Judd was an ex-cop. Robyn wasn't completely sure what his story was, only that he'd been screwed over by the department. And he was mad as hell about it, which meant he was happy to exact some revenge by advising his clients on ways to deal with the law.

Judd answered the door on the second ring. Dressed in sweatpants, he rubbed his fist over his bleary eyes.

"Rob?" He blinked hard. "What's wrong? Portia in trouble?"

"Not her. Me."

He frowned, as if he must have misheard.

"Portia's dead," Robyn said. "And they think I killed her." He backed up and waved her inside.

They were in the kitchen, Robyn on a stool at the island, Judd behind it making coffee.

Judd had loaned Robyn a sweatsuit. She'd changed into it and carefully folded her dress into a bag, so the police could test it for gunshot residue. Then she told Judd everything.

"Did you get a look at the detectives?" he asked. "I knew most of the homicide guys in that division."

"One guy in a suit came out to talk to the officers guarding the scene. Big guy with a craggy face. Dark blond hair in need of a trim. Early thirties, maybe?"

"Did he have an accent? Texan, I think. Or Oklahoma… No, I guess you wouldn't have been close enough to hear. But it sounds like John Findlay. Hopefully it is. He's a good cop. Might look like a cowboy, but he isn't, not when it comes to police work. Slow, steady and thorough. He won't jump to conclusions or railroad you into a confession."

Robyn stirred her coffee as she took a deep breath. "Okay."

"It's not like you have a lot of choice, Rob."

"I know. I just feel like an idiot. I ran from a crime scene."

"Trying to get a look at a fleeing killer. After you called 911. And when that girl saw you, you tried going back to explain. Even banged on the door. You've got scrapes and bumps to support your story, ones that wouldn't come from a run-in with Portia. And you have a photo."