asked. “Why the kids crying? Are the kids okay?”

“The kids are okay…” The air was going out of the SWAT guys.

“Is the house hurt?” There was a pleading note in Brown’s voice.

Smith stepped away, put a radio to his face. Lucas asked, “Anybody see you pick this box up?”

Brown said, “Not that I seen. I just seen the box, thought somebody left it, opened it up, didn’t see no name.”

“There was a name on the bottom of the box.”

“Didn’t look on the bottom of the box,” Brown said helplessly.

Lucas didn’t take long to make up his mind. Smith was uncertain, but after talking to Brown, and then to Brown’s girlfriend, Lucas was pretty sure that Brown was telling the truth about the jewelry box.

Smith served the search warrant on the woman, who owned the house, and the cops started tearing it apart.

LUCAS WENT BACK to his car alone, rolled down Payne to the café, got a notebook from behind the car seat, took a table on the sidewalk out in front of the place, bought a beer, and started doodling his way through the killings.

The murders of Bucher and Peebles looked like a gang-related home invasion. Two or three assholes would bust a house, tape up the occupants—most often older people, scouted in advance—and then take their time cleaning the house out. Easier, safer, and often more lucrative than going into liquor or convenience stores, which had hardened themselves with cameras, safes, and even bulletproof screens.

But with Bucher and Peebles, the robbers had not taken credit cards or ATM cards. In most house invasions, those would be the first targets, because they’d yield cash. Bucher and Peebles appeared to have been killed quickly, before they could resist. Most home invaders, even if they were planning to kill the victims, would keep them alive long enough to squeeze out the PIN numbers for the ATM cards.

ATMs had cameras, but it was easy enough to put a rag over your face. They might not have intended to kill. Say they came onto Peebles, somebody got excited and swatted her with a pipe. Then they’d have to kill Bucher just to clean up.

But there was no sign that Peebles resisted…

The halfway house was becoming more interesting. Lucas made up a scenario and played it through his head: suppose you had a couple of real hard guys in the halfway house, looking out the second-floor windows, watching the housekeepers come and go, the two old ladies in the garden during the day, the one or two bedroom lights at night, one light going out, then the other.

They’d be in a perfect spot to watch, sitting in a bedroom all evening, nothing to do, making notes, counting heads, thinking about what must be inside.

Get a car, roll down there during a storm. Real hard guys, knowing in advance what they were doing, knowing they were going to kill, maybe drinking a little bit, but wearing gloves, knowing about DNA…

But why would they take a bunch of junk? Stereos and game machines? The stuff they’d taken, as far as Lucas knew of it, wouldn’t be worth more than several hundred dollars on the street, not counting the cash, stamps, the vase full of change, and any jewelry they might have gotten. If they’d kept the old ladies alive long enough to get PINs, they could have probably taken down a thousand dollars a day, Friday through Sunday, all cash, then killed them and run with a car full of stuff.

Maybe, though, there was something else in the house. What happened to those chairs? The paintings? Were those figments of Ronnie Lash’s imagination? How much could a couple of swoopy chairs be worth, anyway?

HE TOOK OUT his cell phone and called home: the housekeeper answered. “Could you get the address book off Weather’s desk, and bring it to the phone?” The housekeeper put down the phone, and was back a minute later. “There should be a listing for a cell phone for a Shelley Miller.”

Lucas jotted the number in the palm of his hand, rang off, and dialed Miller, the woman he’d talked to at Oak Walk. The cops had been taking her inside when Lucas and Smith left for the raid.

She came up on the phone: “This is Shelley…”

“Shelley, this is Lucas. Anything?”

“Lucas, I’m not sure. There’s just too much stuff lying around. God, it makes me want to cry. You know, my great-uncle is in one of the portraits with Connie’s husband’s father…” She sniffed.