Final Warning. Sandra Robbins

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      C.J. stared out the window over Mary’s kitchen sink. Otto lay on the back porch, his head resting on his outstretched paws. His cries of distress had now dissolved into soft whines.

      She slid into a chair at the table and sat there, staring into space, her hands folded on the tabletop in front of her. Hushed voices drifted from the living room. From time to time the front door opened and closed, and new voices joined those already in the house. Every few minutes another officer, his face pale, would appear in the hallway outside the kitchen, lean against the wall and offer a weak smile in her direction.

      Mitch had often told her he had never become immune to the horrors one human being could inflict on another. She realized that some of these men hadn’t, either, although they appeared to be seasoned veterans. She could understand their need to step away from this horrible crime scene for a minute.

      Her stomach heaved, and she ran to the sink. She leaned over until the sickness passed, then turned the water on full force and washed up.

      A hand touched her shoulder. She screamed and whirled around. Mitch stood behind her, his eyes filled with concern. She collapsed against the side of the sink and stood there, staring at him. With a cry, she threw her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his chest. His arms encircled her and rocked her back and forth.

      It felt good to be in his arms. Now that he’d arrived, everything would be all right. “Oh, Mitch, I’m so glad you’re here.”

      After a few moments she pulled away and gazed up at him. His jaw twitched. “Are you okay?”

      Her stomach rumbled again, and she pressed her palms against it. “Did you see her? Why would anybody do that?”

      He raked his hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

      She could barely stand to ask the next question, but she had to know. “Did the killer dip his hands in her blood and then touch the walls?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then you can get fingerprints, right?”

      “It looks like he may have worn some kind of gloves.” C.J. dropped into the chair again, and the key ring in her pocket rattled. She touched the bulge of keys, her eyes growing wide. “The house was locked. I had to use my key to get in. How did the killer leave all the doors bolted?”

      “We don’t know, but we’re just beginning our investigation.” He paused a moment, then eased into the chair next to her. He reached out and covered her hand with his. “Which brings me to what I have to do next. We need to ask you some questions.”

      “We?”

      “Myra and I.”

      Of course. Mitch didn’t check out any crime scene without his partner.

      Myra walked into the room, sat in the chair across from C.J. and pulled a notepad from her pocket. Her fingers flipped the pages until she found a blank one. A tiny bead of perspiration slid down the side of Myra’s face, and she swallowed several times before she looked up. “I can understand how upset you are. We’ll make this as brief as possible.”

      “Thank you, Myra.” C.J. glanced from Myra’s pale features to Mitch, whose fingers still clutched hers. Even if they were trained police officers, C.J. realized that the murder scene in the next room had left both of them shaken.

      Mitch cleared his throat. “Okay, can you tell us what made you come over here this morning?”

      Where to begin? With the e-mails and the call or noticing the closed drapes?

      “Did you hear my show last night?”

      Mitch shook his head. “I was on a call until late. Why?”

      “Because, because…” Her lips trembled. She glanced around the kitchen where she’d visited with Mary many times. Otto’s leash hung on a peg at the backdoor. The teakettle sat on the stove. She and Mary had shared many cups of tea together, but they never would again. C.J. covered her face with her hands. “Because it’s my fault Mary is dead,” she wailed.

      Mitch touched her arm. “What are you talking about?”

      Tears squeezed between her fingers that still covered her eyes. “I should have solved the riddle.”

      Mitch’s chair scraped on the floor as he pushed back from the table. He reached for a paper towel at the sink and wedged it into her hand. “Here.”

      She wiped at her eyes and blew her nose. “Thanks.”

      Mitch sank back down in his chair and cleared his throat. “What’s this about a riddle?”

      She twisted the paper towel between her fingers. “Harley said nobody would admit they were going to commit a crime, but I thought Fala really meant it.”