Dust to Dust

right before we went in after the intruder.”
    “There were lookouts in the woods. I happened upon them,” she said. “At least two that I saw. We had a little scuffle.”
    “Are you all right?” asked Izzy.
    “Fine. Tore my dress,” she said.
    “Great,” said Daughtry. “You tore your dress and we get maimed for life.”
    Diane smiled. “I knocked one down and got the drop on him. The other one tried to brain me with a club. I very cleverly fell down an embankment to get away from them. I feel your pain.”
    “So that means there are between five and three people,” said Izzy, counting on his fingers.
    “Probably four,” said Diane. “The shooter in the woods who ambushed us, the one carrying the box, and the two I met near the box hedges. They left when the shooting started. They may have been the same ones who attacked the two of you.”
    “Could be three,” added Izzy. “The shooter in the woods could’ve left his post and come back here. That might be why he stopped shooting at us.”
    “So, no less than three,” said Hanks. “What is this? Some kind of gang robbing houses when the owners are out?”
    “How would they know that the owner of the house wasn’t here?” asked Diane. “It was early evening when Marcella Payden was attacked, wasn’t it? It’s almost sunrise now.” She could see the sky had gone from black to dark blue. Dawn was coming. “Unless they were the ones who attacked Marcella, how would they know?”
    “I don’t know,” said Hanks. “But why would they wait hours before coming back?”
    Diane was relieved to hear police cars come to a stop in the driveway and the sirens die down. She, Hanks, and Daughtry had botched it, she felt. The two of them were hurt. It was just dumb luck that she wasn’t. She wanted to leave the whole mess to Neva and Izzy—as she should have in the first place—go home, and get some sleep.
    “The two of you need to get to the hospital,” she said.
    “I won’t argue,” said Hanks.
    Diane sensed that he was embarrassed. She understood. So was she—standing in a ruined cocktail dress at a compromised crime scene where she had let at least three perps get away.
    “I can take you in my car,” she said. “Neva and Izzy can work the crime scenes.”
    As she spoke she looked around the yard. She could see more of it now in the approaching dawn. Some of the shapes decorating the yard that she couldn’t identify earlier were evident now—a boulder carved into a bench, a galvanized metal tub containing a dead plant, and . . . there at the end of the yard near the trees . . . a body.

Chapter 4
    The body lay facedown in the grass. He was dressed in black pants and a leather jacket, a ski mask over his head—and a bullet hole in his back.
    Diane was kneeling beside the body. She’d put on the jeans and T-shirt she kept stashed in her SUV—what she should have done before she reduced her dress to a ruin of dirty tatters.
    The paramedics had immobilized Hanks’ arm, bandaged his wounded thigh, and given Daughtry first aid for his leg wound. The paramedics wanted to take the two of them to the hospital, but Hanks insisted on staying until the coroner showed up. He was standing beside her.
    Whit Abercrombie, the coroner, was sitting on his haunches on the other side of the body. He had straight black hair, dark eyes, and a short black beard that made his white teeth look very bright and his face look rather rakish.
    An ambulance had arrived to take the body. The driver and paramedic were standing back with a stretcher, waiting for Whit to give his okay. The sun was just below the horizon, providing only enough light for the growing numbers of personnel from the police department, the crime scene lab, the coroner’s office, and the ambulance services to not stumble over one another or the numerous yard ornaments. Whit shined his flashlight on the bullet wound.
    “That would definitely result in his death,” he said.
    “I’d like to see his face,” said Hanks.
    Whit nodded. He and Diane turned the body over and Whit rolled up the ski mask. The beam from the flashlight cast angled shadows across the contours of the lean face. He was young, perhaps early twenties, with a pale face showing a scattering of whiskers that he had hoped would make him look more rugged. He had a black eye that was fading to yellow. Diane didn’t recognize him. Neither did Whit.
    “Don’t know him,” said Hanks.
    Whit and Diane rose and stepped away