The Survivors Club

position.”

That sounded political—made up to keep him or someone he knew happy. She could picture him measuring crime scenes.

He looked beyond her at the cabin. “It says in the paper he was shot multiple times. How many?”

“Sir, I cannot share any details of this case with you. As someone who works in law enforcement, you understand that this is a crime scene, and you need to leave now.”

He stepped toward her. “Hey, look. I’m not trying to steal your case. I’m here to help. I just asked you a question. It said ‘multiple gunshots’ in the paper. I’m just trying to ascertain if that’s true.”

Tess drew her weapon and held it down low behind her back—the second time today. “You need to walk up to your car and go, now.”

“I can see it on your face! It’s true. He was shot multiple times. I read they burned his car, too.”

“I can’t speak to that, sir.” The phrase “returning to the scene of the crime” was a cliche, but it was also an accurate predictor of suspects in those crimes. Many times a bad guy did return to the crime scene, sometimes to gloat. And this guy was a blue-ribbon gloater.

Tess could almost feel the restrained violence in him.

He loomed over her, grinning like a parrot. Now she could see the teeth he’d tried to hide. They peeked out under the crack of his lips—tiny teeth. They didn’t go with the rest of him, his good looks. The expensive hiking outfit.

Manic energy.

Tess said, “You need to walk up the road, get into your car, and drive away. This is the last time I will tell you that.”

“Or what?”

She traded her SIG for cuffs. Cuffed one hand, shoved him, and while he was off balance, cuffed the other.

“You can’t do this! I’m a citizen!”

“This is a crime scene and you are not allowed to be here. You are interfering with an active investigation.” She pushed him in the direction of the gate. “I’ll escort you to the road, sir.”

“I just want to know how many times he was shot! Were they multiple gunshot wounds?”

“Multiple gunshots? What do you mean by that?”

He shut up.

Tess continued to push him up the path.

They reached the gate, and Tess used one hand to pull the loop over, shoved the fence pole sideways to the right so the gate fell into the dirt. She marched him over the strands of the gate and aimed him toward the Range Rover. Pulled him to a stop just shy of the car and felt in his pockets and came up with his wallet and checked his DL. His name was Steve Barkman, thirty-six years old.

“This your car?”

He shut up. He said nothing when she uncuffed him and told him to get into his vehicle. He did as he was told.

She watched him drive away.

She waited for him to turn around and come back.

The sun warm on her head, bearing down on her.

The brightness in her eyes. She watched the hill he’d driven around.

Multiple gunshots.

Why’d he ask her that?

CHAPTER 6

Before heading back to the Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Office, Tess drove past the exit and turned on W. Mariposa and worked her way over to Animal Control. She badged the woman behind the glass and was buzzed in to the office.

“I’m looking for a dog named Adele,” Tess said, giving her the names of both George Hanley and Bert Scofield.

“I’m sorry, but number 014489 was adopted already.”

“She was? When was she adopted?”

“Right after she came in. We didn’t even have time to process her.”

“Who adopted her?”

“I don’t think we can give that out.”

“This is a homicide investigation,” Tess lied. “The dog is important to the case. Did the person who adopted 014489 look at any other dogs?”

Wondering why it was important to her.

“I wasn’t here. I could ask, but I don’t know if Sally would remember.”

“Sally was the one who adopted the dog out?”

“Yes.”

“Is she here now?”

“I’ll get her.”

Tess waited. The intake papers were on the desk, and Tess looked at them. Adele was five years old, an “Aussie mix.” There was a place to clip a photo, but it was blank. They didn’t even have enough time to even take a picture?

When the woman returned, another woman wearing a similar knit shirt and khakis but with considerable more girth nodded to her shyly.

Tess asked her about the person who came in.

“I barely put her in her run before someone asked about her.”

“They asked to see an Aussie mix?”

“Yes. Probably, they walked around and saw her. That’s what most people do. I was out on the floor, hosing down the runs, and the woman wanted to adopt the dog. So I took her up to do the paperwork, and then we went back and got the dog.”

Tess craned her neck to read the name. Bernadette Colvin.

“This is her address, right?”

“Uh-huh.” The woman pulled the card back, worried that there was a confidentiality issue. Tess could have pressed her to give her the card, but decided it was unnecessary.

Tess was still unclear why she had felt compelled to come here. To see the dog, or to rescue her? But now that she was here, she had more questions. The quickness with which someone adopted the dog seemed fortuitous, if not downright strange.

Maybe Colvin was a friend of Hanley’s. Maybe, since she adopted the dog, they had been close.

The address for Bernadette Colvin was nearby—just ten minutes out of her way. Tess drove to Walnut Tree Place, a uniformly beige townhome in a housing division full of them. The homes and garages presented blank faces to the street, and Ms. Colvin’s house was no different.

Tess pushed the bell. No answer. Hard to tell if anyone was there, with the drapes drawn. She remembered the phone number on the card, used her cell phone, and got voice mail. She left a message, asking for Bernadette Colvin to call her.

Tess was walking toward the homicide room when Bonny poked his head out of his office. “When you’re in, why don’t you come by.”

He sounded grim.

Tess dumped her briefcase by her desk and walked down the short hallway to Bonny’s office. She noticed his nameplate was finally up next to the door: “Thaddeus Bonneville, Undersheriff.” Bonny hadn’t made much headway in setting up his office. There were boxes and files on every chair and file cabinet. He was still moving in, having