“It’s not that simple. What we also need is you, specifically because you’re his brother, a family member. Once we’ve officially-so to speak-labeled this an accidental death, we need you to go in, act like a grieving brother, look like you’re closing up Jon’s affairs.”

“That’s hardly going to be an act,” Cord said. “It’s what I have to do. There is no one else.”

“Exactly. The thing is, wherever your brother hid his stockpile of information, he hid it well. It’s not as if we haven’t been trying to track down evidence long before this happened. And although we don’t know precisely what role Sophie Campbell plays in this, we do know she had more access to his place, to him, than anyone else. We haven’t been able to dig up any incriminating background on her, but we all believe she knows more than she’s saying. Someone who wasn’t connected to the law might have a significantly better chance to get her talking.”

Cord grabbed his jacket and folio of student papers and notes. Enough was enough. He’d had more than he could take. “If you’re asking me to spy, as I said before-forget it.”

“We’re asking you to talk to her. Which should naturally happen if you’re in your brother’s apartment-she’s right there. If she happens to tell you information that you judge as valuable, we’re asking you to communicate-preferably to me, first.” This, from the detective.

But it was Ferrell who was looking at him. Ferrell who wanted anything he dug up. First.

Cord motioned them all to the door. This party was over. He wished he could hurl something. Even though he was two years younger than Jon, he couldn’t remember a time he wasn’t cleaning up Jon’s messes…but this was by far the most disturbing and ugliest.

As far as this Sophie character, though, Cord already had her pictured, because he knew the kind of woman his brother went for.

Jon liked sluts. Lookers with long legs and spongy morals. Often enough, Jon pursued women who were married or already committed, because he found it more fun to seduce a woman who was supposed to be faithful. His favorite types had money, or looked as if they did. He preferred long-haired brunettes who had that look at a party-like they were prowling the gathering for men, like a cat hunted for meat.