None

Bob Brewer could remember Sarah Collins clearly—five foot eight, slender, shapely, golden blond hair, golden tan skin, and a soft smile that attracted men like no other woman he'd ever met. She'd been a friend when he' roomed with Tom in California three years before. Now, incredibly, Sarah was dead and Tom imprisoned for her murder. Tom had called to ask for help. Bob didn't fancy flying three thousand miles to seek a killer but no one else thought Tom innocent. When they'd been roommates in California Tom had saved him. Tom hadn't reminded him but the debt remained nonetheless; he had no choice. It was not a pleasant transcontinental flight. Bob worried about guns and knives and the like. He worried that he wasn't a detective nor had ever dreamed of becoming one. He worried that murderers don't like to be caught and tend to get nasty when threatened. It also occurred to him that his inability to hear, even though he'd been deaf all his life and was quite used to it, might make catching a murderer even harder and more dangerous.