She nodded, eyes filling with tears.

He squeezed her fingers, then released them. “Can you wait here a couple minutes? I need to ask you a few more questions after I take a look.”

She nodded again and he stood. “I’ll send one of the deputies out. If you need anything, just ask him.”

A few moments later, Reed entered the workroom at the back of the garage.

Not a pretty sight, he thought, studying the victim. Most times, the victim of a hanging actually suffocated. The drop from chair or step stool wasn’t sharp enough to snap the neck; instead, the rope cinched the windpipe. Both oxygen and blood flow cut off, the blood began to pool above the rope, which accounted for the discoloration and swelling in the victim’s face.

Reed lowered his gaze. A small stepladder lay on its side under the man’s dangling feet. The rope had stretched and the old man’s toes just brushed the floor.

Another classic mistake. Choosing a nylon or cotton rope that had too much give.

Poor bastard. It would have taken about ten minutes for death to be complete. Horrible minutes. He would have fought for life. No matter how much they wanted to die, they always fought for life.

Reed fitted on Latex gloves and moved closer. He examined the neck, the gouges made by the victim clawing at the rope. Reed lowered his gaze to the victim’s hands. Sure enough, the tips were raw and bloodied; there appeared to be matter under the fingernails. On the dusty workshop floor, scuff marks from his flailing feet.

Reed sighed. He’d known of Max Cragan. He’d been a Sonoma institution, a onetime member of wine country’s inner circle. Nationally acclaimed jewelry designer. The inside, go-to person for special event, one-of-a-kind pieces.

His mother had one. A brooch in an organic scrollwork design set with semiprecious stones.

The Coroner’s detective arrived. “Hey, Reed. What’ve we got?”

He yanked off his gloves and turned to the other man. “Looks like standard issue suicide.”

Ware nodded. “Who’s the babe?”

“Babe?”

“In the car.”

“She found him.”

Ware nodded and set to work. Reed stuffed his gloves into his jacket pocket and headed back out to Alex, passing the CSI team on the way. He nodded, but didn’t comment. Neither Tanner nor Cal had pulled this one.

Alex saw him crossing to her and climbed out, expression hopeful. Human nature, he thought. To hope she had been wrong. That she hadn’t seen what she thought and old Max Cragan wasn’t really dead.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

Her face fell and she looked away, blinking.

“Let’s go over the events that led you here this morning, step by step. Are you up to that?”

She drew a deep breath, then let it slowly out. “I got Max’s name from a shop owner on the square.”

“The name of the shop?”

“The Golden Bow. I was trying to track down where my mother got the ring.”

“Why?”

“I was hoping it might lead to my father. There are initials engraved on the band, I’m guessing they’re his.”

“Go on.”

“She called Max for me; I made an appointment to go by.”

“This morning.”

She shook her head. “No. I went yesterday. We had a nice chat until…” Her voice trailed off and she frowned, as if remembering something that bothered her.

“Until what, Alex?”

“He saw the ring. He seemed flustered. Even upset. He told me he wasn’t the designer, had no idea who was or what the initials stood for.”

She clasped her hands together. “He called me last night, told me he’d changed his mind. He said that he might know something about the ring, after all. I agreed to stop by this morning.”

“And that’s it?”

“No.” She looked down at her hands, then back up at him. “He… he made me promise not to tell anyone we’d talked.”

Reed kept his expression neutral. “That sounds a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“I did. But he was serious. He said what he was going to share with me was ‘for your ears’ only. I swear.”

At the last, she lost him. When someone “swore” something was true, it was almost always false. But why would she lie about this?

“And that’s it?” he asked.

“Pretty much. Someone was at his door. He thought it was his daughter and said he had to go.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know for certain-Wait, my cell will have it.” She retrieved the phone from her car, accessed the call log and handed him the device.

9:03 P.M. He noted the time and returned the phone. He motioned to her right hand. “Is that the ring?”

She looked down at her hand. “Yes. Would you like to see it?”

He said he would and she slipped it off her finger and handed it to him. He gazed at the slim, gold ring. At the twisted vines, snake and gemstones. It was beautiful work, delicate and ornate.

But its beauty wasn’t what had the hairs standing up on his arms. He had seen this design before. This combination of vines and snake. But not on a piece of jewelry.

On the bottom of a dead man’s foot. In the form of a tattoo.

Wednesday, March 10

10:20 A.M.

“You say this was with your mother’s things?” he said, turning it over in his fingers.

“In the trunk with her mementos of Dylan and her life here.”

BOV-1984. The year before Dylan disappeared. He frowned. “I hate to tell you this, Alex, but I’m going to have to keep this for a while.”

“Keep it? Why?”

He wasn’t ready to tell her about the tattoo. Not yet anyway. “It’s evidence. You’ll get it back. I promise.”

“Evidence? But-” She bit back what she had been about to say and made a sound, a cross between a whimper and a laugh. “It seems everybody’s interested in this ring.”

“What do you mean?”

“At least a half dozen people have asked me about it, including your mother and Rachel.”

He made a note to question them about the ring. “Who else?”

“Rita Welsh, my mother’s friend, the librarian. A few others, names I don’t even know.”

He closed his notebook. “I’m done for now. Are you going to be okay?”

“No problems.”

“Do you need me to call someone to sit with you?”

“Of course not.” She jammed her hands into her pockets. “I’ll be fine.”

As she turned to go, he caught her arm. She looked at him. The naked vulnerability in her gaze blew her tough girl act to smithereens. In the next moment, it was gone.

“What?” she asked.

“Call me if you need anything. Okay?”

She said she would and climbed into her car. He watched her drive off, then headed back into the scene. Ware was examining the body.

“What do you think, Bobby?”

“I think you nailed it. Suicide. Poor old bastard.”

“What about TOD?”

The man sent him an irritated glance. “Can’t give you a time yet. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know. I still want it.”

The man began to hum the Rolling Stones classic “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” At the appropriate moment the CSI team sang out, “But sometimes, you get what you need!”

Reed bit back a guffaw, glared at the three, then pointed at the Coroner’s detective. “Call me, Ware. I need that TOD.”

Moments later, he slid behind the wheel of his Tahoe. He dialed Tanner. “Where are you?”

“Barn. What’s up?”

“You have the Schwann autopsy photos?”

“Nope. But the Coroner’s Office uploaded them, along with Kath’s report.”

“Great. I’m on my way in. I need to get a look at the tattoo on the bottom of Schwann’s foot.”

“I’m not even going to ask. See you in a few.”

A short time later, Reed gazed at the computer image of Schwann’s tattoo. The design was a mirror image of the ring’s-grapevines and a snake.

“Want to tell me what you’ve got?” Tanner asked.

“Better than that, I’ll show you.” He handed her the ring.