Stalker. Faye Kellerman

      “Detective Oliver,” Scott said. “This is Detective Dunn. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

      “Yeah, sure.” Lark opened the door all the way. “Come in.”

      As Oliver crossed the threshold, he wondered why the hell Tom and Bert hadn’t mentioned the widow’s comeliness. Tall and slender, with lots of chest filling out a bright, white T-shirt. Legs that didn’t quit even if they were hidden under jeans. Her face was all acute angles—a sharp jawline, a strong chin, and pronounced cheekbones. Ash-blond hair had been tied back into a ponytail, gray eyes were outlined in black liner. Naturally lush lips—killer lips.

      She brought them through a two-story entry hall and into the living room/family room/den. It was hard to tell what official function the room served because the floor plan was so open. Beige walls surrounded oversized tan and ivory furniture. The floor was covered by plush ecru carpet. Potted plants added some life to the colorless decor, as did the undraped windows outlining views of the requisite backyard aqua-jeweled pool. She pointed to a sofa, then took a seat on one of the room’s enormous chair-and-a-halves—the latest in chichi accoutrements.

      Lark draped her legs over the chair’s arm.

      Seductive, Oliver thought. The way she was looking at him gave him goose bumps. That pose had probably served her well in the past. When she spoke, she gazed directly into his eyes. “Did you find out anything new?”

      Oliver said, “Nothing earth-shattering, but we’re still—”

      “Yeah, yeah.” Lark broke the stare and lapsed into ennui, picking up a cigarette case from the side table and pushing a button. The lid popped open. She pulled out a smoke and spoke to Marge. “Throw me that lighter, will you?”