The Survivors Club

the low gate to his pocket yard and took the narrow sidewalk to the steps leading down to the beach.

This morning he’d awakened early—four a.m. Couldn’t wait to get out there. Even the slight wine hangover couldn’t take away the excitement he felt. His hands tingled and so did his legs, and his stomach pricked with excitement. Every morning, he was always impatient, the only time during the day that he wasn’t easygoing. For anything else, he wasn’t goal-oriented. He didn’t care about jobs or politics or even getting the girl. But pulling on his wetsuit, even after all these years, he couldn’t wait to get out there.

He’d passed on his favorite Stewart board for his new fave, Sacrilege—Rolf Baer’s latest work of art, shaped for him to perfection and ideal for the day. This would be his first time out with the Sacrilege board, and he could not wait.

The fog was dark blue gray and clung to everything. The smell of seaweed tumbled up by the waves permeated his nostrils. He loved the smell of seaweed in the morning! He loved it all. His life was very simple. Surf. Hang with his friends. Find a lady who wanted to sleep with him—no strings.

He might have been born for another decade—the sixties, maybe the seventies. In fact, he even had an original Volkswagen Microbus, which he had painted the color of the sunrise, with the rocks black in the distance and a wave like glass.

At twenty-nine years old, Chad had an associate’s degree in business (didn’t do jack shit for him, either), a marriage that had lasted seven months, no kids (incredibly fortunate, because he didn’t think he’d be much of a father), and the beach house in Laguna. He had enough money for his needs.

And he had his boards—he’d built himself quite a collection, enough so he had to add on a little room off the shed and got into a ton of hot water with the zoning people.

The moisture clung like pearls to the iron railing edging the steps. The neighbor’s place was dark—his neighbor was a hippie lady who came from money like he did and just wanted to be left alone to enjoy life and occasional weed. He peered into the darkness and saw the white of the churning surf and the dark shine of the sodium arc lights, way up on poles, shimmering off the hardpacked sand over by the park. The forecast was good but not spectacular—waist high to chest high.

A light rain started up, dimpling the sand.

Chad was debating which beach to hit when he heard something he didn’t expect. The scrape of a shoe on the concrete behind him.

Maybe it was Bobbert, a surf bum who lived across the street. He turned halfway, said, “Hey bro, what you —”

Something heavy thudded into his back and pressed into him hard, and a meaty arm shot out of nowhere, pulling him backward and off his feet. An elbow crunched his neck like a vise, closing his air passage. He tried to tuck his chin down, tried to reach up and pull at the elbow, but he couldn’t get a grip. His board hit the walk with an ugly crack! and maybe it was broken but it didn’t matter because all that mattered was trying to breathe, and his vision was swimming—

And that was when full-blown panic set in.

CHAPTER 21

The next morning Tess was up early—first the coyotes and then the birds woke her. While she ran a wash she took her coffee and breakfast out on the porch and took notes on what had happened the day before.

The case was shifting. At first it had looked like a cartel hit—or some unaffiliated bad guy trying to act like one. Someone sending a message. You cross us and you’re dead. Not just dead, but we’ll torture you first.

But in this case, there was no message. She was pretty sure of that now.

Someone had tried to make it look like a hit.

Which meant someone knew what he was doing.

Steve Barkman had been obsessed with Hanley’s death. To be more accurate, Steve Barkman had been obsessed with the way Hanley died.

Multiple gunshots.

Tess had checked out George Hanley’s MacBook Pro from evidence. Maybe now she’d get some answers.

She spent an hour going through his files. There were very few. She went through his bookmarks on Firefox and his history. There was very little in history, mostly stuff that didn’t mean much. How to fix a leaky faucet. A few cop sites and a gun catalog. Cabela’s online.

There were a number of photos of places in southern Arizona. Many of them of buffelgrass and the volunteers. Pictures of Credo, some of the tours he led there. A few homes—maybe because he thought he’d be moving out of his apartment soon. One of them quite nice, up on a hill, with tall trees around it.

And there were photos of Adele.

Tess had a Mac, too. The first view in “Finder” was not of the photos themselves, except for little squares you couldn’t see to the right of the print, but letters and numbers: DSC120234.JPG through DSC120240.JPG. So at first Tess didn’t know what the photos would be, except for a brief description. But she figured “Adele” was a pretty good signpost.

Tess clicked through the photos of Adele. Pretty dog. One side of her face was colored brown. Her chest and legs were white. The rest of her was that blue-gray color populated with black spots. One of the spots looked a little like a bow tie.

There were times when her memory was a pain in the ass. Times when she didn’t want to remember the terrible things she saw. Like George Hanley’s desecrated body.

But this time, she was grateful for it. This time it made her job a whole hell of a lot easier.

Jaimie Wolfe stood in the center of the riding ring, shouting instructions to her students. When she saw Tess, she turned her back and ignored her.

That was fine with Tess.

The dogs came up. They milled around her, asking to be petted. Tess patted each one, rubbed their ears, let them sniff her hands, massaged their chests and rumps. Inundated with slavering tongues and wagging tails. She took a knee, the better to pat them, and let them surround her with doggy attention.

Jaimie glanced back at her once, then pointedly ignored her once again.

Tess rubbed her hands in the Australian shepherd’s luxurious coat. “Good Bandit,” she said. “Nice Bandit.” Jaimie Wolfe’s boy dog. Tess reached down and around the dog’s tummy. Slid her hands back, reveling in the soft, luxurious fur. Reached down and between the dog’s legs. She was gentle but thorough. “Good boy,” she said.

Jaimie glanced her way.

“Good boy!” But by that time, Tess knew Bandit wasn’t a boy at all.

It wasn’t even Bandit.

Back at the sheriff’s office, Tess pulled Jaimie Wolfe’s DL and put together a photo lineup. She chose five other women of approximately the same age and body type. All of them were photos from driver’s licenses. Then she took off for Animal Control and found Sally, the woman who had processed the dog’s adoption.

“Do you recognize any of these women?” Tess asked.

Sally pointed to the photograph of Jaimie. “That one. She was the one who adopted the dog you were asking about.”

“You’re sure?”

“I can look it up. But I’m sure. I remember, because I really like her hair.”

Yes, Jaimie Wolfe had glorious hair.

In the car, Tess had the SABEL list printout. One of the members of SABEL was a woman named Bernadette Colvin—the woman who supposedly adopted George Hanley’s dog, Adele.

Tess drove to her townhome and rang the bell.

It was the same as last time. The street was empty. The blinds pulled in the window. The garage door