“David,” I whisper, pointing.
His eyes zero in on what I’m seeing. On the cream-colored carpet that runs down the steps are red footprints—boot prints, to be more precise. They look like faded red stamps on the fabric, with the toes pointed out. The tracks are more pronounced on the top steps, growing paler toward the bottom.
I recognize these prints. These aren’t from normal casual boots. They’re flat with pointed toes. Cowboy boots. And only one person I know wears cowboy boots—Hugo.
We move upstairs slowly. At the landing, David sweeps the area and ensures that no one is waiting down a hall or in a closet. The prints saturate the carpet in a deep crimson hue.
They come directly from the bedroom. The door is ajar. Through the opening, I can see red stains on the white bedspread.
We move forward in unison. David keeps the barrel of his gun pointed high, and he gently nudges the door with his foot. Inside the room is a horrific sight.
Two dead bodies are in there. The first is Snyder, still in his pajamas, lying supine on the couch. The second is a woman, heavyset and wearing a nightgown, lying on the floor. Both of them have huge holes in their chests. Pools of blood are everywhere, with one pair of footprints leading directly from the bodies.
“Christ,” David mutters. He looks around the room, still aiming his gun. “They could still be here.”
Paige and I have been through enough in the past few days to know that no one is here. We stand idly by until David finishes his sweep. Then we walk back outside, careful not to step on the prints.
David looks up and down the street. “Where’s the damn car?”
It takes ten minutes for the black-and-white to arrive. David chastises the two uniformed officers the moment they step out of the vehicle. “What took so long? There is a dead police officer in this house!”
The two officers exchange a look. The female cop responds. “Haven’t you heard what’s going on?”
David shakes his head.
“This is the fourth dead detective reported this morning.”
David’s jaw drops.
The other detective adds, “Someone’s going around killing cops.”
* * *
As soon as David hears about the deaths, he orders Paige and me into his car. He gets on his phone and starts making numerous frantic phone calls. More police cars arrive. Crime-scene tape goes up, and within a half an hour, we have a police base camp set up. More detectives arrive in unmarked but still obvious police vehicles. The medical examiner soon follows in his paneled van.
Then the news crews show up. First there are a few individuals snapping pictures on smart phones to post online and share via apps as citizen journalists. Then come the local news vans and Los Angeles tabloids. Within an hour, it’s a full-blown circus.
Paige and I are still sitting in the back seat of the Dodge when someone shouts, “Where’s Resnick?”
I turn to see David’s captain, Reginald Hollis. He’s a tall African American man with a barrel chest and clean-shaven head. He bears a constant scowl, like a disappointed football coach. Hollis hurries out of the car and takes long strides past the other officers before disappearing into the house.
“He looks pissed,” I say.
“Yeah, and it sounds like he’s pissed at David.”
I nod.
“You have to admit,” Paige says, “David’s taken a lot of heat for you the past few days.”
“I know.”
Hollis’s voice booms from inside the house. A couple of uniformed officers scurry outside, taking shelter from the storm inside. I can only imagine what David must be dealing with. He can’t possibly explain to his boss what’s going on when I haven’t given him the full picture. He has spent all this time trusting me at every turn, and I haven’t told him the truth.
I open the car door.
“Where are you going?” Paige slides out and follows me.
“I’m tired of waiting in the wings,” I say as I charge to the door. “This whole wait in the car while the men do the work thing is crap.”
In order to get past the guarding police officer without benefit of badge or credentials, I do my best to imitate the confident stride Captain Hollis used. When the cop allows me to pass without a second glance, I’m surprised it worked. Then again, why bother stopping someone this deep into the crime scene?
There’s a wide strip of plastic on the floor leading through the house, and I follow it into the living room. Several crime-scene technicians are busy collecting evidence from the scene—dusting for fingerprints, analyzing a computer, rifling through mail. At the far end is the den, where David and his captain are having a heated conversation. I trust that my arrival will help ease the tension, so I march right inside.
The moment David sees me, he moves to intercept. “Wait in the car!”
I brush right past him and extend my hand to his captain. “Darcy Caine, private investigator.”
Hollis ignores me and addresses David over my head. “Who is this, and what is she doing here?”
“Darcy Caine,” I repeat. “I’m the PI hired by Carmen Viramontes to find her daughter.” David tries to pull me away, but I stand my ground. “I have reason to believe my case might have something to do with Detective Snyder’s death—and perhaps the death of the other detectives.”
Hollis points his long finger at me. “Young lady, if you have information pertaining to this investigation, you had better reveal it.”
I point my finger back at him. “That’s what I’m trying to do. Sir.”
He turns to David. “Seriously, who is this?”
David changes tactics and now ushers Hollis out of the den. “I’ll handle this, sir. I’m taking her to the station for a statement.”
As soon as Hollis is out of earshot, he whirls on me. “What the hell, Darcy? Are you trying
