BITCH
     
    “Oh, Daisy,” Holly said aloud. “Me, too.”

CHAPTER

7
    H olly went through Hank Doherty’s safe and found three hundred dollars and change in cash, a life insurance policy and some other personal and business documents. “I think we can discount robbery as a motive,” she said to Bob Hurst, who was dusting the counter and the phone for fingerprints. “There’s cash here, and nobody bothered to look.”
    “Right,” Hurst said. “I don’t hold out much hope for any relevant prints. The shotgun’s been wiped clean, which means it wasn’t suicide.”
    A man carrying a medical bag entered through the front door.
    “Hey, Doc,” Hurst said. “Got a job for you over there.”
    “Is it Hank?” the doctor asked.
    “Sure is. That there is Deputy Chief Barker,” he said, pointing a gloved hand. “Chief, this here is Dr. Fred Harper, who passes for our M.E. around here.”

    Holly waved from Hank’s desk. “Hey, Dr. Harper.”
    “How you do?” The doctor walked around the counter and into the office. “Jesus God,” he said quietly.
    “Yeah,” Hurst replied.
    The doctor knelt by the body and looked it over carefully. Finally he stood up. “I don’t think I can tell you anything you don’t already know,” he said. “Not until I get a postmortem done, anyway.”
    “The ambulance is here,” Hurst said. “You ready to move him?”
    The doctor looked inquiringly at Holly.
    “Go ahead, if you’re ready,” she said.
    Two paramedics came into the building, loaded the corpse onto a stretcher and removed it to the ambulance.
    “Let me know when you’re done,” Holly said to the doctor. “I’d like you to be thorough.”
    “I always am,” the doctor said. “I’ll try to get it done by the close of business, but I can’t promise.” He picked up his bag and left.
    “I’m about done,” Hurst said.
    “When do you think it happened?” Holly asked.
    “Last night, I reckon.”
    “That’s what I figured, but there’s the remains of breakfast on the kitchen table. Some scrambled eggs.”
    “Hank didn’t eat a lot,” Hurst replied. “That could have been last night’s supper.”
    “We’ll know for sure when the doctor is done.” She indicated a chair across the desk from her. “Take a seat for a minute.”
    Hurst