“The bad guys have been keeping me busy.”

“Me, too.” She grinned. “Tanner asked me to let you know she’s playing pool.”

“Thanks.” He paid for the beer and headed for the back room. Sure enough, Tanner, Cal and a couple of rookies from Property Crimes were deep into a game of eight ball. It looked like Tanner and Cal were kicking their asses.

Typical. Tanner was wicked good with a stick.

Tanner bent over the table, readying her shot. She looked back at him. “Enjoying the view, Reed?”

“I have to say I am.”

She grinned. “Good. Glad I still have it.”

She took the shot, drawing the stick back smoothly, following through with unflinching accuracy. The cue ball struck its target-the fifteen-and it shot into the corner pocket. She ran the rest of the table, then called the eight ball. A moment later, the grumbling rookies were heading out front for a round of beers.

She pulled a stool up beside his. Cal followed suit. “What do you have?” she asked.

Reed quickly filled them in on what his father had told him, beginning with what Patsy Sommer had been doing, who had been involved, then finishing with how the boys’ fathers had responded.

Cal whistled. “Being initiated by an older, experienced woman is every adolescent boy’s wet dream. She’d have to be hot, though. You know, in that Mrs. Robinson sort of way-”

“Get a grip, Cal,” Tanner snapped. “I’m not interested in your version of an adolescent wet dream.”

“Some of the boys were as young as fifteen,” Reed said.

“That’s statutory rape. At the very least, carnal knowledge of a juvenile.”

Reed agreed and went on. “Seems the initiation included some weird group action. An audience to cheer them on, then sharing the sloppy seconds.”

“And thirds.” Tanner made a face. “That’s some sick shit. Certainly not the way I’d want my son to learn about sex.”

“That’s what the dads thought.”

“All of them?” Tanner asked, tone skeptical.

Reed frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Our society tends to put a stamp of approval on a boy’s sexual initiation at the hands of an older, hot woman. Case in point, Cal’s comment.”

“But with a girl of the same age,” Reed murmured, “it’s called a crime.”

“Yes.” Tanner frowned. “I could even see some fathers shrugging it off, no harm, no foul.”

“They didn’t go to the police,” Cal agreed. “Which would seem to validate Tanner’s thinking.”

“Just sent her on her way. With a nest egg, even.” Reed took a swallow of his beer. “They didn’t want anyone to know what was going on. Especially Harlan. They even kept it from the boys’ mothers.”

The rookies returned with the beers. Tanner declined another game; Reed thought the younger of the two looked relieved. They wandered back out front and Reed turned again to Tanner and Cal.

“My dad wants to keep it that way. He asked me to drop my questioning about the tattoo.”

“Of course he did,” Tanner murmured. “Look at who was involved, the Sommer, Reed, Townsend, Schwann and Bianche families. Unarguably Sonoma’s most prominent wine families. They don’t want their names connected to a sex scandal. One that would surely reignite the furor over Dylan’s disappearance.”

“Plus,” Cal jumped in, “the dads would be barbecued in the media for the way they swept it all under the rug. Different times now. People are a lot more aware of abuse and its tragic effects.”

“My dad insists there’s no connection between this club and Tom’s murder.”

Tanner cocked an eyebrow. “And you believe him?”

“I believe he’s telling his truth. And I think he may be right about Tom’s murder. What interests me is how this might have affected the investigation of Dylan’s disappearance.”

“What was the timing?”

“Dylan disappeared. Investigation was under way. One of the kids came to his dad, spilled it all.”

“And the dads told no one, not even the mothers.” Cal scratched his head. “The information might have blown the investigation wide open.”

Tanner agreed. “It certainly would have widened the suspect pool.”

“It still does,” Reed said. “Only now we have remains.”

They fell silent. For his part, Reed sifted through the possibilities. An angry parent. A betrayed husband. A jealous teenager. Fertile stuff.

“My bet’s on the husband,” Tanner said. “Finds out what his wife’s been up to, that the kid’s not his, goes berserk.”

“Patsy and Harlan were having dinner with my folks the night Dylan disappeared.”

“So they said.”

Tanner was right. That’s the way investigations went. If one secret was uncovered, one untruth exposed, more remained to be found out. One lie was never enough, secrets bred secrets.

Nothing that had come before could be trusted now. This little nugget could be just the tip of the iceberg.

“Son of a bitch,” Reed muttered.

“No joke.” Tanner pursed her lips. “Where do we go from here?”

“Open it all back up. Start at the beginning. I’m thinking the kid who spilled the beans.”

Before either of his colleagues could respond, his cell phone sounded. “Reed,” he answered.

“It’s Alex. Can we talk?”

“About what?”

“Max Cragan’s death.”

He glanced at his watch. “When?”

“Now?”

“I’m in Santa Rosa. It’ll take me twenty-five minutes to get there.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

She hung up and he reholstered his phone. He looked up at Tanner and Cal. “Alexandra Clarkson. She wants to talk about Max Cragan.”

Thursday, March 11

10:45 P.M.

Alex waited for Reed on her front porch. She had spent the time since leaving Angie Wilson’s home studying the situation and attempting to decide what she believed. What Angie said made sense: Max hadn’t been strong enough to accomplish what the police believed he’d done. Plus, the man had been happy with his life. A devout Catholic as well, one who believed taking your own life was an unforgivable sin.

But murder?

Alex rubbed her arms, chilled. Someone had come to Max’s door while they were on the phone. He had said so; she had heard the bell sound. Not Angie, as he had thought that night. His killer? Probably.

She shivered again, though the night was mild. How could she even consider this? Who would kill such a sweet old man? Why?

Her ring. To keep him quiet.

Could it be? It sounded crazy, but her gut told her she was right anyway.

She had to convince Reed. She couldn’t let whoever did this get away with it.

Headlights sliced across her line of vision. She turned and watched as Reed eased to a stop in front of her cottage. He stepped out of the SUV and slammed the door behind him. She lifted her hand in a silent greeting, then waited.

“I know it’s late,” she said when he reached her, “but I had to talk to you tonight.”

“No problem.”

She motioned him to follow her inside. When he did, she closed the door behind them and faced him. “Max didn’t kill himself.”

“Okay. You have proof of that?”

“Yes.” She clasped her hands together. “Not exactly. I mean, you may not call it proof, but-”

“You’re convinced,” he finished for her. “And you believe you can convince me.”

“Yes.” She held out a hand. “Just hear me out, please. Two things.”

He sighed and shrugged out of his jacket. “Can we sit down? It’s been a long day.”

Without waiting for her response, he headed into the adjacent living room and sank onto the couch. He looked drained.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

She spread her hands. “This. Calling you so late. Not considering that you might be tired.”

“Your tax dollars at work. Shoot.”

She took the chair directly across from his. “When I met Max,” she began, “I was struck with how content he was. How at peace he was with his life, even with his physical limitations.” She cleared her throat. “He showed me a photograph of his daughter and granddaughters. He called himself blessed.”