“The thing is, I’m not sure exactly. I’ve been rather doped up lately, and I tend not to remember things I do. But I killed him, all right. I’m looking right down at his body lying in bed, and he’s got knife wounds all over him, and he bled a lot. It looks like I did it with a sharp kitchen knife. The knife is lying right next to him.”

Riley struggled to make sense of what she was hearing.

She remembered how unhealthily thin Morgan had looked. Riley had been sure that she was anorexic. Riley knew better than most people how hard it was to stab a person to death. Was Morgan even physically capable of doing such a thing?

She heard Morgan sigh.

“I hate to impose, but I honestly don’t know what to do next. I wonder if you could help me.”

“Have you told anybody else? Have you called the police?”

“No.”

Riley stammered, “I’ll … I’ll get right on it.”

“Oh, thank you so much.”

Riley was about to tell Morgan to stay on the line while she made a separate call on her own cell phone. But Morgan hung up.

Riley sat there staring into space for a moment. She heard Jilly ask, “Mom, is something wrong?”

Riley looked and saw that Jilly seemed deeply concerned.

She said, “Nothing to concern yourself about, honey.”

Then she grabbed her cell phone and called the police in Atlanta.

*

Officer Jared Ruhl felt bored and restless as he rode in the passenger seat next to Sergeant Dylan Petrie. It was night, and they were patrolling one of the richest neighborhoods in Atlanta—an area where there was seldom any criminal activity. Ruhl was new to the force, and he was hungry for a taste of action.

Ruhl had all the respect in the world for his African-American partner and mentor. Sergeant Petrie had been on the force for twenty years or more, and he was one of the most seasoned and experienced cops around.

So why are they wasting us on this beat? Ruhl wondered.

As if in reply to his unspoken question, a female voice sputtered over the scanner …

“Four-Frank-thirteen, do you copy?”

Ruhl’s senses sharpened to hear their own vehicle’s identification.

Petrie answered, “Copy, go ahead.”

The dispatcher hesitated, as if she didn’t quite believe what she was about to say.

Then she said, “We have a possible one-eighty-seven in the Farrell home. Go to the scene.”

Ruhl’s mouth dropped open, and he saw Petrie’s eyes widen with surprise. Ruhl knew that 187 was the code for a homicide.

At Andrew Farrell’s place? Ruhl wondered.

He couldn’t believe his ears, and Petrie looked as though he couldn’t either.

“Say again,” Petrie said.

“A possible 187 in the Farrell home. Can you get there?”

Ruhl saw Petrie squint with perplexity.

“Yeah,” Petrie said. “Who is the suspect?”

The dispatcher hesitated again, then said, “Mrs. Farrell.”

Petrie gasped aloud and shook his head.

“Uh … is this a joke?” he said.

“No joke.”

“Who’s my RP?” Petrie asked.

What does that mean? Ruhl asked himself.

Oh, yeah …

It meant, “Who reported the crime?”

The dispatcher replied, “A BAU agent called it in from Phoenix, Arizona. I know how strange that sounds, but …”

The dispatcher fell silent.

Petrie said, “Code Three response?”

Ruhl knew that Petrie was asking whether to use flashing lights and a siren.

The dispatcher asked, “How close are you to the location?”

“Less than a minute,” Petrie said.

“Better keep quiet then. This whole thing is …”

Her voice faded away again. Ruhl guessed she was concerned that they not draw too much attention to themselves. Whatever was really going on in this luxurious and privileged neighborhood, it was surely best to keep the media out of the loop for as long as they could.

Finally the dispatcher said, “Look, just check it out, OK?”

“Copy,” Petrie said. “We’re on our way.”

Petrie pushed the accelerator and they sped along the quiet street.

Ruhl stared in astonishment as they approached the Farrell mansion. This was the closest he’d ever been to it. The house sprawled in all directions, and it looked to him more like a country club than anybody’s home. The exterior was carefully lit—for protection, no doubt, but also probably to show off its arches and columns and great windows.

Petrie parked the car in the circular drive and stopped the engine. He and Ruhl got out and strode up to the huge front entrance. Petrie rang the doorbell.

After a few moments, a tall, lean man opened the door. Ruhl guessed from his fancy tuxedo-like outfit and his stern, officious expression that he was the family butler.

He looked surprised to see the two police officers—and not at all pleased.

“May I ask what this is all about?” he asked.

The butler didn’t seem to have any idea that there might be trouble inside that mansion.

Petrie glanced at Ruhl, who sensed what his mentor was thinking …

Just a false alarm.

Probably a prank call.

Petrie said to the butler, “Could we speak with Mr. Farrell, please?”

The butler smiled in a supercilious manner.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” he said. “The master is fast asleep, and I have very strict orders—”

Petrie interrupted, “We have reason to be worried about his safety.”

The butler’s eyebrows rose.

“Really?” he said. “I’ll look in on him, if you insist. I’ll try not to waken him. I assure you, he would complain quite vociferously.”

Petrie didn’t ask permission for him and Ruhl to follow the butler into the house. The place was vast inside, with rows of marble columns that eventually led to a red-carpeted staircase with curved, fancy banisters. Ruhl found it harder and harder to believe that anybody could actually live here. It seemed more like a movie set.

Ruhl and Petrie followed the butler on up the stairs and through a wide hallway to a pair of double doors.

“The master suite,” the butler said. “Wait right here for a moment.”

The butler passed on through the doors.

Then they heard him let out a yelp of horror inside.

Ruhl and Petrie rushed through the doors into a sitting room, and from there into an enormous bedroom.

The butler had already switched on the lights. Ruhl’s eyes almost hurt for a moment from the brightness of the enormous room. Then his eyes fell upon a canopied bed. Like everything else in the house, it too was huge, like something out of a movie. But as big as it was, it was dwarfed by the sheer size of the rest of the room.

Everything in the master bedroom was gold and white—except for the blood all over the bed.

CHAPTER THREE

The butler was slumped against the wall, staring with a glazed expression. Ruhl himself felt as though the wind had been knocked out of his lungs.

There the man was, lying on the bed—the rich and famous Andrew Farrell, dead and extremely bloody. Ruhl recognized him from seeing him on TV many times.

Ruhl had never seen a murdered corpse before. He’d never expected the sight to seem so weird and unreal.

What made the scene especially bizarre was the woman sitting in an ornate upholstered chair right next to the bed. Ruhl recognized her, too. She was Morgan Farrell—formerly Morgan Chartier, a now-retired famous model. The dead man had turned their marriage into a media event, and he liked to parade her around in public.

She was wearing a flimsy, expensive-looking gown that was streaked with blood. She sat there unmoving, holding a large carving knife. Its blade was bloody, and so was her hand.

“Shit,” murmured Petrie in a stunned voice.

Then Petrie spoke into his microphone.

“Dispatch, this is four-Frank-thirteen calling from the Farrell house. We’ve got a one-eighty-seven here for real. Send three units, including a homicide unit. Also contact the medical examiner. Better tell Chief Stiles to get over here as well.”

Petrie listened to the dispatcher on his earpiece, then seemed to think for a moment.

“No, don’t make this a Code Three. We need to keep this as quiet as we can for as long as we can.”

During this exchange, Ruhl couldn’t take his eyes off the woman. He’d thought she was beautiful when he’d seen her on TV. Weirdly enough, she seemed just as beautiful to him even now. Even holding a bloody knife in her hand, she looked as delicate and fragile as a china figurine.

She was also as still as if she were made of china—as motionless as the corpse, and apparently unaware that anyone had entered the room. Even her eyes didn’t move as she kept staring at the knife in her hand.

As Ruhl followed Petrie toward the woman, it occurred to him that the scene no longer reminded him of a movie set.

It’s more like an exhibit in a wax museum, he thought.

Petrie gently touched the woman on the shoulder and said, “Mrs. Farrell …”

The woman didn’t seem the least bit startled as she looked up at him.

She smiled and said, “Oh, hello, Officer. I wondered when the police were going to get here.”

Petrie put on a pair of plastic gloves. Ruhl didn’t need to be told to do the same. Then Petrie delicately took the knife out of the woman’s hand and handed it to Ruhl, who carefully bagged the weapon.

As they were doing this, Petrie said to the woman, “Please tell me what happened here.”

The woman let out a rather musical chuckle.

“Well, that’s a silly question. I killed Andrew. Isn’t that obvious?”

Petrie turned to look at Ruhl, as if to ask …

Is it obvious?

On one hand, there didn’t seem to be any other explanation for this bizarre scene. On the other hand …

She looks so weak and helpless, Ruhl thought.

He couldn’t begin to imagine her doing such a thing.

Petrie said to Ruhl, “Go talk to the butler. Find out what he knows.”

While Petrie examined the body, Ruhl went over to the butler, who was still crouched against the wall.

Ruhl said to him, “Sir, could you tell me what happened here?”

The butler opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Sir,” Ruhl repeated.

The butler squinted as if in deep confusion. He said, “I don’t know. You arrived and …”

He fell silent again.

Ruhl wondered …

Does he really not know anything at all?

Maybe the butler was faking his shock and perplexity.

Maybe he was actually the killer.

The possibility reminded Ruhl of the old cliché …

“The butler did it.”

The idea might even be funny under different circumstances.

But certainly not right now.

Ruhl thought fast, trying to decide what questions to ask the man.

He said, “Is there anybody else in the house?”

The butler replied in a dull voice, “Just the live-in help. Six servants in all aside from myself, three men and three women. Certainly you don’t think …?”

Ruhl had no idea what to think, at least not yet.

He asked the butler, “Is it possible that anyone else is in the house somewhere? An intruder, maybe?”

The butler shook his head.

“I don’t see how,” he said. “Our security system is of the very best.”

That’s not a no, Ruhl thought. Suddenly he felt quite alarmed.

If the killer was an intruder, might he still be in the house somewhere?

Or might he be slipping away at this very moment?

Then Ruhl heard Petrie talking into his microphone, giving someone instructions on how to find the bedroom in the huge mansion.

It seemed like only seconds until the room was swarming with cops. Among them was Chief Elmo Stiles, a bulky and imposing man. Ruhl was also surprised to see the county District Attorney, Seth Musil.

The normally smooth and polished DA looked disheveled and disoriented, as if he had just been roused out of bed. Ruhl guessed that the chief had contacted the DA as soon as he’d heard the news, then picked him up and brought him here.

The DA gasped with horror at what he saw and rushed toward the woman.

“Morgan!” he said.

“Hello, Seth,” the woman said, as if pleasantly surprised by his arrival. Ruhl wasn’t especially surprised that Morgan Farrell and a high-ranking politician like the DA knew each other. The woman still didn’t seem to be aware of much of anything else that was going on around her.

Smiling, the woman said to Musil, “Well, I suppose it’s obvious what happened. And I’m sure you’re not surprised that—”

Musil hastily interrupted.

“No, Morgan. Don’t say anything. Not just yet. Not until we get you a lawyer.”

Sergeant Petrie was already organizing the people in the room.

He said to the butler, “Tell them the layout of the house, every nook and cranny.”

Then he said to the cops, “I want the whole place searched for any intruders or any sign of a break-in. And check in with the live-in staff, make sure they can account for their actions during the last few hours.”

The cops gathered around the butler, who was on his feet now. The butler gave them directions, and the cops left the room. Not knowing what else to do, Ruhl stood next to Sergeant Petrie, looking over the grisly scene. The DA was now standing protectively over the smiling, blood-spattered woman.

Ruhl was still struggling to come to terms with what he was seeing. He reminded himself that this was his first homicide. He wondered …

Will I ever be involved in one weirder than this?

He also hoped that the cops searching the house wouldn’t return empty-handed. Maybe they’d come back with the real culprit. Ruhl hated the thought that this delicate, lovely woman was really capable of murder.

Long minutes passed before the cops and the butler returned.

They said they hadn’t found any intruders or any sign that anyone had broken into the house. They’d found the live-in staff asleep in their beds and had no reason to think that any of them were responsible.

The medical examiner and his team arrived and began to attend to the body. The huge room was really quite crowded now. At long last, the bloodstained woman of the house seemed to be aware of the bustle of activity.

She got up from her chair and said to the butler, “Maurice, where are your manners? Ask these good people if they’d like anything to eat or drink.”

Petrie walked toward her, taking out his handcuffs.

He said to her, “That’s very kind of you, ma’am, but it won’t be necessary.”

Then, in an extremely polite and considerate tone, he began to read Morgan Farrell her rights.

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