Free Murder One by Robert Dugoni

counseling. During one of the games, Father Allen got down to the crux of their discussions. “You wanted to kill him,” he said, meaning Stenopolis.
    “I thought I did.”
    “And you’re wondering if that makes you a bad person to have those kinds of thoughts.”
    “Does it?” Sloane had never given the concepts of heaven and hell much thought, but now, with Tina gone, he wondered.
    “Thoughts of revenge are natural, David. You suffered a great loss, a great injustice. You wanted someone to pay for it. But always remember, it’s our actions that define us, not our thoughts, and even then God will forgive those who seek His forgiveness.”
    “What about an eye for an eye? I thought I read that somewhere.”
    “That’s the Old Testament. That was not Christ’s message. Love was his message. Even your enemies.”
    “I’m afraid that’s not something I can bring myself to do.”
    “Most of us find it a hard concept.”
    “And if I can’t?”
    “Then you’ll be like ninety-nine-point-nine percent of us. Imperfect.” That caused Sloane to smile. “You’re not alone. You only think you are.”
    “I don’t have your faith, Allen. The only time I’ve ever really prayed was when Tina was dying, and that didn’t turn out too well.”
    “And what about when you punished this man? Did that make you feel any better?”
    “No.”
    “And do you think it would have if you had pulled the trigger?”
    “You’re asking . . . if I had the chance, the chance to do it again . . . would I pull the trigger?”
    The kettle on the stove whistled.

EIGHT
    L AURELHURST
S EATTLE , W ASHINGTON
    A crowd loitering in the street of an upscale neighborhood before dawn would normally generate police interest, but in this case, police interest had generated the crowd. Rowe had put everything on hold to prepare a search warrant, a necessity since he could not be certain the victim lived alone, and therefore he could not rule out if anyone else had a privacy interest in the residence. With the sleeves of his windbreaker pulled up his forearms, Rowe continued to hunt-and-peck on the laptop keyboard balanced on his knees, the screen a blue-white glow. At least he wasn’t lonely. Three CSI detectives, women dressed like triplets in black BDU cargo pants and black T-shirts and vests with gold letters proclaiming crime scene investigator on the back, sipped coffee and waited. The detective team next up in the rotation had also arrived, though Rowe had directed them to canvass the neighborhood, photograph license plates, and talk with the neighbors to determine if one of them had made the anonymous call or had seen or heard anything.
    Rowe didn’t think so.
    Normal cell phones registered the number with dispatch, making it a simple matter to run a reverse directory to get a name and address. But dispatch had indicated that the number of the anonymous caller was not registered, which meant the caller had likely used a disposable TracFone, which could be bought for ten dollars at almost any store.
    Why?
    Rowe had written that word in his notebook along with a reminder to determine if they could trace the phone to a particular retail store. If so, they could check sales receipts to determine whether the buyer used a credit card. Fat chance. The store might also have a video camera that recorded the transaction, including a beautifully clear picture of the purchaser. Even fatter chance. Rowe had also made a note to determine if they could use cell phone towers to triangulate the call to at least determine the GPS coordinates when the call was made.
    Crosswhite approached. “He’s the only registered owner. Three in the morning. If someone else lived here, you’d expect to find them home.”
    Rowe drafted the subpoena with that assumption. He wanted it as broad as possible, because his initial impression—shot fired through the sliding-glass door—was that the forensic evidence would be minimal. However, if Vasiliev had been