Margot went to the south wing and into her living room. The angled view from its windows showed her that the driveway had been cleared. Only the prowl car was left, where it had been parked back at the curve. Burans.
She thought about Buran. She thought him a hard man, a strictly courteous one, a clever one. In line with the new style in policemen. And for the Tylers a dangerous one. She was completely conscienceless about the murder from an ethical-legal standard. Forrest had got exactly what he should have got. The crushing out of an obscene bug. An execution, really.
Still—there had been the method—the sneak blow on the back of the head, the sly lifting of the head and the considered, careful knife, the sly arrangement of the burning cigar. No righteous flare of passion was in those t
