“Because I’ve finally found the one witness who isn’t afraid to step forward. The only problem is that I seem to be the only person who believes him.”

Now this was possibly something he could use. “And who is this mystery witness?”

“His name is Max.”

“Where can I find him?”

She took a deep breath, clearly uncomfortable with what she was about to tell him. “The thing is . . . he doesn’t speak English.”

“I speak fluent Spanish.”

“Actually,” Trish said, “he doesn’t speak Spanish, either.”

“What language does he speak?”

She gave a hesitant smile. “This is the part you might have trouble with.”

“Try.”

“My witness is a dog.”

“A dog?” He wasn’t even sure how to react to that. Even Sydney looked stunned. “A dog?” he said again.

Trish handed him two photos. The first was of a once-­white Victorian mansion on a low hilltop, which, judging from the peeling paint and missing sideboards, had seen better days. The second photo focused on a low wall made of large rocks that surrounded the bottom of the hill around the old Victorian’s perimeter, then extended out about thirty feet.

And there, lying in front of the broken section of the wall, was a brown and black German shepherd, its head on the ground between its front paws.

He showed the photos to Sydney, and she asked, “Whose dog is it?”

“My brother’s dog. Max. He’s been there every day since Calvin went missing. Come tomorrow morning, the police department plans on detonating that cache of explosives they found in the basement of the McMahon house, and they don’t seem too concerned if the dog’s there or not.”

“Why not remove the dog?”

“There’s a high fence around the entire property,” Trish said. “The gates are locked. And now that that dynamite’s been discovered, the police won’t let anyone near it. I’ve tried calling Max out, but he won’t come. That’s what makes me think my brother is buried there beneath those stones. Right where the wall’s broken.”

Griffin focused on the broken section, particularly the rocks in front of it. “Some of those weeds growing around the rocks look more than a week old. The bush growing next to it looks pretty intact.”

Sydney leaned over to get a closer look at the photo. “I read a news article once about this dog that found its way to the cemetery and stayed by its master’s grave for months after the man died. I’m with Trish. The dog must sense he’s buried there, or why stay?”

“Truthfully?” Griffin said. “They blow up that cache, I think the dog is far enough away where it won’t be hurt. We can check the rock pile afterward.”

Sydney picked up the photo and held it in front of him. “Look at his face, Griffin. It’s like he knows. We need to help Trish find the body and get it out. But if the police blow up that place, you can’t guarantee debris from the house won’t hit the dog. He could get hurt.”

“And,” Trish said, “those ­people need to know what happened to my brother. They need a hero, even a dead hero. Only then will things change around here.”

Griffin eyed the photo. McNiel, his boss, would never allow him to run a rescue mission for a German shepherd. And he seriously doubted McNiel would make an exception to recover a suspected gun smuggler’s body. The moment Griffin gave notification of his intent to help, he’d be shut down.

Black ops agents did not run rescue missions for pets.

But like Sydney, Griffin was a sucker for the underdog, especially when it was a real dog. He slid the photo into his notebook. “Maybe we can get in there posing as the press. I think it’s time the Washington Recorder interviewed the police chief on what is clearly a human interest story.”

“Washington Recorder?” Trish asked him.

“A newspaper we use for our nonofficial cover.”

“I’ll warn you,” Trish said. “He doesn’t like the press. Last thing he wants is news coverage.”

Sydney smiled as she poured some cream in her coffee. “I’m pretty sure if he had a choice, he’d take the press over us any day.”

Pocito, population twenty-­three hundred, an old mining town, was not the flat, cactus-­covered desert Griffin would have imagined. Set in the rolling hills at the foot of the Mule Mountains in southern Arizona, Pocito looked as though time had simply passed it over, stopping in the late 1800s. One almost expected to see the head lawman stepping out of the brick-­fronted building with a six-­shooter on his hip and a gold star on his chest. He did not, and the past disappeared into the present as Griffin and Sydney pulled open the door of the police department, stepping into a fluorescent-­lit lobby where a woman sat behind the counter, typing away at a computer.

Judging from the equipment on her desk, Griffin figured she was receptionist, dispatcher, and phone operator. She smiled expectantly at the two of them.

“May I help you?”

Griffin adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, then nodded in greeting. “Zachary Griffin, Washington Recorder, and Sydney Fitz, my photographer. We were hoping to have an interview with the chief.”

“If you let me know what this is in regards to, I’ll see if he’s in.”

Griffin glanced up at the plaque on the door behind her, the one that read “Chief of Police” on it. “Apparently,” Griffin said, loud enough to be heard through the door, “there’s a dog whose owner abandoned it. Out on some property that’s about to be leveled.”

“The McMahon place,” she said. “I’m afraid Chief Parks is not taking any interviews on that until tomorrow.” She gave Griffin a patronizing smile. “At least not until after the detonation.”

“Too bad,” he said. “Big special interest story. This place will be a zoo once it gets out. Of course, if I can get an exclusive, I’d be inclined to keep it under wraps until tomorrow.”

The door behind the woman suddenly opened and out stepped a tall man, early fifties, wearing a khaki uniform, with a gold badge on his chest and stars on his collar. “It’s okay, Irene. I’ve got time for a quick interview.”

“Yes, sir.”

Griffin followed Sydney back to the chief’s office, where he directed them to the two chairs in front of his desk. “Sorry about that little bit of misunderstanding,” Chief Parks said. “Got me a whopper of a case here, and I told Irene to—­well, I’ve been on the phone all morning with the ATF and the DEA over it. Haven’t even had a chance to break for coffee.” He took a seat himself, then looked directly at Griffin. “Afraid I missed the name of your paper?”

“Washington Recorder.”

“Washington. You don’t say? State or D.C.?”

“D.C.”

“Dang. Over a dog?”

“The world’s always looking for a feel-­good story.”

“Hard to feel good about a dirty cop working with the Mexican cartels. Guess I shoulda suspected something was up when Officer Walker was suddenly interested in cultivating his so-­called informant.”

“Any idea who this informant was?” Griffin asked him, wondering if it might be Quindlen or someone who could lead them to Quindlen.

“No clue. But we did try to find out. Followed Walker on multiple occasions out to the property where we found all that evidence. Then again, if you really want proof, maybe you’d like to see the photos of the dynamite Officer Walker had stored in the basement? And the guns?”

“You have photos?”

“Damned straight we do. Of course, the DEA’s got the guns, but we kept a record.” He pressed a button on his phone, then leaned over the speaker. “Irene, can you bring in the evidence book on Calvin Walker’s case . . . Thanks.” He hung up.

A moment later, Irene walked in, carrying a large black binder. “Anything else?”

“If you got any coffee made, I’d love a cup. For our guests, too.”

“None for me,” Sydney said.