Chapter One

       Palm Harbor, Florida

      Harry Santos Doyle stared into the dead man’s face. He had already removed the man’s wallet; knew his name was Charlie Moon, knew he was twenty-eight years old, and that he lived in the house where his body was found. He also knew that the large butcher knife protruding from the center of his chest had probably cleaved his heart in two.

      Doyle’s partner, Vicky Stanopolis, squatted beside him. She, too, stared at the man. He was pale and flabby with a plump, round face and his blindly staring eyes still held a look of horrified surprise. His mouth was opened wide as though he wanted to scream out a final objection to his death. She glanced at Harry.

      “Are you getting anything?” She waited, knowing he would answer when he was ready.

      Seconds passed before Harry finally nodded. “I’m getting three words.” He stared into the man’s face. “You old bitch.” Harry shook his head. “When he said those words he was in great pain. I think they were the last words he ever spoke.”

      Vicky avoided Harry’s eyes. She knew his history. She glanced through a doorway to an adjoining room. She could just see the crossed ankles of the elderly woman who had let them into the apartment. Vicky guessed the woman to be somewhere in her eighties. She was small and frail and Vicky had helped her to a chair before they went to examine the body. It was hard to imagine her plunging a heavy eight-inch butcher knife into a man’s chest.

      She turned to Harry. “Are you thinking Grandma?”

      He nodded. “We better talk to her.”

      Harry Doyle was six one with enough lean, hard muscle to fill out a fairly large frame. He had wavy brown hair and penetrating green eyes but he was far from a pretty boy. There was a ruggedly handsome look about him, but one that also warned of someone who should not be pushed too far. Yet those features quickly softened