motive.

loren now had motive. if the video was any indication, charles talley, a scumbag by anyone's calculations, had not only slept with matt hunter's wife- loren was betting that it was olivia hunter in that video with the blonde wig- but he'd gone through the trouble of sending the pictures to matt.

mocking him.

pissing him off.

calling him out, if you will.

it added up. it made perfect sense.

except too many things in this case made perfect sense at first. and then, after a few minutes, they didn't anymore. like max darrow being rolled by a prostitute. like the murder of charles talley looking like a common jealous-husband scenario when, if that indeed was the case, how do you explain the connection to emma lemay and the nevada fbi and all the rest of the stuff she'd learned at joan thurston's office?

her cell phone trilled. the number was blocked.

"hello?"

"so what's up with this apb on hunter?"

it was lance banner.

"do you ever sleep?" she asked.

"not in the summer. i prefer winter hibernation. like a bear. so what's up?"

"we're looking for him."

"stop with all specifics, loren. i mean, no, really, i can't handle all that detail."

"it's a long story, lance, and i've had a long night."

"the apb was mainly on the newark wire."

"so?"

"so has anyone checked out hunter's sister-in-law's?"

"i don't think so."

"i live right down the block," lance banner said. "consider me on the way."