One Door From Heaven

could be plucked as easily as the strings of a fiddle.
        One Curtis Hammond lies dead in Colorado, and another now runs headlong toward a grave of his own.

Chapter 31
        
        BUTTONS GLEAMED, badges flashed, buckles shone on the khaki uniforms of the cops milling outside the front door of Cielo Vista Care Home.
        
        Martin Vasquez, general manager of this facility, stood apart from the police, beside one of the columns that supported the loggia trellis. Called from bed at a bleak hour, he had nonetheless taken time, as an expression of respect, to dress in a dark suit.
        
        In his forties, Vasquez had the smooth face and the guileless eyes of a pious young novitiate. As he watched Noah Farrel approach, he looked as though he would have gladly traded this night's duty for vows of poverty and celibacy. "I'm so sorry, so sick about this. If you'll come to my office, I'll try to make sense of it for you, as much as can be made."
        
        Noah had been a cop for only three years, but he'd been present at four homicide scenes in that time. The expressions on the faces and in the eyes of these attending officers matched the look that he had once turned upon the grieving relatives in those cases. Sympathy formed part of it, but also a simmering suspicion that persisted even after a perpetrator was identified. In certain types of homicides, a family member is more likely to be involved than a stranger, and regardless of what the facts of the case appear to be, it's always wise to consider who might gain financially or be freed of an onerous responsibility by the death in question.
        Paying for Laura's care had been not a burden, but the purpose of his existence. Even if these men believed him, however, he would till see the keen edge of suspicion sheathed in their sympathy.
        One of the cops stepped forward as Noah followed Vasquez to the front door. "Mr. Farrel, I've got to ask you if you're carrying."
        He had pulled on chinos and a Hawaiian shirt. The holster was in the small of his back. "Yeah, but I've got a permit for it."
        "Yes, sir, I know. If you'll trust me with it, I'll return it to you when you leave."
        Noah hesitated.
        "You were in my shoes once, Mr. Farrel. If you think about it, you'll realize you'd do the same."
        Noah wasn't sure why he had strapped on the pistol. He didn't always carry it. He didn't usually carry it. When he'd left home, after Martin Vasquez's call, he hadn't been thinking clearly.
        He surrendered the handgun to the young officer.
        Although the lobby was deserted, Vasquez said, "We'll have privacy in my office," and indicated a short hallway off to the left.
        Noah didn't follow him.
        Directly ahead, the door stood open between the lobby and the long main corridor of the ground-floor residential wing. At the far end, more men gathered outside of Laura's room. None wore a uniform. Detectives. Specialists with the scientific-investigation division.
        Returning to Noah's side, Vasquez said, "They'll let us know when you can see your sister."
        A morgue gurney waited near her room.
        "Wendy Quail," Noah guessed, referring to the perky raven-haired nurse who had been serving ice cream sundaes a few hours ago.
        On the phone, he had been given only the essence of the tragedy. Laura dead. Gone quickly. No suffering.
        Now, Martin Vasquez expressed surprise. "Who told you?"
        So his instinct had been right. And he hadn't trusted it. Ice cream wasn't the answer, after all. Love was the answer. Tough love, in this case. One of the Circle of Friends had indulged in a little tough love, teaching Noah what happens to the sisters of men who think they're too good to accept airsickness bags full of cash.
        In his mind's eye, Noah imagined himself squeezing the trigger and the congressman contorting in agony around a gut wound.
        He could do it, too. He was without a purpose now. A man needed worthwhile work to occupy his time. In the absence of anything more meaningful, maybe revenge would suffice.
        Receiving no answer to his question, Vasquez said, "Her resume was impressive. And her commitment to nursing. Several excellent letters of recommendation. She said she wanted to work in a less stressful atmosphere than a hospital."
        For seventeen years, since Laura was beaten out of this world but not