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He was sitting in the idling pickup truck behind a stand of evergreens about twenty yards from Dr. Alicia Bell’s house. A red Jeep Cherokee was parked out front next to Bell’s Land Rover. Her 9:00 a.m. appointment would be wrapping up soon.

As Holmes watched through his opera glasses, he saw Bell open the door to her home office. She wore a burgundy skirt and a blue blouse. A middle-aged woman in a heavy coat stepped out, gave Bell a polite wave, and headed for the Jeep. The woman then started the engine, made a quick three-point turn, and headed down the driveway toward the road. Holmes ducked below the steering wheel as the Jeep passed by. When he lifted his head again, he saw Bell carrying a trash bag to a bin near her garage. She wore an unzipped parka and oversized rubber boots that flopped around her calves.

This was his chance.

Holmes put the truck in gear and headed in her direction. Bell looked up when she heard the engine. She quickly dropped the trash into the bin and headed back inside. Holmes skidded to a stop and hopped out. “Alicia!” he shouted. “Wait!”

Too late. Bell had already slammed the door.

Holmes stalked up onto the small porch and knocked. “Alicia! Please!”

“Go away, Brendan!” She was only inches away, just on the other side of the door. Holmes could tell. It felt crude to admit it, but he could smell her. Shampoo, bodywash, coffee, Chanel.

“I can pick locks, you know,” said Holmes, pressing his chin against the door.

“Which would be an entry crime, aggravated by possession of burglary tools. I know my criminal codes.”

“Minor charges,” said Holmes. “As you know, I’m already suspected of murder.”

“I can’t talk to you, Brendan.” Her voice was muffled but insistent.

Holmes stayed quiet for a few moments. Then, “I have a gun.”

Holmes heard the bolt slide open. The door opened a crack. Bell poked her face through. “Are you thinking about harming yourself or somebody else, Brendan?”

“Only if you don’t let me in.”

Bell opened the door. Holmes slipped past her into the warm office. Familiar territory. He stamped the snow off his boots and pulled off his gloves.

“Do you really have a gun?” Bell asked.

Holmes reached into his pocket and pulled out a black 9mm Glock. “Always.”

“Give it to me,” said Bell, holding out her hand.

Holmes passed it over. “I wasn’t really going to use it.”

“So, you were being deceptive as well as threatening. Wonderful start. Why are you here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“You crossed a line the other night, Brendan. I can’t treat you anymore. Your feelings toward me are confused. It’s not unusual. It happens. But we can’t continue.”

Holmes took another step into the office. He unbuttoned his coat and sat down on the sofa. An old detective’s trick. In that position, he was harder to dislodge. He looked up at Bell. “Margaret is driving me insane.”

“Brendan, I’m not a couples therapist. My job was to get you off heroin, which I did.”

“And to keep me from relapsing, which I am in severe danger of doing!”

Bell sighed. She put the gun in a desk drawer and took a seat in an armchair opposite Holmes. Her usual spot. “Are you in possession of drugs right now?”

“No.”

“Are you planning to buy drugs today?”

“Not really.”

“Is Margaret still cooking for you?”