The main reason I had disliked her, though, was that she went out of her way to make trouble for Lydia Ames, who was then assistant city editor. Most of us figured Bonnie was after Lydia’s job. Lydia and I have been friends since grade school, so anyone who tries to mess with her makes two enemies. I wasn’t the only one who came to Lydia’s defense, though. Bonnie found out just how fast the temperature could drop in the newsroom, and she eventually decided it was a little too chilly at the Express.

“She hasn’t worked here in a decade,” I said to Ives.

“She stopped being a reporter after she left the Express,” he said.

“Oh, no,” I said, “she stopped long before then.”

He laughed, and after that, he stopped yelling.

By the end of the conversation, his volume had come down to a whisper, harder to take than the shouts-but I still couldn’t help him.

I couldn’t really help any of them. I pointed them to resources they’d already used and ended up telling them the same thing they had heard from everyone else they had turned to for help. I took down names and numbers, but I don’t think any of them thought I’d ever be in touch with them again.

At around two o’clock, in an extraordinary gesture of mercy, John Walters ambled up to my desk and said, “I might need to send you out on a story.”

I tried not to look too eager to escape the building, but I knew he saw through it because he laughed.

“Mark Baker is tied up with the oil island story,” he went on. “You know about that one?”

“Yes, some of it.” The oil islands were oil-drilling operations set up to look like islands, just off the shore of Las Piernas. Five bodies had washed up on one of them that morning, so Mark, our crime reporter, was out there trying to discover what was going on.

“Kids who were rafting in the storm,” John said, “but they’re local, so I’ve already got other people helping out on that, and everyone else has his hands full, too. Lydia just got a hot tip at the City Desk. We need someone to go out to the old Sheffield place. You think you can take down some information for Mark without getting yourself in too deep?”

“It’s a crime scene?” Since I’m married to an LPPD homicide detective, the paper doesn’t allow me to cover stories that involve the police.

“Looks like it. Unless whoever left a severed hand in the woods up there has some reasonable explanation for it. I’m leaning toward crime scene, myself.”

“Not one of Frank’s cases?”

“No, I checked. Harriman is out on the oil island case, I’m told. But the hand in the woods is a possible homicide story, which is why it won’t be yours. Still, I need someone to get some basics for Mark to work with. I’ll need photos, too. A waste of your talents, but imagine what’s happening to my own while I work here. You want it?”

“Just get me off the damned phone.”

He smiled conspiratorially.

Guilt kicked in. I talked to him about the calls that were bothering me. “Do you think we could run photos of these kids as a kind of follow-up?”

“Those kids are nowhere near here, and you know it. The spouse who took them is not going to hang out in the town he or she took them from.”

“I guess not,” I said glumly.

He called the switchboard from my phone and told them to take messages for me. “Go on, Kelly,” he said. “You need some fresh air.”

Monday, April 24

2:40 P.M.

THE SHEFFIELD ESTATE

THE area known to most locals as the “old Sheffield place” is surrounded by a chain-link fence, and has been since the house on the old estate burned down. I pulled up to a gate normally used by construction crews, where I was recognized by a friend of Frank’s, an old cop who was close to retirement. He regularly angered his bosses, which is probably why he drew this duty on a cold, wet day. He gave me the usual set of warnings about not wandering onto the crime scene itself, and made me sign in-an old hand, he gave me a fresh sheet.

“Trying to keep me from knowing who else has been here?” I asked.

“You already missed the meat wagon,” he said with a wink, and told me my friend Ben Sheridan was the forensic anthropologist on the case. He shook his head. “I don’t know how that guy gets up those slopes with one leg.”

“He’s in better shape than you,” I said, “and with the prosthesis he has, he can manage just about anything he could do before the amputation.”

“Yeah, that’s what Frank says,” he said, but he was still shaking his head. He took the sheet back, radioed his coworkers to warn them I was on the way, and told me to go slow because the road down to the site was “slicker than owl shit.”

His comment about the meat wagon was not lost on me. The coroner had already removed the body. And there had been a body, not just a hand, or they wouldn’t have needed the full-on “wagon.”

I passed what had once been the main road into the estate. As I went by, I caught a glimpse of new construction, rising over what had been charred ruins. The lost structure, the grand Sheffield home, had been owned by one of Las Piernas’s oldest and richest families, and built above the leg-shaped cliffs that gave Las Piernas its name. The Sheffields had once owned vast amounts of land in Las Piernas, and although most of it had been sold off, about six hundred wooded acres remained around the family home at the time it burned down.

The heir donated half of the property to the city on the condition that it be developed into a park. He had worked with the city to create a specific plan before finalizing the donation. Legal and budgetary problems had led to delays, but the mayor was ensuring that development of the park went forward as quickly as possible now.

The rain wasn’t helping.

I eased around a curve in the muddy construction road and thought of something Ben Sheridan once told me: Rain brings the bodies out.

In the forests, in fields, and in vacant lots; in open desert spaces, on mountain slopes, near riverbeds, near creeks. Once in a while, in a backyard. A good rainstorm would reveal the secrets of a shallow grave, wash away whatever hid a body from view, or carry remains to a place where discovery was more likely, if not inevitable.

In the days after a storm, Ben often got calls from sheriff’s departments and coroners, police departments and forest rangers. On this April morning, it had been the Las Piernas County Coroner’s Office.

I negotiated another turn on the access road and was just heading past a turnout when a huge SUV came roaring toward me. I swerved hard to the side to avoid being hit head-on, sliding into the turnout with less-than-perfect control before I came to a halt. The SUV didn’t slow, the driver didn’t so much as glance back.

I had only caught a glimpse of her, but I knew who she was. She was a person who always made sure she stood out in a crowd. She was in her late twenties, but there was a hardness in her features that made her look much older. Chain-smoking probably didn’t help her skin, either. Her hair was cropped close to her skull and was the kind of orange you sometimes see on tigers. It looks better on tigers.

I wouldn’t have minded driving Sheila Dolson off the road, but I would have felt damned bad about harming the other passenger-her search dog, Altair.

I sat in my Jeep Cherokee at the side of the road, a little shaken. I’m sure Sheila, who had been courting my attention from the moment she learned I worked for the newspaper, would have been appalled to realize that she had just missed killing the goose she hoped would lay the golden PR egg-she had been urging me to write about her and her wonder dog.

If I could have written about Altair and not his handler, I might have gone for it.

Sheila had returned to Las Piernas after living in Illinois. In the short time she had been back, she had all but taken over the Las Piernas SAR-search-and-rescue-dog group. Ben and his dogs were in the same group, and Sheila’s presence in it was a source of irritation to him. Ben’s girlfriend-no, recent ex-girlfriend, I reminded myself-was also in the group, and apparently she thought Sheila could do no wrong. I wouldn’t say that Sheila caused their recent breakup, but she definitely hastened it.