“For what it’s worth, this body shouldn’t have been discovered, not during the winter anyway. Most years it would’ve stayed hidden till spring, at least. You’ll like this-want to know how it was found? A woman on a snowshoe outing with some girlfriends had gone off by herself to answer nature’s call and was finishing taking a crap when she saw part of a hand sticking out from below this log she was crouching behind. Poor crime-scene techs had to collect it as evidence.”

“Collect what?”

“Her… you know.”

I knew. “What’s next?”

“I got twenty minutes to get from here to pick up Simon from hockey practice.”

“You want me to get him? Meet you at your house? I’m happy to.”

“Nice of you, but I think I’m cool. I’ll make it in time. Any word on Diane?”

“Nothing. Anything on the BOLO?”

“Nope. Go home, Alan. Stop playing cop.”

With that, the signal faded for good and the call dropped off into the great mobile phone ether.

I wasn’t ready to stop playing cop. The day’s events had shaken me and I was ready to do what I’d been thinking about doing for most of a week. I drove downtown to my office, opened the dark-blue Kinko’s box, and prepared to read Bob Brandt’s opus, My Little Runaway.

A run, run, run, run runaway.

The manuscript was, guessing, about a hundred pages long, but the sheets weren’t numbered so I didn’t have an exact count.

Bob’s story started with a single provocative phrase that constituted an entire sentence, an entire paragraph, an entire page, and an entire chapter.

It moved from there into a series of short, essay-like digressions, one having to do with Del Shannon’s childhood, another having to do with the mechanics of installing low-maintenance water features.

A page-turner it was not.

More than half of the sheets of paper in the box were blank.

But that solitary phrase on page one was evocative enough that the manuscript lived up to its billing in the most important area: Bob’s story did indeed contain a version of what had happened to Mallory on Christmas night, and proposed a fascinating theory about how she’d managed to make it out of her house without leaving any marks in the fresh snow.

I reminded myself at least five times while I read and reread the few words on the first page that Bob had told me that the work was fiction.

Fiction. Right.

Once I’d completed an initial pass at the manuscript, and after I’d come up with a plan on what to do next, I had some time to kill before I made my next move. I ended up driving home after stopping on the way to buy my girls some of their favorite takeout from Chez Thuy, a little Vietnamese place that Viv-part of Boulder County’s Hmong community-had turned us on to. Grace was in a terrific mood while we ate and seemed totally enamored with the way that her rice noodles stuck together.

Over sublime catfish and green onions in a sauce that had more flavors than the sky had stars, I went so far as to tell Lauren that I had some significant news that might impact the investigation of the body that had been discovered that afternoon near Allenspark. She asked for some clarifications that I couldn’t provide. But she was kind enough to phone somebody in the DA’s office to confirm my suspicion about what would happen next: The Boulder police had indeed already applied for a warrant to search Doyle Chandler’s Twelfth Street home.

“How long will it take to get the warrant?” I asked.

“They’ll have it soon,” Lauren said. “Judge Heller has the request; I have no doubt she’ll comply. This one’s a no-brainer. Likely homicide? The police need to search the vic’s house.”

“I’m going to have to go over there and see Sam in person. Tell him what I know.”

“You can’t just call?”

“I want to help him find something at Doyle’s that I think he might otherwise miss. If I don’t tell him what I’m expecting to find there, and then if it turns out that I’m wrong, I won’t end up having to breach privilege.”

“And you can’t tell me how you know what’s inside this man’s house?”

“I have a hunch based on something-a story a patient… told me. I wish I could tell you more. If I’m right, you’ll know all about it tomorrow.”

I arrived on Doyle’s block around 9:30. In order to execute the search warrant the police department was out in force-I counted five law enforcement vehicles, mostly unmarked, in front of the house. Doyle’s neighbors were curious about the commotion; despite the cold night they were congregated in small groups on nearby sidewalks and on front porches watching events unfold. I chose to park around the corner. If it was possible, I preferred not to be spotted by Bill Miller while running this errand.

I dialed Sam’s cell phone from my car.

“I thought I told you to go home,” he said.

“Yeah, well. You get Simon on time?”

“Barely.”

“Who’s watching him now?”

Impatiently, he asked, “What’s up, Alan? I’m kind of busy.”

“I have something to show you.”

“I’m working. Maybe tomorrow.”

I could tell he was trying hard to be nice, but that his decorum was on its last legs. “I know you’re working, Sam. That’s why I asked who was watching Simon. I’m right outside. I have something to show you.”

“It can’t wait?”

He sounded both perplexed and annoyed. I said, “No, it can’t. What I want to show you is inside Doyle’s house. You’ll want to see it. Trust me.”

“What? You’re outside this house? That’s what you meant?”

“Right around the corner.”

“I can’t bring you in here.”

“Sure you can.”

“This better be good,” Sam said. We were standing in the cramped entryway of Doyle’s house. With one deep inhale Sam could have filled the space by himself.

“It’ll either be very good, or it won’t.”

“That second possibility won’t leave me feeling great about bringing you in here in front of God and everybody.” He gestured toward the interior of the house. “Where do we go to find your treasure?”

“Basement. Where’s Lucy?”

Lucy was Sam’s longtime detective partner.

“Cabo San Lucas. Cancun. Ixtapa. Someplace like that. Someplace I should be, but I’m not.”

I led the way down the hall and through the kitchen to the basement stairs. “An empty house like this makes executing your warrant pretty easy, doesn’t it? Don’t really have to toss anything.”

“We don’t ‘toss anything.’ We’re careful.”

Sam had apparently forgotten that my own home had once been the target of a law enforcement search. I was in a position to make an educated argument about the actual neatness of police searches; I decided not to choose that moment to remind him.

“What did you specify on the warrant?” I asked.

Before he followed me down the stairs and into the basement storeroom he smiled wryly at my question but didn’t respond. I hadn’t really expected him to. I read his smile to mean, “Nice try.”

Sam had latex gloves on his hands; I didn’t. “You have any more of those?” I asked, pointing to his gloves.

“I don’t want you to be tempted to touch anything. Just keep your hands in your pockets; it’s a good place for them.”

“Then open that door.” I pointed at the awning door that led from the basement to the adjacent crawl space.

“Sorry. We haven’t been in there yet. I can’t go in there until it’s been photographed. You certainly can’t.”

“My fingerprints are already on that handle. I opened it when I was here last time. You know, with the real estate agent.”

“Terrific. I’ll pass that on. Let’s hope your prints aren’t flagged by NCIC. It’d make for a long night.”

I shrugged. “I’ll just wait until the photographers are free.”

Sam had an alternative in mind. “Or you could simply tell me what we’re looking for. I really don’t have time for your games.”