Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

anything he finds on Timms’ computer. If we get a match, I’ll put out an alert for Hatch. You’re headed for the Kirk place?”
    “On my way,” Sheila said. “I’ll be back for the nine a.m. briefing.”
    On the way to Kirk’s, she tried calling Blackie, feeling the need to connect with him and smooth some of the ragged feelings left from their conversation the night before. But her call went to the voice mail box. Blackie wasn’t picking up. Where was he? What was he doing? Would he wait for McQuaid to arrive, so they could go across the border together?
    She bit her lip. Too many questions, no answers. “Just me,” she said to the phone. “Let me know you’re okay.” She paused. “Love you,” she said, before she clicked off.
    When she parked in the driveway at the Kirk house, she radioed her location to Dispatch—Dick Brice was on the desk this morning—and asked for a rundown on the night’s police activities. Three routine traffic stops, an injury accident at I-35 and the frontage road, south of the mall. One domestic dispute, a couple of DWIs, a break-in on the east side, a prowler south, a stolen GPS unit, two false alarms. A quiet night in Pecan Springs.
    The crime-scene tape was still in place. She ducked under it and unlocked the door. Inside, she set down her briefcase, opened it, and took out a pair of latex gloves. Pulling them on, she went down the hall to the kitchen and flicked on the lights. Everything was just as it had been when she saw it last. The chair on its side, the dark chalk outlining the position of the body on the floor beside the spill of blood and beer, the empty takeout boxes on the counter. She took out her notebook and jotted down the name and address on the side of the box—Wong’s, Fourth and Brazoria—then went through the top layer in the trash can, lookingfor evidence that Kirk might have shared the food with someone. All she found was the cash register receipt, stamped with the date and time of purchase (yesterday, 12:30 p.m.). She stuck it in her notebook.
    Then, methodically, she opened all the kitchen drawers and cupboards, noticing that there were more culinary tools—forks, knives, a blender, a food processor, a pasta maker, even a flour sifter—than she would expect a single guy to have. She guessed that Dana Kirk had not yet claimed the stuff she had wanted to take away from her failed marriage, like the bed linens the woman had asked about the day before. She wondered if Larry Kirk had held on to the things with the hope that the rift might be mended, or if Dana Kirk—feeling the guilt of the affair with Glen Vance—had been reluctant to ask for her share of the property. Somehow, this reminder of their broken relationship saddened her, as if there had been more than one death here.
    She righted the chair and put it in its place at the table, then stood for a moment, looking around, letting herself feel the somber presence of ghosts, the ghost of the dead man, the ghost of a dead marriage, the ghost of a couple’s hopes and dreams and plans. A deep sadness seemed to fill the room and settle on her shoulders. Alone in the house, without the distractions of the forensics team, of Bartlett in the other room, she could see Kirk sitting at the table with his laptop. He’s finished eating, she thought, and he’s put the containers on the counter, out of the way. He’s online, checking his email, doing other work. He hears a knock at the back door, or maybe there’s just a push and the door opens.
    Somebody steps into the room and he turns his head to look.
    Somebody he knows? Somebody he’s expecting? (If so, it’s not noted on the wall calendar.) Does he say something? Is he startled? Can he see what his visitor is holding in his—or her—hand? Is he afraid?
    Outside, there’s the rattle and bang and motor noise of the garbagetruck, punctuated by the sharp clang of the empty cans hitting the pavement. That’s the assailant’s cue. The person steps quickly forward, no hesitation, giving Kirk no chance to get up from his chair. Lifts the gun, aims, fires directly at Kirk’s head, at close range but at a distance too great to leave visible traces of unburned powder. Kirk topples onto the floor with a heavy thud, the chair falls with him. The beer bottle? Is Kirk holding the beer bottle when the shot is fired?
    The assailant takes a deep breath, wipes the gun, or is perhaps gloved. Puts the gun into Kirk’s right hand—the wrong hand,