The impact sent her flying.

Hard, vicious fist in her belly, so much force it felt as if the hand were penetrating her innards.

Electric pain sparked through her body, captured her breath.

The second blow caught her on the side of the head and she went down.

A foot kicked the small of her back.

She curled herself tiny, prayed no more punishment would come.

Just as quickly as the attack had begun, it ended.

Footsteps fading into the night.

No sound of a car engine so she lay there thinking, He’s watching. Waited for a long time, before being able to entertain the big question:

Was that Sil?

If not, where was Sil?

Duboff had been knifed on the pathway. Bloodstains splotched the dirt twelve feet past Selena Bass’s dump site. Care had been taken to brush the surrounding soil all the way to the sidewalk, obscuring footprints. No errant hairs or body fluids that weren’t Duboff’s, no tire tracks along either side of the street.

A deep back wound had pierced Duboff’s left lung, the blow driven with enough force to crack a rib. The follow-up was an ear-to-ear throat slash, with Duboff lying facedown.

“Bad guy probably lifted him by the head,” said Milo. “Reached around and bam.”

Sneak attack in the dark, it needn’t have taken more than seconds. Alma Reynolds had sat in the car for nearly half an hour, ample time to clean the scene.

By calling out Duboff’s name, she’d announced her presence to the killer. Subsequent speech had pinpointed her location and he’d charged her.

Assaulting a potential witness but making no effort to finish her off.

Too intent on making his escape.

He’d expected a one-on-one meeting, but Duboff, ever the contrarian, had brought along Alma Reynolds, put her in mortal danger.

Milo said, “You still all right, ma’am? From your injuries?”

The question offended her.

“As I told you the first time, there are no injuries. Except to my ego.” She pushed herself upright, suppressed a wince.

“Bastard,” she said, leaving the interview room stiffly “I’m going to miss him incredibly.”

Milo and I moved to his office. I said, “Duboff was a misanthropic crank, but he trusted someone enough to meet in the dark. Alma Reynolds knew he was lying when he said he didn’t know who’d phoned. The lure was solving the murders.”

“Pretty flimsy,” he said. “Why would he fall for that?”

“Dedicated activist shows up the cops and keeps the sacred grounds pristine?”

“Guess so.”

“Being at the marsh after dark didn’t scare him. Alma said he dropped in regularly-including the night Selena was found when he missed the dump by a narrow margin.”

“Maybe too narrow, Alex.”

“He was part of it?”

“Like you said before, two guys would make the job easier. And talk about someone with an intense attachment to the marsh. Plus the guy’s weird. We considered him in the beginning, dropped him off the screen when we couldn’t find any felony record or links to Huck. Maybe that was a big-time goof.”

“He showed up to talk to his confederate?” I said. “Then why take Reynolds along?”

“He thought it would be a brief chat, like he told Reynolds. Got surprised.”

“Be interesting if Huck’s name shows up on any Save the Marsh mailing lists.”

“Be interesting to know where the hell Huck was last night. Which was the point of sitting on my commodious butt watching the shrubbery. No sign of him leaving or entering the house, but that means squat. He coulda made his move before I arrived, returned after I left to take the call on Duboff.”

“When did the call come in?”

“Right after midnight. But that was well past Duboff’s murder. Ol’ Alma wasn’t wearing a watch but she knows they left the restaurant shortly after nine, guesses she got blindsided at ten thirty or so. Which would put Duboff getting gutted at ten or so. She lay there, out of it, for another half hour, finally got up and looked for Duboff, which was stupid, but adrenaline can do all sorts of things to your judgment. After she found him, she ran back out to the street, screaming. No one around to hear, like you said, it’s a ghost town at night. So she got back in Duboff’s car, drove to Pacific Division, and reported the murder. Pacific has her logged in at eleven thirty-two. They put her in a room, took her statement, dispatched a car to the marsh, confirmed the body, and phoned Reed. He was in Solana Beach, called me. I was taking a bladder break, saw the message, called back, cowboyed to the marsh. Leaving Huck plenty of time and opportunity to return home.”

He rubbed his face. “I’m losing it, Alex. Shoulda driven up to the Vander house, leaned on the gate bell. If Huck wasn’t there, maybe someone else was-a maid, whatever, and I’d know.”

“You got called to a murder scene, you went.”

“Guy was dead, what was the rush?” Cursing. “Yeah, it was the logical response. Aka utter lack of creative thinking.”

“Unseemly,” I said.

“What is?”

“Self-flagellation from the man of granite.”

“Right,” he said, “I’m thinking sandstone.”

An expedited search warrant of Silford Duboff’s apartment produced nothing of value. The only surprise was philosophical: dog-eared copies of the complete works of Ayn Rand hidden under Duboff’s mattress, like pornography.

“No knives, guns, garottes, sex toys, weird body fluids, incriminating notes,” said Milo. “No computer, either, but Reynolds says he never had one. Damn fridge had fruits, veggies, whole-grain everything. Rah rah for the healthy lifestyle.”

Moe Reed returned from Fallbrook with cheek scrapes of Sheralyn Dawkins’s mother and the dead woman’s stunned fifteen-year-old son. The mother worked as a housekeeper on a rich man’s avocado ranch. Devon Dawkins was an honor student, did farm chores during his spare time.

Reed said, “Nice lady, the way she described Sheralyn’s leg break matches Jane One to a T. She wouldn’t talk in front of Devon, but after she sent him out she poured it out. Sheralyn was a problem since high school. Low self-esteem, drugs, alcohol, bad men.”

Milo said, “Same story Big Laura’s mommy told us. Any bad men in particular?”

“She meant Sheralyn’s teen years, but even back then she didn’t know any names. That was the problem, Sheralyn kept her private life private, wouldn’t give an inch to Mom. The two of them hadn’t been in contact for years. I got the feeling Mom had been happy with the arrangement, wanted a shot at raising Devon properly. Really nice kid, it was tough giving him the bad news.”

I said, “How long has the family been living down there?”

“They moved to San Diego right after Sheralyn’s father got out of the military. His civilian job was school district custodial manager, he died twelve years ago. Sheralyn was born in San Diego, did a couple years of high school, dropped out. Her mom never heard of Travis Huck, and the six-pack with Huck’s picture didn’t jog her memory.”

Milo said, “Why should life be easy?”

“She did tell me one thing that might be interesting. When Devon couldn’t hear. Sheralyn had a thing for pain. Not causing it, experiencing it. Mom said when she was a teenager, she’d cut herself on the arms, pull her eyelashes out, once in a while she’d burn herself with cigarettes. Sometimes she’d come home from being with boys and have bruises on her neck and arms. Mom threatened to take her to a psychiatrist. Sheralyn yelled at her to mind her own damn business, ran out of the house, stayed away for a few days. What boiled things over was Sheralyn getting pregnant when she was sixteen and refusing to say who the father was. She was already into dope, so the parents worried about a drug baby. When Devon was born healthy they tried to get Sheralyn to let them adopt him. Sheralyn went ballistic, took the baby and left. No contact for three years, then Sheralyn shows up without warning, stays for a couple days, things seem to be going okay. All of a sudden, she sneaks out in the middle of the night, leaves Devon behind.”