ALEX BARCLAY

Time of Death

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2010

Copyright © Alex Barclay 2010

Cover design layout © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016 Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Alex Barclay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express permission of HarperCollins ebooks.

Source ISBN: 9780007356263

Ebook Edition © JULY 2010 ISBN: 9780007346349

Version: 2016-05-04

Praise for Alex Barclay

‘The rising star of the hard-boiled crime fiction world, combining wild characters, surprising plots and massive backdrops with a touch of dry humour’ Mirror

‘Tense, no-punches-pulled thriller that will have you on the edge of your deckchair’ Woman and Home

‘Explosive’ Company

‘Darkhouse is a terrific debut by an exciting new writer’ Independent on Sunday

‘Compelling’ Glamour

‘Excellent summer reading … Barclay has the confidence to move her story along slowly, and deftly explores the relationships between her characters’ Sunday Telegraph

‘The thriller of the summer’ Irish Independent

‘If you haven’t discovered Alex Barclay, it’s time to jump on the bandwagon’ Image Magazine

Dedication

To Mary Maddison

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Note

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Alex Barclay

About the Publisher

NOTE

Eleven years ago, an organized crime operation was dismantled following a year-long undercover operation in which FBI Special Agent Ren Bryce infiltrated the inner circle of its head, Domenica Val Pando.

On the night that Val Pando was to be arrested, the compound was burned to the ground by a rival gang and Val Pando escaped with her husband and young son.

Her whereabouts remain unknown.

PROLOGUE

El Paso, Texas

Erubiel Diaz lay curled on the wet floor of the soiled gas station restroom. He had been violently ill. But to a man with damaged senses, a weakened stomach and voided bowels could never be anything more than a physical condition. It could never be the bad omen that he had been foolish to ignore. As a result, his instinct that morning had not been to turn back, but to hook a fingernail into a small bag of white powder and take in a pure cocaine rush. Outside, a car radio crackled with a thunderstorm warning. Within hours, the searing heat was set to be broken by quarter-sized hail.

Erubiel Diaz now stood in the cobbled courtyard of a million-dollar home on the west side of the Franklin Mountains. Diaz was squat and muscular, short-limbed and heavy-browed. He was wearing a yellow sleeveless T-shirt and black shorts to his calves. His body, his clothes, hadn’t been washed in days. He was a dark blot in a space that was filled with light, with flowers, plants and trees that he would have recognized if he was the landscape gardener on his van’s fake sign. Only the plant by the living-room window looked familiar to him. Something to do with a bird.

Diaz had a round, lined face, sallow skin, and bloodshot eyes. He squinted against the bright sunshine that bounced off the white walls of the Spanish-style house. He had done what he came here to do. As he made his move to leave, he heard a car pull up outside. The security gates to his left slid slowly open. He pressed himself against the cool stone of the perimeter wall.

The woman who stepped out of the car was nothing like the women he paid for, or took for free, nothing like the worn-out mother of his children. This woman was tall and delicate, with fine blonde hair to her shoulders and a light, freckled tan. She wore a long, flowing skirt, and a white cotton blouse. Three gold bangles shone on her slender wrist. Her polished toenails were the color of the flowers beneath the window. Diaz looked down at his feet. They were wedged into Tevas that were a size too small – their criss-crossed straps digging into his flesh. His toes were short, covered with black hair, their nails caked in dirt.

Diaz checked his watch. It was an absent glance; no matter where the hands pointed, he knew what time it was. What he could not have known as he lurched forward and slammed the woman face-down onto the trunk of her car, was that he had just sent those hands spiraling wildly toward his time of death.

The sound of the woman’s breath as it was forced from her lungs died in the rumble of the forecast thunder. The charcoal sky exploded with light. And the woman watched as the quarter-sized hail came crashing down, severing the fiery blossoms of the Red Bird of Paradise.

1

Special Agent Ren Bryce pulled into the parking lot of The Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force office. She reached out to turn off the radio.

‘Coming up next,’ said the presenter, ‘we take a look at Denver’s Fifty Most Wanted. The list will be released later today by the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force and the US Marshals office …’

Ren turned to her back-seat passenger.

‘Coming up next, Misty – you and me in the office, trying to find these assholes.’

Misty was the black-and-white border collie she had adopted seven months earlier when her owner was killed. Her collar had a special engraving: ‘I Smell Dead People’. Misty and Ren were recent graduates of cadaver dog training school – Misty’s second time, Ren’s first. But there were no plans to put her to work. For now, Misty’s skills were on the down low.

Ren’s boss, Supervisory Special Agent Gary Dettling, had given Misty security clearance for the week, so she could spend it in the office, instead of Ren’s temporary motel home.

When Gary Dettling set up The Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force, the maverick in him chose a building that was a piece of Denver’s agricultural history. The Livestock Exchange Building, red brick, four stories high, was one of the few buildings in Denver that had its original interior: polished marble floors and grand mahogany staircases. It started out as home to the Denver Union Stockyard Company and one hundred years on, still kept a link to its roots; the Colorado Brand Inspectors’ office was on the second floor, Maverick Press was on the third: cowboys still had a home in the Livestock Exchange Building.

Gary Dettling was the straightest maverick Ren knew. He had created something that shook things up – a multi-agency task force – yet he ran it with a tight grip on the reins. The nine-man one-woman team worked from a bullpen. There were no formal partners, but two years earlier, within months of Ren Bryce starting there, she had fallen into a natural group with the three men who sat around her – Cliff James, Colin Grabien and Robbie Truax. A filing cabinet to Ren’s left and one to Colin’s right created a subtle break in the room to seal the deal.

Ren secured Misty in her quarters and headed down the hallway to her office. She threw her coat on the stand by the door and hung her gray suit jacket on the back of her chair. Her work wardrobe was always a slim-fit black or gray suit, a top in whatever color matched her mood in the morning, and black three-inch heels. Years earlier, Ren had bought an Armani pant suit after a drunken lunchtime date. She had no idea where it was, but the forgeries – expertly made by her mother, Kitty – were holding up well.

Cliff James was the only person in the office when Ren arrived.

Cliff was ex-Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, fifty-two years old, a big warm bear with a face set to permasmile. Happy family life, happy man.

Ren turned to him. ‘My motel room is the type of place a man called Randy would take a girl called Bonnie in his pick-up on a Friday night when her trucker husband, also called Randy, is out of town.’

‘Does it have a heart-shaped bed?’ said Cliff.

‘To Randy and Bonnie, every bed is heart-shaped.’

‘God bless them and the illegitimate offspring Randy-the-husband will unknowingly have to bring up as his own.’

‘The good news, however,’ said Ren, ‘is that I am leaving. I will soon have in my possession the keys to a beautiful home on Mardyke Street, straight out of Olde Denver.’

‘How did you swing that?’

‘My mom’s friend, Annie, is in need of a housesitter.’ She paused. ‘Desperate need, clearly.’

‘What? You’d be a great housesitter,’ said Cliff. ‘Clean. Rarely home. Avoids the kitchen. Excellent firearm skills …’

‘I like the way you said “clean”.’ Ren smiled. ‘I note, also, that “tidy” didn’t go along with it.’

Cliff glanced at her desk. That was all it took.

‘Where is everyone?’ Ren checked her watch.

‘Two separate robberies in the wee hours.’

‘Lucky escape for me.’

‘Yeah, because being here today will be a whole lot more fun,’ said Cliff. ‘Hey, here it is. He pointed at the television mounted on the wall in the corner and hit the volume on the remote control. Gary Dettling was standing at a podium, flanked by officers from Denver PD and the US Marshals Office.

Gary was athlete handsome, taller than all of them, dark-haired, loved by cameras. Ren had read posts on a 9 News forum from women who prayed for him to get a regular slot. Ren worked with him every day. She smiled at the screen. And you still do nothing for me. And please let it stay that way.

‘Agent Dettling, can you tell us a little more about The Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force?’ said the reporter.

‘Just that it’s fabulous,’ said Ren.

Gary was nodding at the reporter. ‘The Safe Streets Violent Crimes Initiative was set up by the FBI in 1992 to tackle violent gangs, violent crimes and the apprehension of violent fugitives.’

‘Violent, violent, violent,’ said Ren. ‘Do you have any idea how brave we are?’

Cliff laughed. ‘My neighbor’s kid, he’s about sixteen years old? He thinks we help little old ladies cross the street.’

Ren shook her head slowly. ‘Safe Streets is not a great name, though …’

The reporter’s voice struck up again. ‘So, this is about pooling resources?’

‘Yes,’ said Gary. ‘The task force is FBI-sponsored, so we have access to all the FBI’s resources, but we also benefit from local law-enforcement knowledge, and we’re working together as one unit, instead of each agency taking care of individual cases that may overlap. It saves time, money, and it’s proven to be a very successful formula.’

‘You bet,’ said Ren. ‘Two people at Safe Streets are currently and fiercely protecting the city of Denver and beyond, as he speaks.’

‘Three,’ said Robbie Truax, walking in and putting his knapsack on the floor beside his desk. Robbie was a former Aurora PD detective. He was Ren’s pal; kind, wholesome, blond-haired, blue-eyed, healthy – an elongated boy scout. He was also a strict Mormon – no caffeine, no alcohol, no swearing, no sex before marriage. Robbie was the 30-Year-Old Virgin.

The TV screen flashed quickly across the first few lines of faces on the Fifty Most Wanted list. A stab of anger hit Ren.

When the hell did this change happen?

Gary picked a few fugitives from the list, pushed by producers, as always, to choose the most glamorous cases – the fallen-child-star fugitive, the murderous teen, the homecoming hooker … The Crimestoppers number scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Ren stood up and went over to the office gallery of the Fifty Most Wanted, pinned across a huge corkboard on the wall.

Cliff checked his watch. ‘Ren, don’t bother – Gary will be back in a half-hour. He said he’d go through it all when everyone’s here.’

‘Well, let me just do this—’ Ren began grabbing pins from the photos and stabbing them into the top five faces as she re-arranged them.

‘Easy tiger,’ said Cliff.

2

Gary slipped quietly into his office without visiting the bullpen, but Ren had seen his car drive into the lot. She paused outside his door. Despite her years at Safe Streets, there were still times when she took a moment before going in. Gary’s office was like a Dutch minimalist armchair – handsome and elegant, but you wouldn’t want to stay in it for too long. It was as if it had been designed as a quick stop-off on your way to solving a case.

Ren knocked. Gary didn’t respond. If someone said jump, Gary Dettling, wouldn’t say ‘How high?’ He would probably never jump again for the rest of his life.

Ren leaned an ear to the door.

‘Come in,’ said Gary.

He was sitting at his desk. Ren imagined him there on his first day in the job, carefully flattening out a sheet of graph paper and marking in the exact location of each piece of furniture and drawing red circles with Xs through them over any spot that would typically hold a personal touch. But Ren knew that the polished mahogany, the pristine blue carpet, the sharp lines, the austerity did not define the man. It masked him. Gary was not just head of the Safe Streets Task Force, he also trained the FBI’s UCEs – undercover employees. He had spent so long in deep-cover assignments that hiding his real life had become a habit. He had a wife, a teenage daughter, a house in the mountains, but his office gave no indication of who Gary Dettling really was.

After her own deep-cover assignment, Ren had gone the other way. Once it was all over, she wanted to reinforce who she was more than ever. The problem was, she had never worked out who Ren Bryce was. And somewhere along the way, she had given up. Now, her workspace was as impersonal as Gary’s.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

Gary looked up. ‘What’s up?’

‘Uh … the Most Wanted, maybe?’

‘Late-breaking change of play.’

‘How did you let that happen?’ said Ren.

Gary stared at her. ‘It happened. US Marshals wanted it that way. I said, sure, OK.’

‘Right …’

‘Ren, it’s done,’ said Gary.

‘I know, but …’

‘You still get to highlight the Val Pando three. OK, so they’ve dropped a few places on the Billboard charts …’ He shrugged.

‘That’s not the point.’

‘Ren, here’s the deal. Last year, we almost had the Val Pandos. And it dead-ended. This new top two have had confirmed sightings in Denver in the last month …’

‘Ah, meaning it’s going to be easier to strike this top two off the list. So everyone looks better?’

‘Including you,’ said Gary.

‘I could give two shits,’ said Ren.

Gary looked at her patiently. And glanced at the door behind her.

‘Fine. OK,’ said Ren.

‘Where are the others?’ said Gary.

‘In various states of “on their way”.’

Back in the task force office, Ren checked her email, flagged most of the new messages, then ignored them.

‘Coffee, anyone?’ Colin Grabien walked in the door with an offer he usually didn’t make until at least two hours into the day.

Colin Grabien had transferred to Safe Streets from the FBI White Collar Squad and was the task force’s IT and numbers expert. He was five foot eight in the flesh, six foot eight in spirit and a ball of latent anger. He was the mosquito – Ren was the citronella candle.

Gary finally appeared in the office as Ren was walking out with her makeup bag hidden by her side. She didn’t wear a lot – sheer foundation, brown or gray eyeshadow, black mascara on her poker-straight lashes and clear lip gloss – but she couldn’t go without it, even when it meant applying it in the ergonomically challenged Safe Streets ladies room.

‘Nice makeup,’ said Colin when she got back.

‘Fuck you,’ Ren coughed into her hand.

‘OK,’ said Gary, ‘everyone’s here. I’m going to give the lowdown on one and two on our list. Ren will do three through five.’

‘Sure,’ said Ren.

Gary’s phone beeped. ‘Ren, go ahead. I need to take care of this.’

Ren stood up. ‘OK, gentlemen: here’s the lowdown on the Val Pando posse. If I’m repeating myself, please realize that I don’t care. First up, number three – Domenica Val Pando, Latina, DOB 10/02/64.

‘Domenica was head of a huge cartel operating in New Mexico in the nineties – people trafficking, drugs, weapons, branching into biological weapons. No one has actually seen her since she disappeared the night the compound was stormed, with her seven-year-old son, Gavino Val Pando and her fifty-year-old husband, Augusto Val Pando.

‘Domenica showed up on the radar again last August when she was attempting to set up a lab outside Breckenridge to make H₂S – colorless, odorless, fatal in seconds. We stopped her. But we couldn’t make any firm links to her, because she was, sadly, too fucking smart.’

Ren stood back. ‘This photo is eleven years old.’ The team followed her gaze to the noticeboard. Domenica Val Pando used to have an exotic beauty, but she had Americanized it, tweaked her features with surgery. Her hair was now the yellow-blonde that only very dark hair can be dyed. It was perfectly styled, but wrong. Her eyes were deep brown, slightly protruding, her lips full.

‘Not every psycho is dead in the eyes,’ said Ren.

Colin stared a little too long at the picture. ‘I’d hit it,’ he said.

‘Your standards are rising,’ said Ren. ‘Let me quickly give you the lowdown on Gavino Val Pando, Domenica’s son.’ She pointed to his photo, stapled under his mother’s.

Gavino had flawless dark skin and longish black hair that he pulled back off his face. He had strong bone structure and full but angular lips. His eyes were brown and lost. Ren stared at the photo. She had spent one year looking after six-year-old Gavino Val Pando and trying to deny how much she really cared about him.

‘Gavino’s eighteen years old,’ said Ren. ‘Our last encounter with him was last year in the Summit County jail, where he was taken in for under-age drinking. More significantly, he was paying for it with bait money from a robbery in Idaho Springs, of which he claimed to have no knowledge. We couldn’t prove otherwise, but it was definitely connected with Domenica. There is nothing to suggest that Gavino Val Pando is violent and a lot to suggest he was drunk and stupid that night. We had to release him and we don’t know his whereabouts, or whether he has remained in contact with Mommy Dearest.

‘His relationship with her is complicated. Her husband, Augusto Val Pando, was not Gavino’s biological father, but Augusto probably suspected that – he had no time for Gavino. So, while Gavino may be with his mother and therefore a very effective route to her, he definitely will not be with Augusto.’

‘And what about his real father?’ said Robbie.

‘James Laker – presumed dead,’ said Ren. ‘It is believed he was killed in the fire that destroyed the compound.’ A sweet, kind man, used and abused, first by life and then by Domenica.

‘Now to number four on our list,’ said Ren. ‘Another of Domenica’s minions: Javier Luis, born 1973, five foot two, one hundred and sixty pounds. First-degree murder, attempted first-degree murder, aggravated robbery; drugs; rape, sexual assault on a minor … he went MIA from Domenica’s compound in 1998, just before the shit hit the fan.’

Ren remembered Javier Luis. He was always dressed in concert T-shirts for bands he had never seen. He was not tall, so his shorts almost reached his ankles. His voice was nasal and whiny. He would look at Ren in a way that reminded her to shutter the windows at night and lock all the doors. She rarely spoke with him and, when she did, she kept it brief.

‘Finally,’ said Ren, ‘number five, Erubiel Diaz, Latino, DOB 12/10/58, one of Domenica’s shit shovelers.’

She pointed at the photo.

‘This roidy little man was involved in the H₂S lab – as a gofer, not a scientist, so that qualifies him for our hit list,’ said Ren. ‘He’s violent, a probable rapist and every daytime chat show’s favorite – a dead-beat dad. He was ratted out by his ex-wife four months ago for showing up in Denver, penniless, trying to see his kids. And off the record? He tried to assault me late one night in the parking lot of the Brockton Filly in Breckenridge and I—’

‘Kicked the living daylights out of him?’ said Robbie.

‘All the way to Frisco Medical Center,’ said Ren.

‘Where he told everyone he was attacked by a man,’ said Gary.

‘He was,’ said Colin.

Ren rolled her eyes. ‘Diaz obviously didn’t know at the time that I was an agent, but I let him know when I paid him a visit in the Summit County Jail, where he was being held for failure to pay child support. I couldn’t let the sheriff there know what Diaz had done to me because then the sheriff would know what I had done to him. So Diaz was released, we had nothing on him. But after he’d gone we found out that he had been working for Domenica Val Pando.’ She paused. ‘And probably still is. So, right now, although he is a little lower in the pecking order, I believe that Erubiel Diaz may well be our golden ticket.’

3

Gary walked back into the office. ‘All done?’

‘Yup,’ said Ren.

‘Number one on our Fifty Most Wanted,’ said Gary, pointing to a photo of a man with long, thin, greased-back hair, balding at the front. He had fuck-you eyes and a nose that looked broken, re-set and broken again. His face was hollowed out. He had two shaven patches of white hair high on each cheekbone and a downturned slit for a mouth. ‘This piece of shit,’ said Gary, ‘is Jonah Jeremiah—’

‘Jim Jams,’ said Ren.

‘Jonah Jeremiah Myler,’ Gary finished, ignoring her.

‘Priiiceless,’ said Ren.

‘Caucasian, DOB 08/12/57,’ said Gary. ‘Myler springs up in a different city every few months, preying on vulnerable teens and setting up short-lived “cults”. He grooms the kids for sex. He has young followers, so he gets them out on the streets. And he waits behind the scenes for the disenchanted youth to show. They may not always use the same name for their sect. Names to date: Crystal Wakenings, Army of the Risen, The Witness Gathering, Divine Seers of the Watchful—’

‘You are making them up,’ said Ren.

‘You couldn’t make them up,’ said Cliff.

‘And The Watchful what?’ said Ren. ‘That’s a lot of seeing and watching. The Watchful Observers. Divine Seers of the Watchful Crowd of Onlookers. Divine Seers of the Watchful Blind …’

Gary ploughed on. ‘Don’t be fooled by Myler’s gaunt face. He’s not as feeble as he looks.

‘Next up is number two, Francis Gartman, African-American, DOB 01/15/83. First degree murder, aggravated robbery, drugs, sexual assault on a minor.’

Gartman looked like someone had paused while inflating his head to allow him to pose for the photo. Every feature looked like it was about to blow.

‘Those eyes are completely vacant,’ said Ren. ‘Soulless.’

‘Gartman is a former boxer,’ said Gary, ‘which translates in his case into giant man, huge strength. He’s had enough blows to the head for his frontal lobe to have left the building.’

Gary stepped back. ‘Not as dramatic in my delivery as Agent Bryce no doubt was, but there’s our top five. Knock yourselves out.’

‘Ren,’ said Colin. ‘Call for you on one. She wanted to speak with a female. She didn’t give a name.’

Ren picked up the phone. ‘This is Special Agent Ren Bryce. How may I help you?’

‘My name is Catherine Sarvas. I’m calling from El Paso, Texas. I saw your Most Wanted List on line this morning …’

Ren slid her notebook across her desk. She picked up a pencil. ‘And do you have something you’d like to tell me, ma’am?’

‘I … yes,’ said Catherine. ‘Yes, I have. I do. I …’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry … I thought I could do this.’

She hung up.

‘Short call,’ said Robbie.

Ren nodded. ‘Weird.’

‘What did she want?’

‘To give me a little flicker of hope on a dreary Monday.’

‘Are you going to call her back?’

‘I’ll give her a little while. El Paso … What’s going on down there?’

Ren spent Monday lunch-times in the offices of Dr Helen Wheeler. The psychiatrist all lunatics should have: intelligent, warm, caring, wore great shoes you could admire while avoiding your issues.

Until Ren was diagnosed bipolar at twenty-six, she had never guessed that there was anything wrong with her. Mental illnesses were for the mentally ill. It seemed like one minute she was the youngest FBI agent to go under deep cover and blow apart an organized crime operation and the next, she was lying in her pajamas on the sofa, eating junk food, crying, not answering her phone, drinking, obsessing about all the regrets she had in her life, wondering what point there was in doing anything again. Ever.

Her older brother, Matt, suggested she get help. But he already knew what was wrong with Ren. So he brought her to his computer one evening and gently opened a checklist on a psychiatry website that covered her symptoms: the despair, the exhaustion, the sofa, the hopelessness. Ren had looked up at Matt and shrugged. ‘That’s just depression, though. Everyone gets like that.’

Matt had scrolled down to the mania checklist: I have lots of energy. I feel amazing. I want everyone else to feel amazing. I want to go out and party. I love everyone. I know everything. I feel creative. I’m working hard. I’m talking too quickly. I’m loud. I’m impatient. I’m exercising. I’m alert. I’m swearing. I’m invincible. I’m hypersexual. I’m overspending. Check, check, check, check, check …

Ren had cried her heart out. ‘This is so depressing. My entire personality can be reduced to a checklist. If I buy lots of shoes, it’s because I’m nuts. If I’m having sex five times a day, it’s because I’m nuts. Me and two million other losers. And it’s not that I thought I was special or unique, but there is something so grim about fitting into this formula. It’s like we’re some fucked-up alien race. I mean, did you read all that shit? It affects every part of my existence. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t be fixed.’

Matt had cried too and explained that it may not be fixable, but it was treatable. He told Ren that she was unique and smart and loving and funny and generous and all women have too many shoes and that she was beautiful and he loved her to bits. And she loved him too. Because Matt had also read that telling Ren all this could come back and bite him. Because there was a high risk that someone bipolar would shoot the messenger; at some point, maybe not the same day or maybe not the same year, they would turn to the person who wanted to help them the most and scream, ‘This is all your fault. If you hadn’t told me all this, I would never have known, and I would have been happy just the way I was.’ And then they would scream, ‘You. Ruined. My. Life.’

Before that year was out, Ren had fired every one of those razor-sharp words at Matt and they had struck his heart. Ren did, indeed, shoot the messenger. And with a true bipolar flourish, had come back six months later, laden with guilt and gifts, to apologize.

Ren had tried different psychiatrists and psychotherapists since then, but when she met Helen Wheeler two years ago, Ren knew she had found her savior. Helen was in her early sixties, with a cultural awareness that spanned decades and created a bridge to all her patients. On Ren’s first visit, Helen had told her, ‘I am a psychiatrist, not a mind reader. What you tell me is what I will know about you. And you can leave your brave face at the door. If you’re having a bad day, my office is the perfect place to have it in.’

Ren checked her watch as she waited to be called in to Helen’s office.

Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up.

Helen leaned her head out the door of her office. ‘Come on in, Ren,’ she said. ‘How are you today?’

‘I’m … good,’ said Ren, sitting down.

Helen smiled. ‘OK …’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ren. ‘Did you see the news? It’s Most Wanted time … which is fine. It’s just … this year, it’s got Domenica Val Pando on it and I feel I’m being taken back years and …’ She hung her head.

Helen waited.

‘It’s just …’ said Ren, ‘I guess … I was diagnosed at the end of that assignment and some part of me, I know it’s not rational, but some part of me thinks that if it wasn’t for that, I would be fine, there would be nothing wrong with me. And then … then there’s another part of me – and it’s so screwed up – that wants to be back there, because I was oblivious, I didn’t know how lucky I was to be sane. Or at least to think I was sane.’

Helen smiled at her. ‘Ren, you are sane. And those feelings are understandable.’

‘But what makes no sense is that paranoia is the worst part of bipolar disorder for me, yet undercover work is a whole world of paranoia. You are lying all day every day and you’re never sure if you’re going to be found out. Give me depression over paranoia any day. Because I just … I feel paranoia is what will ultimately bring me down.’

‘Ren, nothing is going to bring you down,’ said Helen. ‘You are in control of all of this. And you are not alone. You have an entire team working with you. Good people, from what you tell me. So, rely on them, Ren.’

Ren nodded. ‘I can’t stop thinking about the assignment, though. I told this terrible story to gain someone’s confidence and get into her life – I sat on a park bench crying to Domenica Val Pando, telling her I had lost my four-month old baby …’

‘That is part of undercover work, Ren. You were doing your job.’

‘I know, but I look back sometimes and I think “How could I have done that?”’ Ren shook her head. ‘Nothing to do with Val Pando personally – she’s a piece of shit – just, me. How could I have done that?’

‘It was your job.’

‘I know it’s what I signed up to do,’ said Ren. ‘But I guess I get scared at how easy it was for me to do it. Undercover work is such a rush – the better you are, the greater the high. The more you find out, the more you want to find out. It’s addictive. You go to bed at night, you write notes, you give them to your contact agent. He’s making a case, he’s happy, you’re happy. But I was still playing the role of Remy Torres, a fake name in a fake life. She was like part-me, part-stranger. So … in a way, you never know what she’s capable of.’ She paused. ‘And when it’s over and you bring your real self into the equation, when you’re away from whatever group of dirtbags you’ve been investigating, you’re faced with how good a liar you were and how well you manipulated people. And you tell yourself that the ends justify the means. But sometimes the means just make you feel dirty.’

‘OK, take some breaths.’ Helen handed her a box of Kleenex.

‘Thanks,’ said Ren. ‘Oh sorry, I’ve pulled out the whole lot. It must be a sign. I’ll be here weeping all day.’

‘I’m sponsored by Kleenex,’ said Helen. ‘It’s written on the back of my blouse.’

Ren laughed through the tears. ‘I honestly don’t know why I’m crying.’

‘Ren,’ said Helen gently, ‘Remy Torres did not take you down with her. Here you are, Ren Bryce, over ten years on, successful, stable, still pursuing these people, not turning into them.’

‘Still pursuing,’ said Ren. ‘Exactly.’

‘You are so hard on yourself,’ said Helen. ‘You’re doing great. Stop beating yourself up. Get back to that office this afternoon and kick some butt. Like you always do.’

‘Thanks. I’ll try.’

When the session was over and Ren was driving back to work, she could feel her anxiety drifting away. She smiled.

Helen’s room always felt like the furthest room from the crazy house.

4

Ren walked back into the bullpen, took off her jacket and put her purse on the floor.

‘Did you all go out to lunch?’ she said.

‘Yup,’ said Cliff. ‘Someone’s got to feed these investigative brains.’

Ren pointed to a brown paper bag at his feet. ‘Did you get anything wrapped to take home to your dog that you would now be willing to hand over to one of your hungry colleagues?’

Colin rolled his eyes. He reached out to answer the phone on his desk.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ said Cliff. ‘It’s half a steak sandwich.’

‘I owe you,’ said Ren.

She looked down at her file tray. ‘Hey, what’s this?’

‘I left it there for you,’ said Cliff. ‘It’s Francis Gartman’s alleged lady friend …’

‘Slash woman of the night.’ Ren looked at the picture, scanning the details.

‘Yup,’ said Cliff. ‘We need to find her.’

Ren nodded. ‘Sure, I’ll take a look at this.’ She rested her left hand on the neatly folded waxed wrapping of the sandwich. She could smell steak.

‘She’s running scared,’ said Cliff.

‘Did someone call in?’

‘Yes,’ said Cliff. ‘Her broken-hearted mama.’

Ren sucked in a breath. She looked down at the photo of Natalie Osgood, the pretty African-American girl with the bruised, vacant eyes and the tousled red wig. ‘Sweetheart, let me find you before that piece of shit does.’ Ren pushed her finger under the fold in the paper and slid the sandwich toward her.

‘Ren,’ said Colin. ‘Line three. Sounds like your El Paso woman again.’

I am not meant to eat today.

‘Hello,’ said Ren.

‘This is Catherine Sarvas again.’

‘Ms Sarvas—’

‘Mrs. I’m … married.’

‘Mrs Sarvas,’ said Ren. ‘Are you all right?’

The woman let out a sob. She was struggling to breathe.

Please don’t hang up.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Catherine. ‘I’m so sorry for this.’

‘Please,’ said Ren. ‘There is no need to apologize. Please, take your time. I’ll listen to you whenever you’re ready to talk.’

Catherine sucked in a breath. ‘Thank you.’

Seconds passed.

‘I saw your Most Wanted list on the internet,’ said Catherine. ‘And I wanted to let you know …’ She started to cry. ‘Oh, God … I was raped.’

Ren had heard women say that they were raped before and no matter how many times she heard it, it caused a visceral reaction – a recoil.

‘He is number five on your list,’ said Catherine.

Number five. Ren glanced up at the board, for a moment forgetting the new order. Oh my God.

‘Erubiel Diaz,’ said Ren. ‘Number five, Erubiel Diaz.’

‘I recognize his face.’

His hideous face. Ren’s hand hovered over the page. Every phone in the office seemed to be ringing. It felt disrespectful, the wrong place to listen to what Catherine Sarvas had to say. Ren pressed the phone to her ear. ‘Take your time, Mrs Sarvas.’

Eventually, Catherine Sarvas spoke again. ‘Maybe you’ve heard about my family. My husband is Gregory Sarvas?’

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ said Ren. ‘I’m not familiar with your husband.’

‘Oh …’ Another pause. ‘Eight months ago, my husband, Greg, was shot dead near our home in El Paso. He had been driving our sons home from school.’ She paused.

Ren waited, but all she could hear was Catherine Sarvas’ breathing. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

She quietly typed Gregory Sarvas’ name into Google. Hundreds of hits. She did an image search. She clicked on one of the photos. It was a wide shot taken from behind a pale gold SUV with all its doors open. There was something beautiful and artistic in the angles and the light. Then the headlines: Murder. Shooting. Shot dead. Cold blood. Gunned down. The beauty and light of the photo was quickly gone.

‘Our sons … Luke and Michael … were in the SUV with Greg,’ said Mrs Sarvas. ‘They’re still missing …’

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Sarvas.’ She glanced at one of the articles. Luke, 17, Michael, 15.

‘I can’t even … I can’t talk about my family right now,’ said Catherine ‘I … just wanted to … help.’

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘So … were you also there in the SUV? You were raped?’

‘No, no. It was two weeks before that.’ Catherine sucked in a breath. ‘I saw the photograph of that man on your list and I had to call. I came across it by accident. But I knew it was him, right away.’

‘Did you report the rape at the time?’

‘No, I couldn’t bear it. I was …’ Catherine started to sob.

‘That’s OK.’

‘It was so terrible,’ said Catherine. ‘He was waiting in the … it was so …’

Ren waited for her to finish the sentence, but she couldn’t.

‘You mentioned your husband,’ said Ren. ‘Did you tell him about the rape?’

‘Yes. He was devastated. He was always talking to me about staying safe. Our house had a lot of security. I still don’t know how that man got in …’

‘How did your husband react? What did he do?’

‘He … was so good to me,’ said Catherine. ‘He took care of me, he did everything he could. And … when I was feeling a little more up to it, I asked him to report the rape to El Paso PD. I couldn’t bring myself to do it before then. I didn’t want to be … I didn’t want doctors … anyone examining me.’

‘I understand,’ said Ren. ‘And when did he report this?’

‘The week he died.’ Catherine began sobbing harder. ‘You never think it’s going to happen to you. None of this feels like it’s my life. We’re a regular family. Greg’s a lawyer, we live in a very nice neighborhood. We have two boys who go to a good high school and have bright futures ahead of them.’

Husband – dead. Sons – missing. And she just used the present tense.

‘I think my boys are still alive,’ said Catherine, as if she was reading Ren’s mind.

Ren could sense Catherine Sarvas’ rising panic. She had just revealed her terrible secret to a stranger and had heard for the first time how her story sounded out loud. Catherine Sarvas’ surge of courage had hit its peak and was starting to waver. She was like a bird paused in mid-flight.

‘Please, can you help me?’

Ren paused. ‘Mrs Sarvas, I am so sorry to hear what you’ve been through. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you. And we will do everything we can to apprehend this man.’

‘And my boys?’ said Catherine. ‘My children. The rape doesn’t even seem important compared to getting my boys back.’

‘Are you happy to make a full statement? Would it be easier for now to get the statement your husband made to El Paso PD?’

‘I can talk now,’ said Catherine. ‘I can talk to you. I don’t know who else to turn to. I’m not comfortable going to El Paso PD.’ She paused. ‘I think they think that Luke and Michael had something to do with Gregory’s death …’

‘I’ll go through everything they’ve got.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It was very brave of you to call,’ said Ren.

‘What have I got to lose?’ said Catherine. ‘But you’ve been very kind, thank you. You made it easier.’

I have no idea how.

‘Can we still do this over the phone?’

‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

‘OK.’

Thirty minutes later, Ren put down the phone. She turned to her computer and read ten different articles on Gregory Sarvas’ murder. The lead investigator was a man called Kenny Dade from El Paso PD. Ren called him and asked him to email her everything he had on the Sarvas family.

She pushed back from her desk and shouted out to the rest of the team.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I just got something on Erubiel Diaz.’

Colin put down his phone. ‘And I got a sighting on our number two, Francis Gartman: around midnight last night, waving a gun at a bar in Five Points.’

‘Any sign of Natalie Osgood?’ said Ren.

‘He was alone,’ said Colin.

‘And Erubiel Diaz?’ said Cliff, turning to Ren.

Ren let out a breath. She picked up her notes and recounted the harrowing details of Catherine Sarvas’ violation, the pages and pages of notes on what Erubiel Diaz did to a kind, gentle, mother-of-two in the walled-off courtyard of her quiet suburban home.

5

A Denver winter stretched on for months and March was its snowiest. Blizzards whipped up out of nowhere, plans were ruined or stalled or put to bed under a blanket of snow. But it could make everything beautiful. And for a place like Mardyke Street, lined with hundred-year-old homes and towering oaks, a thick layer of snow, glowing under the streetlights, created a special kind of magic.

Ren pulled up outside Annie Lowell’s house. It was eight p.m., she had taken a break from the office. There were appointments you could bend or break, but calling on a beloved eighty-year-old woman was sacred.

Annie welcomed Ren with a hug that brought a rush of memories from a time when their height difference went the other way. Annie was five feet tall; Ren was five seven.

Everything about Annie Lowell was warm and pastel-colored and soft-focus.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you before now,’ said Ren.

‘Sweetheart, do not give that a second thought,’ said Annie.

‘Thank you,’ said Ren. ‘I am so honored you asked me to do this. The motel is killing me.’

Ren took in the house: a William Lang, designed in the late 1800s. One of Denver’s most famous architects, he had built the homes of the rich and famous until the Silver Crash swept their wealth away. Lang fell from such a height that he never recovered and died a pauper, a thousand miles from the city where he had made such a mark.

Annie led her into the formal living room and sat on the hardbacked sofa with her legs crossed at the ankles and her hands in her lap. Ren smiled.

What a lady. And what an uncomfortable sofa.

Annie had bought the tumble-down house and restored it with money from a life insurance policy she didn’t even know her late husband had. She had been widowed as long as Ren had known her and in all that time she had never looked at another man. On her ring finger were the same three beautiful rings she had always worn – engagement, wedding and eternity.

‘Did you know that this home was Edward’s last gift to me?’ said Annie. ‘I feel as though he led me right to this door. In the jacket pocket he was wearing when he died, there was a little ticket for a yellow tie he had left at the laundry. I loved that yellow tie, so I went to pick it up. I know that sounds a little silly, but I didn’t want to leave it there. On my way back to the house we had been living in, I took a wrong turn and I ended up outside here.’ She stared off into the past. ‘It looked as broken as my heart.’

‘I never knew all this.’

‘I think messages are around us every day – you just have to be open to them.’

‘I must have been sending one out to you from my motel room,’ said Ren.

Annie smiled. Her gaze wandered to a spot on the wall opposite them.

‘Oh my goodness,’ said Ren, getting up and walking over to the faded photo. It was Ren, her parents and her three older brothers, Matt, Beau and Jay.

‘You must have been five years old there,’ said Annie. ‘Look at you.’

‘Look at the boys,’ said Ren. ‘All sandy brown like Dad. And then me. Do you know, when I was in school, the kids used to tease me. Not in a bad way – it was funny. They’d say, “So … your mother obviously had a visit from the mailman – Big Chief Little Stamps.”’ She pointed to her mother in the photo. ‘I mean, even Mom hasn’t really got my eyes.’

Ren was an ethnic mystery to most. She had passed for Hispanic, Italian and French. But in the shape of her striking brown eyes, the one heritage no one could deny was Native American – from a distant Iroquois past somewhere on her mother’s side.

‘You were such a cutie,’ said Annie, ‘and those boys adored … adore you.’ She squeezed Ren’s hand.

‘We always loved coming here.’

‘And I loved having you.’

Ren’s cell phone rang. She glanced down. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Annie. It’s work.’ It’s always work.

‘Go ahead, take it,’ said Annie.

Ren went into the hall and took the call. She came back in to Annie. ‘I am so sorry. I wanted to spend more time with you.’ I always want to spend more time with the people I care about. ‘But I have to go,’ said Ren. ‘There’s this guy we’re trying to track down, he’s a nasty piece of work and—’

‘Ren, you’ve an important job, you’re a busy woman. I wouldn’t expect you to have the time to spend here.’

‘But you’re being kind enough to give me your house, and I feel I’ve just come in and out.’

‘Oh, it’s only me,’ said Annie. ‘I understand. You are so dear to me. I would be happy to have five minutes with you.’

‘Good Lord, I can’t think why.’ Ren squeezed Annie tight. As she was pulling away from the embrace, she could see two places set for supper on the table behind her. Her heart sank. She hoped it wasn’t meant for her. But she saw a brand-new bottle of her favorite hot chili sauce. Annie pressed the keys of the house into Ren’s hand and hugged her again. Tears welled in Ren’s eyes as she rushed to the Jeep and drove to a part of town that hadn’t quite got the same kind of history.

Five Points stands where the diagonal grid of downtown meets the rectangular grid of East Denver. It’s one of Denver’s oldest neighborhoods, known more for what it had been – the Harlem of the West – and what it wanted to be – a triumph of gentrification – than what it actually was – a neighborhood that fell between two stools. The high crime rate had fallen since the nineties, but it still struggled with gangs, drugs, and convincing people that its beautiful Victorian renovations and stylish lofts were in a safe setting.

Robbie and Ren were parked outside a Five Points’ alleyway dive, waiting for Francis Gartman. He had been drinking there from noon until six p.m., but had left. The barman’s girlfriend had called in the tip, and said that she expected him back.

Ren looked at the time. ‘This has been a most pleasant five hours, thank you for coming, but y’all are going to have to make your way home now.’

‘I know,’ said Robbie. ‘This feels a little … over.’

‘He’s not going to come back,’ said Ren. ‘He sat in that bar watching the pretty snowflakes pile halfway up that tiny barred-up window and that was his cue to leave.’

Robbie’s cell phone rang. ‘Gary,’ he said.

‘Let this be our cue to leave.’

Robbie listened as Gary spoke. ‘Gartman,’ he mouthed, then shook his head slowly. He nodded, took down an address. ‘We’ll be right over.’ He started the engine and turned to Ren.

‘Aw, fuck Gartman,’ said Ren. ‘What did he do?’

‘He shot dead a fourteen-year-old deaf girl who didn’t drop to the floor when he tried to hold up a convenience store. And shot her ten-year-old brother a few aisles down who, with his hands in the air, tried to explain why she didn’t.’

‘God, why were those kids out so late?’

‘So early. The family were on their way to the airport to catch a flight. The girl was going for surgery to—’

‘No, I can’t even hear that,’ said Ren. ‘That is just too much.’

‘And,’ said Robbie, ‘when Gartman walked in to the place, he was already soaked with blood.’

6

The Safe Streets team were back from the convenience store crime scene by eleven a.m. Ren sat at her desk with a half-full coffee pot. Coffee pots are half-full. Beer bottles are half-empty.

‘Gartman does not give a shit,’ said Ren. ‘He just walks right in there, covered in blood from God knows what, kills a little girl, puts her brother in the hospital … and does not really care who sees his fucked-up face.’

‘When this gets out, there’ll be a bunch of people he’s screwed over who’ll want to hang him out to dry,’ said Cliff.

Ren’s computer pinged with an email. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, turning to her screen. ‘I just got my email from El Paso on the Sarvases.’

She clicked on the jpegs first. Rows of photos popped up in iPhoto under her brother Matt’s wedding photos.

A beautiful day that happened under black clouds and rain.

She looked at the destruction of the Sarvas family.

A terrible day that happened under a blue sky and a hot Texan sun.

The first photo was similar to the one of the SUV that Ren had seen online. But when you looked at the driver’s side, something was clearly wrong: Gregory Sarvas’ limp left leg was hanging out the open door. Ren continued through the sequential photos and focused on the car’s interior and the melting corpse of Gregory Sarvas. He was a big man with a full gray beard; more lumberjack than lawyer. He was dressed in a pale blue shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows and beige shorts to his knees. He was slumped across the passenger seat, his face turned toward the glove box. The gun had been fired point blank through his left temple. The hole ripped in his skull was filled with flies. The windscreen was spattered with red, like an exploded dye tag.

The next photo was of the back seat, an eerie reminder of the two people now missing. It was an incomplete picture of a terrible day.

Ren wondered what the chronology was. Did Luke and Michael Sarvas watch their father die? Did someone tell them to run before it happened, so that they wouldn’t have to? Did one of the boys pull the trigger? Did they plan this together? Are they lying dead somewhere else? Are they on a beach in Rio?

The last photo attachment was of the two boys. Luke Sarvas, the seventeen-year-old, had a surfer-dude look, messy blond hair, tanned, healthy, lean, smiling. His arm was resting around fifteen-year-old Michael’s shoulder. They were so clearly related, yet styled by a different hand. Michael was brown-haired, wore metal-rimmed glasses and had a more reserved but genuine smile as he looked up at his brother. The only concession to his age was a black long-sleeved T-shirt with skulls down one of the sleeves. Luke and Michael Sarvas looked like regular, happy kids.

Ren often wondered about mothers and whether their instincts about missing children were right. She had so often heard them say ‘I know he’s still alive’ or ‘I know she’s still out there’ even when there was no evidence, even when years had passed. Was it instinct? Was it denial? Or was it just hope? Fathers would usually stand quietly by, slow to comment but reluctant to hurt their wives by focusing on the facts.

Was Catherine Sarvas right? Were her boys still out there? Or was it the talk of a woman desperate to believe that, in the space of a few minutes on a beautiful summer’s afternoon, God would not choose to wipe out her entire family?

Ren went through the rest of the email. There was something missing.

She dialed Kenny Dade’s number. ‘It’s Ren Bryce again from Safe Streets in Denver. Thanks for that email on the Sarvases. Just one thing – I can’t see the original report on the rape, filed by Gregory Sarvas. All I’ve got here is the statement taken from Catherine Sarvas after he was killed.’

Dade paused. ‘Uh …’

Uh, what? ‘Yes?’ said Ren.

‘There was a slight problem with that request,’ said Dade. ‘See, Gregory Sarvas never filed a report.’

‘What?’

‘There was no rape reported.’

‘But … I spoke with Catherine Sarvas yesterday and she told me that her husband had reported the rape.’

‘I know,’ said Dade. ‘But the first we heard of Catherine Sarvas was when we found her dead husband. Then, when we were interviewing her, out of the blue she asked could his murder have been anything to do with her rape. We were kind of confused at this point. She said that her husband had reported it to Detective Juliana Hyde in our office. We kind of all looked at each other, because Juliana had been on maternity leave for three months at that point. So … well, I figured we would just get the details of the rape from Mrs Sarvas all over again, which we would have done in any case. She would have been able to give us more details than her husband.’

WTF? ‘Does Catherine Sarvas know that her husband didn’t report the rape?’

‘Well, we didn’t tell her,’ said Dade. ‘What was the point? He was dead. She couldn’t get any answers from him.’

‘Jesus, didn’t you find the whole thing a little strange?’

‘Of course we did.’ Dade sounded irritated. ‘But at least we knew he hadn’t reported it. We could factor that into our investigation. We weren’t the ones in the dark about it. So, yeah, we’ve been looking into whether there was any connection between the two things.’

‘Or the three things,’ said Ren: ‘the rape, the non-reporting of the rape and the murder.’

‘Well, we haven’t been able to connect them, either way.’

‘I’m going to have to tell her.’

‘What?’ said Dade. ‘And she’ll know we all lied to her? No way. No way.’

‘Trust me,’ said Ren. ‘She really won’t give a good goddamn about that. This is a woman whose two teenage sons are missing right now. She will want to know everything that has gone on, so that she can do everything she can to get those boys back. If they can be gotten back.’

‘Do you have to give her this information?’ said Dade. ‘Her whole family is gone. She—’

‘I have no choice,’ said Ren. ‘Because if she realizes that her husband did not report her rape, her brain might take another route, she might start thinking why and maybe we’ll all get something we want out of this.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You want to get your guy. I want to get mine,’ said Ren. ‘And Catherine Sarvas wants her boys.’

‘Your guy – is that the Erubiel Diaz you mentioned yesterday?’

‘Yes. Catherine Sarvas ID’d him.’

‘Any idea where he’s at?’

‘Not yet,’ said Ren. ‘We’re working on it.’

‘If you know anything more about the Sarvas family, I’d like to know,’ said Dade. ‘Our case dead-ended.’

‘I’ll keep you posted.’

‘OK,’ said Dade. ‘I appreciate it.’

Ren put down the phone.

Gregory Sarvas did not report his wife’s rape? WTF?

7

Ren re-read everything she had on the Sarvases. How did this all work? She thought again about the good neighborhood Catherine Sarvas said she lived in, the security at their house. Why would Erubiel Diaz choose to rape someone with those odds stacked against him and – of all the houses on that street – why did he choose the Sarvases? Had he been watching her? And could it really be a coincidence that, two weeks later, her husband is killed and her teenage sons go missing?

Why would Gregory Sarvas not report his wife’s rape? Ren flipped to a new page in her notebook and began writing the first string of questions that came into her head.

To protect her? He was ashamed? He was angry? He blamed her? His reputation would be tarnished? Or … he planned to take care of the problem without any police involvement? She underlined the last question. Had he already done that? Had he been killed in retaliation? Had he killed someone’s son and now his own sons were taken away/killed? Rape … Murder … Abduction???

Ren picked up the phone and called Catherine Sarvas. There was a depressingly hopeful tone to her voice.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sarvas,’ said Ren. ‘I’d just like to go over a few things from our conversation.’

‘Yes, no problem. And please, call me Catherine.’

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘You told me that your husband took care of reporting the rape.’

‘Yes, he did … I couldn’t bear going through all the details with a stranger … I mean, I knew I would have to talk to the police in the end, but at that time, I guess I was afraid that if I did nothing, if I waited too much longer, that he … the rapist … might … he … I just couldn’t bear the thought of one of my friends or my neighbors having to go through—’ She broke down.

‘I understand how difficult it would be to talk about.’ Ren paused. ‘So … you asked Gregory to take care of it, and he agreed that he would.’

‘Yes.’

‘And it was El Paso PD?’

‘Yes, it was El Paso PD. He said that he spoke with a Detective Hyde.’

Ren paused as if she was writing the name down. ‘Catherine, what was your husband’s demeanor before his murder?’

‘Well, he was concerned for me. He was worried. He didn’t want to leave me alone. But he had to work, too.’

‘What was his reaction to your rape?’

Catherine paused. ‘Well, he was devastated, like any husband would be. I’m not sure I know what you mean …’

Here goes. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this,’ said Ren. ‘But your husband didn’t report the rape to Detective Hyde.’

‘What? Who did he report it to?’

‘I’m afraid he didn’t report it at all.’

‘But … he did. That’s ridiculous. Of course he did. He came home and told me that evening. He even passed on a message from her, saying that I could speak with her in my own time.’

‘And did you speak with Detective Hyde?’ said Ren. Which I hate to ask, because I know the answer is no.

‘No,’ said Catherine. ‘But … but … why would Greg not report it? I don’t understand. There would be no reason not to. I asked him to. He had my permission.’

‘Maybe he wanted to protect you,’ said Ren. ‘What was your state of mind at this time?’

‘I had just been raped.’

‘Had you seen a doctor?’

‘No.’ Her voice fell to a whisper.

‘Could your husband have been worried about your mental health – worried about what reporting this could have meant for you?’

‘But … I told him to report it. I was traumatized. I didn’t want to report it myself. But I was adamant that he should.’

‘Did your husband override your wishes before?’ said Ren. ‘Did you ever ask him to do things and he ignored your wishes, maybe for what he felt was your own good?’

‘I’m sure every husband does that at some point.’

Not about reporting a rape, I would venture.

‘Catherine, can I ask you a few more questions?’ said Ren. ‘I know we’ve been over some of this already, but I’d like to make sure I have everything straight.’

‘OK.’

‘Who had access to your property?’

‘We each had a set of keys – Greg, Luke, Michael and I.’

‘What about tradesmen, a gardener …?’

‘No,’ said Catherine. ‘We hadn’t had any work done on the house in over a year. The boys look after the garden.’

Ren looked back at the notes she had taken when Catherine had described the rape. ‘You mentioned you had been shopping at The Homestore. Were you taking any delivery items in?’

‘No. I was just buying small things. I … just wanted to make the place nice. Greg had brought up the idea of us moving house, nothing concrete. I wasn’t interested, but I guess even the thought of moving made me want to dig my heels in a little more …’

And I’m sure you’d rather be any place but home right now.

‘So, no delivery people had access to your house.’

‘No.’

‘OK, Catherine, I’m going to go away with all this and start making enquiries. Thank you for taking my call.’

So Gregory Sarvas wanted to move house. His wife didn’t. If someone was hoping to sell their house, the last thing they would want to do is report a rape and stamp a black mark on the neighborhood.

Could a husband be that screwed up?

Gary walked into the bullpen. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Can I get an update?’

‘This Sarvas case is getting weirder,’ said Ren. ‘Erubiel Diaz rapes Catherine Sarvas. A week goes by, and her husband tells her he will report it on her behalf to spare her the trauma – yet he doesn’t. Within days, he gets murdered. And his two teenage sons go missing.’

‘Do you think it’s all connected?’ said Gary.

‘I can’t see how it wouldn’t be,’ said Ren. ‘Even though it makes no sense.’

Colin shrugged. ‘It does if the kids are screwed up. They rape their own mother – which is why she doesn’t want to report it – their father finds out, they kill him and run.’

‘But she called and ID’d Erubiel Diaz,’ said Ren.

‘Picked a random rapist from the internet?’ said Colin. ‘That can happen. People lie. People get desperate. She wants to find her boys, doesn’t care what they’ve done, plans to forgive them, but needs someone on the case with the resources to track them down. And maybe someone who will believe her sorry tale.’

Oh, like me, maybe? Screw you. ‘Of all the people in all the gin joints?’ said Ren. ‘No, her sons did not rape her. That’s not what any of this sounds like. I’m not sure what the hell is going on, but I know it’s not that.’

‘Do you think we need to look at the husband?’ said Gary.

‘I’m thinking, why not?’ Ren shrugged. ‘His behavior is off. Not reporting the rape rings serious alarm bells. She also said he talked about moving house around that time.’

‘I’d want to move too,’ said Cliff.

‘This was before the rape.’

‘Ah,’ said Cliff. ‘And did she want to move?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe he hired someone to scare her out of the neighborhood, to make her feel unsafe there, so she’d want to move, but the guy went too far?’ said Colin. ‘Sarvas tracks him down to beat the shit out of him, but the guy gets in first, blows him away?’

Cliff sucked in a breath. ‘You’d have to be seriously desperate to get out of your neighborhood to go that far.’

‘Maybe the man had every reason to be desperate,’ said Gary.

‘Maybe he was boning one of the hot neighbors and she turned psycho on him,’ said Colin.

Ren looked at him. ‘Always quick with the fucked-up scenarios.’

‘Did you get everything from El Paso PD?’ said Gary.

Ren nodded.

‘Split it up between you and see what you can come up with,’ said Gary. ‘No one’s to neglect Gartman in all this. All eyes are on us. And the Gregory Sarvas murder could be a time-consuming tangent.’ He turned to Ren. ‘You’re looking at this as your route to Val Pando? Via Diaz?’

Ren paused. The correct answer is …

‘Be careful,’ said Gary. ‘Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.’

8

That night, Ren and Misty walked out the motel-room door for the last time. Ren smiled.

Who could ever be sad, leaving a motel?

She thought about that: husbands going back to their wives, wives going back to their husbands, people who have had bad sex, guilty people, short-changed hookers, Catholic chamber maids … who, on reflection, would have been sad going in in the first place … Ren stopped reflecting.

OK, lots of people. Just not me.

Robbie walked behind Ren up the path to Annie’s house. Ren was pulling a suitcase, Robbie had a stack of boxes in his arms. She turned the key in the front door and had to push hard with her shoulder to open it. She dragged the suitcase on to the black-and-white tiled floor. Robbie laid the boxes down beside it.

‘Do you need me to take these anywhere?’ Robbie nodded toward the stairs.

‘Here is fine, thank you.’

‘Can I do anything else?’

‘You have done more than enough,’ said Ren. ‘Will you stay for a soda?’

‘I’d love to, but I’ve really got to go. I think this should be your night with Misty.’

‘You’re a sweetheart.’ Ren gave him a hug and glanced out to the Jeep. ‘I hope she likes it.’

‘What’s not to like?’

Ren walked down the path with Robbie and said goodbye.

Misty sat on the back seat of the Jeep and stared out the window at Ren. Then she wiggled back as far away from her as she could.

‘Please, baby, do not do this,’ said Ren. ‘You have to love what Mommy loves. That’s the deal.’

Misty’s expression was hard to read.

‘You used to live in a shack on the side of a mountain,’ said Ren. ‘Surely a historic dwelling is …’ Ren paused. ‘Oh, is this place too fancy for you?’

Ren leaned in the Jeep door and carefully hugged Misty toward her. ‘Come on.’ They made their way up the path.

Misty paused on the threshold.

‘Hey, get in here, young lady,’ said Ren. ‘This is your new home.’ She crouched down and rubbed Misty’s back. ‘How do you feel about that?’ Ren stood up. ‘Misty-fied, clearly.’

Misty walked into the hallway as if to prove a point. Ren closed the door behind them. Silence. For as long as they stood there, there was no sound. No creaking floorboards, no ticking clock, no rattling pipes.

I am completely alone.

Since she turned sixteen, Ren had rarely been without a boyfriend. It was one long relay race where one man was always handing the baton over to another. He just didn’t know it. And sometimes, neither did Ren. But something would make her feel safe enough to leave and, if she admitted it, it was knowing that there was a new man waiting in the wings. Even if it never happened with that particular guy, she at least knew he was there. But … it always happened.

Ren’s men never came without drama. The last person she really cared about was a confidential informant that could have gotten her fired. She had forced herself to walk away from him eight months ago, and for the first time in her life, she’d had no one lined up to take his place. No flirtation to follow through on. No cute guy in the diner. No hot agent on a visit to Denver. Ren Bryce had jumped without a safety net. A few months later, she had a week-long fling with an extreme rider performing at the National Western Stock Show. A beautiful man. A futureless fling. Endless comedy potential for the guys.

Ren took a deep breath.

No. More. Men.

The thought made her feel weak.

Misty came and rubbed up against Ren’s legs. ‘Aw, but I’m not totally alone,’ said Ren. ‘Come on. Let me show you around.’

Misty clung to Ren’s side as she gave her a tour of the house. It was 3,500 square feet; sixteen rooms over four floors. She kept glancing down at Misty.

‘I put too much faith in your vibes,’ said Ren. ‘I have to accept that your reactions are not gospel. It’s not all about you.’ She kneeled down in front of her and rubbed her ears. ‘Even though, really, it is. You are way too cute.’

They got to the bedroom Ren used to stay in as a child. She looked down at the carpet – rose pink, deep and fluffy.

I miss carpet. Carpet has to come back.

Ren took off her boots and socks and walked barefoot across the room. Annie had left the bedside lamps on; warm light through pink pleated shades. The bed was white wrought iron, covered in a faded pink and gray floral quilt. There were two green pillows thrown on it and an indentation where someone had been sitting. When Ren moved closer she saw why. Her old teddy bear – adopted from Annie – was tucked between the two pillows. Huggy Bear with the stripy legs. Annie must have sat down to make him comfortable. Ren smiled. She must know empty beds are not usually my thing.

There was also a single bed and a bed for Misty in the corner. Ren brought up her suitcase and took out the new pajamas she had packed on top. She got ready for bed, then slid under the flannel sheets. She turned off the lamp and the room was lit by the moon. She looked around at one of her favorite places in the world.

This is not a house for one person. It is totally freaking me out. How am I going to get out of this? I’ll die. Annie will be horrified. Where can I go now? My mother will go nuts. Everyone at work will laugh at me. I’ll have to find another house-sitter for Annie. I won’t have time to do that. This is not a house for one person. It is totally freaking me out. How am I going to get out of this …

She picked up the phone and called her brother, Matt.

‘Hey, Renald McDenald,’ he said. ‘How are you? What strange number are you calling me from?’

‘Annie’s.’

‘You’re in?’

‘I am. In my old bed.’

‘Bless your heart,’ said Matt.

‘How are you?’

‘Very in love with my baby-mama.’

‘Aw. How’s she doing?’

‘Thankfully, she’s past the The Exorcism of Emily Rose phase.’

‘Phew.’

‘How has Misty taken to her new digs?’

‘She paused for effect, then entered as though doing me a huge favor.’

‘So … you haven’t answered,’ said Matt. ‘How are you?’

‘Well, apart from a late-breaking freak-out – wonderful.’

‘What were you freaking out about now?’

‘Now: I like that—’

‘But how could someone freak out in Annie’s? Even you?’

‘OK … first of all, there are no limits to where I could freak out. Secondly – remember how huge we thought the house was? Well, it wasn’t just because we were kids. The place is still huge.’

‘Ren, you’re not much bigger than when we were kids. I’ve grown … I might find it very compact.’

‘If you put on two hundred pounds, maybe.’

‘Does Annie still call you Orenda?’

‘Not quite the way you do.’ Matt dropped his r’s.

‘Lucky I have high self-esteem.’

‘Vewwy lucky. And no, she calls me Wen.’

‘When?’

‘Ha. Ha. Do you know what’s on the wall in the living room?’ said Ren. ‘The photo of us outside the zoo. And I’m in that all-in-one short-suit.’

‘Ooh, put together from scraps of other material. Your coat of many colors.’

‘That my mama made for me,’ said Ren. ‘And Jay’s in his freaky pants.’

‘What am I in?’

‘Pain, by the looks of it.’

‘Mom never quite got the cut of a boy’s pants.’

God bless Matt Bryce. He stayed on the phone with Ren for over an hour, listening to everything and saying all the right things. Ren always told Matt that he was who she would be if she was male and sane. Matt always replied, ‘You wish.’

There was something wide-eyed about Matt. Like the world was a constant source of fascination to him. In every story he told, there was a dramatic pause, a revelation he wanted you to feel in the same way that he did. Even bleak observations would be delivered in a positive tone. He would talk about a television show he saw where there was human excrement piled up against a crack-house wall, then pause and say, ‘It wasn’t the shit itself, it was the structural engineering …’

He was two years older than Ren, but sometimes she felt like they were twins.

‘Now,’ said Matt, ‘much as I would love to continue to distract you from your freak-out, I have to go and remove my wife’s shoes. That’s the stage we’re at.’

‘Poor Lauren.’

‘Yes,’ said Matt. ‘My final word is – there’s no need to freak out. You’re in a beautiful house, safe and sound with your dog-from-the-dark-side.’

‘Stop that.’

‘Sleep tight. Call me again if you need me.’

‘Thanks,’ said Ren.

‘And remember one thing …’ He paused. ‘You’re an FBI Agent, you loser.’

‘Thanks for that.’ Ren put down the phone and pulled the covers up around her.

This is not a house for one person. It is totally freaking me out. How am I going to get out of this? I’ll die. Annie will be horrified. Where can I go now?

Ren’s eyes started to close. She turned over and drifted into the best night’s sleep she’d had in over a year.

9

Colin Grabien sat at his desk with print-outs of Greg Sarvas’ bank statements and a computer screen with more of Greg Sarvas’ bank statements. He had the look of a teenager forced to study for his SATs when all his friends were out to play.

Ren glanced over at him.

‘This is bullshit,’ he said.

No one responded. He looked up, annoyed.

‘What is bullshit?’ said Ren. Her voice was flat.

‘I don’t see Gregory Sarvas’ name up on that board—’ He pointed to the Most Wanted list. ‘Gartman is out murdering little deaf girls, and here I am, going through these boring bank statements. A lawyer with one and a half million dollars spread across four bank accounts. Call Ripley’s Believe It or Not.’

Grow the fuck up. ‘Nothing else?’ said Ren. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary?’ She got up and walked over to his desk.

Colin pointed to his screen and scrolled through a ridiculous amount of data. She rolled her eyes.

‘No strange payments in or out of his bank accounts,’ said Colin. ‘One property – the family home in El Paso. Mortgage of two hundred thousand dollars outstanding. No other debts. Monthly retainers from five clients, totaling eleven thousand.’

‘Ah, but one property he was more keen to get rid of than his wife suspected,’ said Robbie. ‘I’ve got his phone records here and it looks like he made several calls to real estate agents in the area.’

‘Before or after the rape?’ said Ren.

‘Both,’ said Robbie. ‘A little more so after. Ren, can I borrow a highlighter?’

‘Sure – in my drawer. Grab one. Not the pink one.’

‘I can see why Sarvas would want revenge,’ said Cliff. ‘I’d want to take my wife the hell away from there.’

‘I’m thinking you might be more honorable than a man who wouldn’t report his wife’s rape,’ said Ren.

‘Maybe it was the opposite,’ said Colin. ‘Maybe Sarvas was very honorable. And wanted some old-style vigilante revenge.’

‘Pistols at dawn,’ said Ren. ‘Yes, I thought of that.’

‘Since when do you play cards?’ said Robbie. ‘Ren has a deck of cards in her desk.’

Ren frowned. ‘The bottom drawer has the highlighters, you loser. And no, I don’t play cards.’

‘You never said the bottom drawer.’

‘That’s not the point. There could have been anything in there …’

‘I’m going to call these real estate guys,’ said Robbie.

‘What about Sarvas’ clients?’ said Ren to Cliff. ‘Did you speak with them?’ She went back over to her desk.

‘From what I can gather so far, Sarvas basically worked remotely,’ said Cliff. ‘He had twelve clients. Three of them had never even met him. They were a mix – mainly small-business owners, all in Texas. Across a range of businesses—’

Cliff looked up as Gary strode into the office and up to Ren’s desk, holding a red Sharpie out to her. She stared at him.

‘Your basket is dead,’ said Gary.

‘Exsqueeze me?’ said Ren.

Gary pointed at the gallery.

‘Erubiel Diaz?’ said Ren.

‘Yup,’ said Gary. ‘How about you put a big red X through that face?’

‘Oh my God,’ said Ren, taking the pen from him. ‘Whatwhywhenwherewhohow?’

‘His headless body was found on a burning pyre in Nogales, Mexico,’ said Gary.

‘Shit. Really?’ Ren stood up.

‘Yup.’

She paused. ‘Maybe I should wait ’til they find his head before I put the X through it.’ She walked across the room and drew an X slowly across Diaz’ face. ‘What happened?’ said Ren. ‘Was this a drugs thing? Were there other people being served at this barbecue or was he found alone?’

‘Here’s what I know,’ said Gary. ‘Diaz ended up dead as part of a message being sent to the Nogales police. Earlier that day, they arrested the second-in-command of the Puente cartel. The guy’s associates tried to spring him from the police station where he was being held, but they couldn’t. They shot six officers trying. The station went on lockdown, so the only way these assholes could come up with to get Puente out was by going on a rampage around Nogales. Not just drive-bys – decapitations, everything. They dragged the bodies behind their SUVs through the streets, dumped them in a pile. They came back and forth a couple times and lit that pile on fire.’

‘And that’s where Erubiel Diaz was found …’ said Ren.

Gary nodded.

‘How did they identify him?’ said Colin.

‘Dental records,’ said Gary.

Ren looked at him. ‘You just said he was headless.’

‘Temporarily,’ said Gary. ‘One of the Puente cartel used his severed head as a bowling ball that night. Rolled it right on to a dance floor in one of the clubs.’

‘We need to talk to Colin about this,’ said Ren, turning to him. ‘He knows what it’s like to have no body to dance with.’

Colin rolled his eyes.

‘But getting back to Diaz,’ said Ren, ‘I don’t see how dental records could’ve been any use. I saw the dude – he’d never been to a dentist in his life.’

‘Ah, but someone knocked out two of his teeth last year in Breckenridge. And Frisco Medical Center had to X-ray his mouth. The dentist there checked him out, had everything on record.’

‘So,’ said Ren, ‘was Diaz an “innocent victim” caught up in a street war, or was he part of a rival gang or the Puentes cartel or …?’

‘I’ll call the police chief in Nogales,’ said Gary.

‘If this wasn’t a coincidence,’ said Ren, ‘if someone really had wanted Diaz to disappear off the face of the earth, decaffeinating him and throwing him in with a bunch of burning bodies would be a good way to go.’

‘He could have just been wrong place/wrong time,’ said Cliff.

‘I don’t know,’ said Ren. ‘Right now, the Mexican border is permanently the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s like choosing to go to Iraq on vacation. So is it me or could Domenica Val Pando be back sniffing around what she knows best?’

‘She would need some serious connections to break back into that scene,’ said Gary.

‘Domenica is well-connected,’ said Ren. ‘And what if her H₂S project was for use along the border by a cartel? I mean, there are billions of drugs dollars at stake. What if, knowing she couldn’t grab a slice of the narcotics action by the direct route, Domenica tried a side-maneuver: offering up a weapon to the people who need it most?’

They all nodded.

‘I’d keep my eyes on the dry-ice machine in that nightclub,’ said Ren. ‘The atmosphere could actually be more toxic than an eighties theme night.’

‘Maybe Domenica could have gotten a high-enough price for the gas itself that she could hold back after she was paid,’ said Colin. ‘Then set herself up quietly when things calmed down. If they ever did …’

‘But, the H₂S plant was shut down,’ said Robbie.

‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘But we’re the only ones who know that. The story that made the news was that we shut down a meth lab. All Domenica had to say to whoever her client was – assuming she already had one lined up – was that the guy working for her fucked up, so she had to kill him. And his death could be confirmed, so the story would hold up.’ She shrugged. ‘Diaz’ death right now can’t be a coincidence. I would say that somebody wasn’t happy about all the attention being drawn Diaz’ way.’

‘So,’ said Gary. ‘The breaking of the news to Diaz’ wife …’

‘Do not look at me,’ said Ren. ‘I want to meet the wife when she has a clear head. I don’t want to be there for the weeping. Or the gathering of her bambinos into her arms. I want the emotion gone. Goodbye. I want to walk right in at a later date and get some informazion.’

‘Colin, how about you?’ said Gary.

‘Hold up.’ Ren shook her head. ‘I said that I need her to get her emotion out. She won’t cry in front of him.’

‘All I seem to hear about Diaz,’ said Colin, ‘is rapist, dead-beat dad, dirtbag, blah, blah. Is his wife really going to give a shit?’

‘Maybe not,’ said Ren. ‘But the mother of his children will.’ Ren turned to Cliff. ‘How about you …? Robbie …?’ Everyone looked away.

‘Look, I don’t care,’ said Ren. ‘But I’m not doing it. I’m conserving my feminine conspiratorial thing for the real questions.’

‘What about continuity of care?’ said Gary. ‘You’re the Diaz guy.’

Ren grabbed her bag from the floor. ‘Jesus, fine, then. I’ll go. On my way home. Everyone owes me. Every last one of you.’

10

The following morning, Ren walked in to the sight and sound of Colin Grabien, hunched over his desk, hammering his keyboard like a man who had learned to type on a typewriter.

Robbie was sitting at his desk with one shirt sleeve rolled up over his elbow and an ice pack pressed against it. A white fluffy bandage was taped to his cheek.

‘Oh, Robbie,’ said Ren. ‘Could you not find a bigger bandage?’

‘It is a massive wound,’ said Robbie. ‘Do you want to see it?’

‘My mind is saying yes, but my stomach’s saying no,’ said Ren. ‘And, as we know, my stomach always wins. What happened? Were you in lukewarm pursuit of a suspect?’

‘Yup,’ said Robbie. ‘Francis Gartman. We got a tip-off he was at his cousin’s house. We got there, he jumped from a window, I got out of the car after him, crossed the parking lot, I was nearly on top of him – then, bam, I slipped on some ice, took myself out of the game.’

‘Ouch,’ said Ren. She moved behind him and gave him a hug. ‘And Gartman, I’m guessing …’

Robbie shook his head. ‘Yup, lives to fight another day.’

Ren let out a breath. ‘Can I get anything for the wounded soldier?’

‘Well, thank you,’ said Robbie. ‘Could you play the role of over-functioning Mormon mom?’

‘I couldn’t think of a role I would be less equipped to play,’ said Ren. ‘Are you missing yo mama?’

‘All the time.’

‘How Bates Motel.’ Ren straightened up and gave his good arm a squeeze.

Colin stopped pounding his keyboard to check his notebook. Ren took advantage of the quiet. ‘And Mr Grabien, you were correct,’ she said. ‘There was little emotion from Mrs Diaz for either her husband or the father of her children when told that his crispy headless body had been found. Her only surprise was that he had been found in Nogales. Apart from showing up in Denver last November, the only place she knew he’d been recently was Juárez. That was the postmark on the letter that came last month with the measly hundred dollars in it that pushed her over the edge and made her rat him out.’

‘So that’s all we’ve got on the whereabouts of Erubiel Diaz,’ said Cliff. ‘Alive: El Paso, July. Alive: Denver in November. Alive: Juárez in February. Dead: Nogales in March.’

Ren slapped the desk. ‘Fuck him for getting killed. We’ll have to wait and see what Gary hears back from Nogales. In the meantime, I’m thinking I’ll turn my attention to Gavino Val Pando. Might be worth putting in a call to Sheriff Gage in Summit County for the files on that bar raid at the Brockton Filly last year. Maybe Gavino was with friends or involved with one of the girls who was there that night? There were at least twelve kids pulled in for under-age drinking …’ She shrugged. ‘It’s worth a try.’

As she reached out to make the call, her cell phone beeped with a text from Matt:

Cnt tlk – at scan. Xpect call frm mom re Louis Parry.

Louis Parry? Oh my God.

The disappearance of Louis Parry was the first case Orenda Bryce hadn’t solved. She was nine years old. Her fifteen-year-old brother, Beau, was Louis Parry’s piano teacher. Ren remembered that summer like a hazy image from a photo shoot; a pretty neighborhood filled with tanned children, frozen under the sun.

The police had returned missing children to their parents already that summer – kids who had stolen money from their mother’s pocketbooks to pay for the amusements in the park. The police thought Louis Parry was just like all the others, even though his mother tried to tell them her son was more thoughtful than that; he was a quiet boy, he liked nature, he liked music … But by the time the police started to listen to her, half of the first, precious forty-eight hours had been lost.

Ren had spent weeks looking for the sweet blond boy who used to call to the door with a shy smile and a folder of piano scores. She searched all the places that scared her – abandoned houses, crawl spaces, the woods, the railroad yard – just in case Louis Parry had wandered in there by mistake and that those places scared him even more.

Ren didn’t realize that someone could have taken Louis. She knew about strangers, never to accept a ride from them, but she never knew why. The world of Ren Bryce was safe and beautiful. And she thought Louis Parry’s was the same. But nothing anyone did brought Louis Parry home.

Until maybe now. The police must have finally found him. Heartbreaking.

Ren slid open her desk drawer and pulled out the deck of cards. She opened it and slid out the top card. It was the Ace of Hearts. At its center was the face of Louis Parry, wide-eyed and fragile. And printed underneath:

MISSING PERSON

Louis Parry was last seen at 4.30 p.m.

on June 20th, 1981

on Main Street in Catskill, New York.

He was 10 years old, 4' 5'' and dressed in red shorts and a yellow T-shirt.

If you have any information regarding this case,please contact

New York State Crimestoppers …

The card featured in hundreds of cold-case decks that had been handed out three weeks earlier in Rikers Island in New York, in the hope that an inmate would recognize a victim, see something or hear something during a game of cards and call the confidential number.

During a game of cards.

Her cell phone rang.

She hit Answer. ‘Hi, Mom.’ There was silence at the other end. ‘Mom?’

Ren got up and went into the hallway. She pressed the phone to her ear. She heard a huge intake of breath and a desperate sob. ‘Oh, Ren. The police were just here. They’ve torn the house apart. It’s your brother, it’s—’

‘What? Matt?’

‘Beau,’ said her mom. ‘Beau.’

Ren’s stomach heaved. ‘Whoa, what? Beau? What the—’

‘It’s about Louis Parry. They think Beau had something to do with Louis Parry going missing.’

‘What? What are they talking about? Why?’

‘They mentioned something about cards being sent out to prisons – I didn’t understand any of that. All I know is that someone called some number—’

‘Mom, Mom,’ said Ren. ‘Calm down, OK? This is a mistake, that’s all. A very big mistake. The cards are cold-case playing cards. They’re handed out in prisons, to jog inmates’ memories while they’re playing poker or blackjack or whatever. The hope is that they might have heard someone talk about having committed one of the crimes. Then they can call Crimestoppers with the tip. All kinds of crazy people call Crimestoppers. For all kinds of reasons. A lot of times, the cops just have to follow up as a formality—’

‘You weren’t here. You haven’t seen what they’ve done. They are convinced Beau was involved. It’s like tearing his room apart was a formality.’

‘God, Mom. Beau didn’t do anything. We all know that.’

‘But Beau is dead, Ren. He’s dead. And I’m afraid they’re going to blame this on him for closure—’

‘They cannot do that,’ said Ren. ‘They need proof. And they will never find proof. They cannot find something that does not exist.’

‘I’m sick, Ren. I am physically sick. People are walking by … standing across the street. And what about the Parrys? What are they going to think? After all this time? Your father, your brothers and I were out looking for Louis—’

‘Mom, calm down or you will have a heart attack. The Parrys are good people—’

‘The Parrys are desperate people. These cards – whatever they are – are their last hope. Maybe a part of them wants to give up. Wants to take whatever means they can sleep at night.’

‘The Parrys are good people,’ Ren said again. ‘They really are. They wouldn’t—’

Her mother dropped the phone. Ren could hear it bounce across the floor.

‘Mom? Are you OK?’

‘I’m sorry. My hands are shaking. I’m a wreck …’

‘Where is Dad?’

‘At the gym.’

Ren rolled her eyes. ‘Did you call him?’

‘I got voicemail.’

‘Call someone, Mom, and get them to come over.’

Her mother let out a breath. ‘Is there anything you can do?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Ren. ‘You bet there is.’

Ren put the phone down. She could not move. She had reached a sub-setting of numb. For now, her mind was incapable of getting any further than Beau.

11

Ren breathed deeply until she was calm enough to speak.

‘Robbie, could you do me a favor, please?’ she said. ‘Would you mind asking Summit County to send over the files on that Gavino Val Pando bar raid?’

‘Sure, no problem.’

She Googled the number for the Catskill Police Department and punched it into her phone as she got up from her desk. The receptionist came on the line as Ren was shutting herself into the conference room.

‘My name is Ren Bryce. I’m with the FBI. Could I speak with the lieutenant please?’ Ren sat down in the far corner of the room.

‘Putting you through to Lieutenant Stroud …’

Whoa. ‘I’m sorry – which Stroud?’ said Ren.

‘That would be Lieutenant Daryl Stroud, ma’am.’

Ren hung up.

Daryl Stroud. This cannot be the person I have to deal with here. Daryl Stroud had witnessed Ren’s first full-blown manic meltdown. He was the low she rode out of Catskill on. Ren had been nineteen years old when she raised her hand to Daryl Stroud – her boyfriend of one year – to slap him across the face for a reason she could never recall. He would have taken the slap, but he grabbed her wrist when he saw that Ren had turned the stone in her ring into her palm to increase the impact. As she stormed off, she had turned to throw a can of beer at him. It landed at his feet, burst open and sprayed all over him. Ren had hitched her way home and as the hours passed and the alcohol started to drain from her system, she began calling Daryl’s house, weeping, ready to beg forgiveness. It was his mother who answered, so Ren had hung up. She then walked to his house and threw stones at his window. He wasn’t home. When he did show up an hour later, Ren roared at him that he had cheated on her, which he hadn’t, and told him he was an asshole. His parents came out and his dad took Ren on a wordless journey home. Daryl and Ren got back together the next day after tears and vows of eternal love. A month later, Ren had kissed his best friend, the biggest asshole in town … while Daryl Stroud remained the sweetest, most genuine, loyal and honest guy you could meet.

She picked up the phone and dialed again.

The receptionist had already given Ren’s name and patched her straight through.

‘Daryl, hi, it’s Ren Bryce again. I’m sorry we got disconnected.’

‘Hello, Ren. How are you doing?’

‘Shell-shocked. What’s going on, Daryl? You know Beau had nothing to do with this.’

Silence. ‘I’d love to agree with you,’ said Daryl.

‘But I’m at a loss as to how you don’t.’

‘Because of the tip-off,’ said Daryl. ‘Because of the fact that Beau knew and was trusted by Louis—’

‘OK, let’s scratch that last one for a start: the whole town knew Louis. And he was a trusting type of kid. Where did the tip come from? What was it exactly?’

‘Oh, come on, Ren. You’re an agent with the FBI. You wouldn’t tell a suspect’s family member what you got.’

‘That depends. If it were you, Daryl … Come on, this is nuts. Please take a look at this tip and the nature of it, where it came from and what its reliability is. Please, Daryl.’

Stroud’s tone changed. ‘That’s not just an FBI way of handling things, you know. Here in the sticks we think that might be a good idea too. That is, when we’re not sitting on our hoods, flirting with old ladies outside the diner.’

‘I didn’t mean anything by that,’ said Ren. ‘Here’s how it is – I’m not worried, because I know Beau is innocent. But I am desperately worried that it will be pinned on him anyway. It seems so sudden and random.’

‘I won’t treat this any differently than any other investigation.’

That is not reassuring. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to. Just please remember Beau and who he was.’

‘I really am so sorry for your loss.’

‘You know something?’ said Ren. ‘It’s been twenty-four years and those words are still welcome. They still help. So, thanks. But please, please do everything you can. Beau’s death was devastating enough. The pain is so … I …’

She stopped.

‘Ren? Are you still there? Ren?’ Daryl hesitated. ‘Please don’t cry.’

There was another pause before Ren answered. ‘Thank you. I gotta go.’

Sinking into the chair, she stared at the ceiling, holding her head back to keep the tears from falling. It was a few minutes before she was ready to dial Information for a number she knew she shouldn’t call, but would regret if she didn’t.

She felt sick as she listened to the pulsing dial tone.

‘Is this Ricky Parry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ricky, it’s Ren Bryce.

Silence. ‘Oh. Hi. I … should we be talking?’

‘I really think we should,’ said Ren. ‘What is going on, Ricky?’

‘Someone came forward with information.’

‘Who? And what was this information?’

‘Don’t you know? Like, with your FBI contacts—’

‘They’re not going to tell me,’ said Ren, ‘But I hope you can. We all know that Beau didn’t have anything to do with this. Your whole family knows that. Our families are friends, Ricky. I’m in shock here. Why did none of you tell the police that this information was bullshit? What about your mom?’

‘Mom has cancer,’ said Ricky. ‘She’s very ill. Not that she’s ever really been well since … then. And losing Dad last year was … terrible …’

‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘I understand that. We were all there at the funeral.’ My whole family was there to support you.

‘I know …’ said Ricky.

‘Ricky, this new information is false. I’m concerned that you’re latching on to—’

‘Oh, come on!’ Ricky spat the words. ‘Why would Beau kill himself if he was so innocent? There has to be a reason. I’m betting the guilt ate him up and he couldn’t take it any more. He checked out because he could not live with the knowledge of what he did to Louis.’

Silence. When Ren spoke her voice was quiet. ‘I … I am devastated that you think that. You had all been so good to us when Beau died.’ She paused. ‘I’m so sorry about your mom. I hope she gets better.’

I know how hard it is to lose someone.

Ren stood up and kicked the chair halfway across the conference room. Then she walked over, picked it up and sat down on it. She scrolled through her contacts to Helen Wheeler’s number. When she dialed, it went straight to message minder.

‘Helen, hi, it’s Ren. Could you give me a call, please, whenever you get a chance? I’d really like to talk … nothing urgent … just … something’s come up. But if you’re busy, don’t worry about it. Thanks so much. Bye.’

I am about to descend into my own private hell and it’s ‘nothing urgent’. What a loser.

Ren made coffee and went back to her desk. Cliff and Robbie were both on the phone. She sat and listened to them and it calmed her. This was her life, this was normal, these were good people. For several minutes, she just sat and drank her coffee.

Cliff and Robbie had a gift for getting people to talk to them, but their styles were completely different. Robbie would sound eager and excited by any piece of information he was given, making the person feel that they could possibly be the key to solving an entire investigation. Robbie played the role of Robbie. Cliff had an alter ego. He made people feel like he was their buddy, they could tell him anything and nothing would surprise him, that he’d been around the block and, really, the world’s a piece of shit and we’re all just grinding along. He called his colleagues ‘these people’. These people need to know if you’ve seen your bank-robber husband any time recently … as if it was all out of his hands and Cliff had as little interest in the whole thing as the person on the other end of the phone.

Ren glanced over at Colin frowning at his screen, the phone clenched to his ear. ‘You will send me this – I need these financials – What you’re gonna do is …’

Colin managed to be an even bigger asshole than he was with her.

12

Ren picked up the phone to do something – anything. She was beginning to get side-eyes from the others.

‘Let’s hear what Catherine Sarvas has to say about Diaz,’ said Ren to no one.

She dialed the number. ‘Catherine, it’s Ren Bryce. I have some news for you – Erubiel Diaz’s body has been found.’

Catherine gasped. ‘Oh, Lord. Where?’

‘In Nogales, Mexico. He was decapitated and his body was burned.’

Catherine paused. ‘That’s shocking. But … I’m relieved.’

‘This is not going to be easy, but I’d like to explore the possibility that your attack was linked to the death of your husband …’

Silence. ‘Do you think so?’

‘I don’t have any evidence,’ said Ren, ‘but your family was targeted twice in the space of two weeks and … do you have any links to Mexico? Have you vacationed there?’

‘No. The last time I was in Mexico was twenty years ago.’

‘And what about your husband?’

‘No,’ said Catherine. ‘And when he traveled for business, it was just within Texas.’

‘What about your sons? Did they have any reason to go to Mexico – maybe with friends’ families, field trips from school …?’

‘No. They always vacationed with us. Luke, our seventeen-year-old, went on his first solo trip at spring break, but that was to San Diego State to visit his college. He’s … was … starting at San Diego State. He’s going to study law.’ Her voice cracked.

‘So he went alone?’

‘No, I meant he went without the family, but he wasn’t alone – he went with three friends. They were checking out the facilities, the libraries … probably a few of the girls.’

‘No doubt,’ said Ren. ‘Can I get his friends’ names from you?’

‘Sure … but I don’t see how …’

‘Well, it won’t do any harm. Look, Catherine, Luke’s missing, and his friends know him best.’

‘OK,’ said Catherine. ‘His friends are … John Reiff, Ben Racono and Mark Bayne. I’ll get you their numbers if you’ll wait on the line.’

Ren sat staring at the boys’ names on the page. Three boys, aged between seventeen and nineteen, with so much of their lives ahead of them. All Ren could think about was Beau.

‘Guys, I’m taking an early lunch.’ She grabbed her coat. ‘Back in a half-hour – I’m just going to let Misty out in the yard.’

Ren barely remembered the drive home. As soon as she got in the door she went straight to the sofa and sat there, staring at the family photo on the living-room wall. Beau with his gorgeous smile and his long sandy hair and his skinny limbs and his piano fingers. And just his goodness. Ren wanted to stop there. Because she always stopped there. But this time, she broke through the pain barrier and she started to think about the rest: rushing to Beau’s bedroom when she heard her mother scream, her mother’s wild eyes as she turned to her in the doorway, her mother’s arm as she reached out and slammed the bedroom door on her hand, her mother screaming: ‘Orenda, no!’ Every vowel sound was stretched as far as her breath would take it. It was an extraordinary, life-changing scream. Ren’s scream fused with her mother’s, but it was at the shock of being hurt by her. She could not understand why her mother had slammed the door on her. And it was the searing pain of her crushed hand. Ren remembered looking down at the tips of two of her fingers hanging by an almost translucent scrap of skin and pumping blood on to the carpet.

Her mother was screaming for her son. Ren was screaming for her mother. And as she tried the door a second time, her mother screamed again: ‘Orenda, no!’

Ren had run to her parents’ bathroom. She had stood, bawling, at the sink, confused and horrified by her mother. There was no color left in the face looking back at her from the mirror, but all around her seemed to be red. Her hand was throbbing, still pumping out blood.

Why hasn’t Mom come to help me? What did I do? Where’s Beau? Why isn’t he helping? He must have heard me. Where is everyone?

She heard her mother call her again: Orendaaa! Orendaaa! Wrapping her hand in a towel, Ren had run toward her. This time, Beau’s door was open. She was afraid to walk in, as if it was a trap and her mother wanted to hurt her again. But Ren knew there was a reason why the whole world had suddenly turned upside down. She knew something was terribly wrong. Beau was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His mother was gripping her dead son by his face, kissing it and sobbing and wiping her tears from it.

‘He’s dead, Orenda. He’s dead. He’s …’

Ren ran to the kitchen, grabbed their Bakelite phone with the eight-foot cord and dialed 911, pacing up and down the length of the hallway as she told the dispatcher about her big brother. As she put the phone down, her mother was screaming for her again. And from that day on, Ren did not want to be called Orenda ever again.

Beau Bryce was dead. He had taken an overdose. He was nineteen years old, handsome, and smart. He was not selfish. He was not unloved. He was clinically depressed. Some people committed suicide and didn’t leave a note: Beau had written a short story, an allegory in which his family were different characters and Beau was the tortured hero on a quest for something that he had never been able to identify, therefore had never been able to find, no matter how much the other characters had tried to help him. He had crossed kingdoms, climbed mountains, searched caves, swum oceans, yet he had finished, hovering at a cliff edge, alone and confused. And he had taken one more step. He had trusted an empty sky more than he had trusted the ground beneath his feet or the beautiful land or the people who lived in it.

Tears streamed down Ren’s face. She knew the journey Beau had taken, she knew that beautiful terrain, she knew and loved the same characters.

And her greatest fear was that one day she too would trust an empty sky more.

13

Somehow, Ren made it back to work. Gary was standing in the bullpen with a grim look on his face.

‘Not good news,’ he said. ‘Looks like the blood Gartman was covered in the night of the convenience store shooting was Natalie Osgood’s. Her body was found last night in a dumpster off Colfax.’

Ren shook her head. ‘That son-of-a-bitch. Her mama’s worst nightmare has come true.’ She let out a breath.

Robbie called her over to his desk. ‘Ren, I spoke with three real estate agents,’ he said, ‘and Gregory Sarvas did talk to them about selling the house. Like, it was more than just chit-chat.’

‘Jesus,’ said Ren. ‘Yet another wife kept in the dark.’

‘Who’s the other one?’

‘I don’t know – insert celebrity name.’ Ren let out a breath. ‘Catherine Sarvas told me that it was a casual conversation about moving – nothing concrete. And Greg goes off and makes formal enquiries? It’s so patronizing. Did he just disregard her all the time?’

‘It probably worked for them …’ said Colin.

‘Oh, please,’ said Ren. ‘He’s dead, she’s raped. That worked real well.’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Colin.

‘I do – keep the little woman in the dark.’

Colin shrugged and turned back to his screen.

‘Do you say this shit on purpose?’ said Ren.

Colin looked up. ‘Some women just want men to take care of everything for them.’

‘There’s a difference between a husband taking the trash out and other bullshit jobs … and not telling you he’s trying to sell your house from under you or, let’s face it, not reporting your rape,’ said Ren. ‘Rape, Colin.’

‘I’m not talking about the rape part.’

‘Oh, well then,’ said Ren. She turned to Robbie. ‘Did Sarvas talk to the real estate people about buying another house in the area?’

‘No,’ said Robbie.

‘Did he mention where he was planning to move to, or when?’

‘No. According to all three real estate agents, Sarvas sounded serious about selling the house. But there were no times, dates, etc.’

‘Could someone be that screwed up that they wouldn’t want to lower house prices in the area by reporting a rape – even if it was their own wife who was the victim?’

Ren shook her head. ‘Ugh.’ She walked out. She didn’t want to hear any more of Colin’s warped world view. The kitchen was empty, so she took a seat at the table.

What is it with some men? Do they get a high from lying to their wives? Do they just not care? Or is it that they’re afraid to face up to the truth?

Again her mind wandered back to Beau and the friends and neighbors who had drifted away from the family after his suicide. They were afraid of suicide, afraid of mental illness, afraid of losing their own mind or watching someone they cared about lose theirs. People looked for someone to blame for Beau’s suicide, because if there was no one to blame, then it could happen to them. People were angry at the Bryces for being guarded about the circumstances, as if – had they had heard all the details of Beau’s suicide – they could stop it from happening to their loved ones. People were afraid to talk to the Bryces about their loss because it would mean confronting someone else’s raw emotions and maybe having to face some raw emotions of their own.

It’s all about fear.

What would it be like for her parents now? They were the only ones who still lived in Catskill. They were good, kind people. And now, in their late seventies, they would be thrown into having to fight to preserve their son’s memory. Even though it was all a terrible mistake, that little idea had been implanted in people’s minds and would be hard to extract; Beau Bryce took his own life because he was guilty.

Work. Go back to something you can control.

Ren took her cup of coffee and returned to the bullpen. She stopped dead in the middle of the room.

‘Hey!’ She pointed at the television. ‘Someone – pump up the volume.’

Colin reached for the remote control.

‘The police are seeking the public’s help in locating missing Denver psychiatrist, Dr Helen Wheeler—’ Helen’s photo in the top right-hand corner of the screen …

‘Oh my God,’ said Ren.

‘What?’ said Cliff.

‘I know her.’

‘Yeah, you’re obviously her best client,’ said Colin.

If you only knew. ‘She’s a friend of mine. I consulted with her on cases a few times, actually. She’s a lovely woman. Shhh.’

‘Dr Wheeler was last seen as she left work four days ago on March eighth. She was due to speak at an event in Florida on March ninth, but she didn’t catch her flight that morning. Dr Wheeler is sixty-two years old, five-foot three, of medium build, with shoulder-length blonde hair and blue eyes. She was dressed in a full-length dark-gray coat over a pale gray wool pant suit.’

Ren felt her stomach sink. That was what she was wearing the last time I saw her.

Ren dialed Helen’s cell phone as she stood there. It was the only thing she could think of doing. She got voicemail. She didn’t leave a message.

Please be safe, wherever you are.

Two hours later, Ren called Helen’s office and spoke with her secretary. There was no update. Helen had been gone four days, that was all anyone knew.

Ren tried to work, but she was flooded with images of Beau. And worried about her parents. And wishing she could discuss it all with Helen, the one person who always managed to break the cycle. Ren felt a stab of selfishness at wanting Helen to be back to help her.