“Or what?”

She traded her SIG for cuffs. Cuffed one hand, shoved him, and while he was off balance, cuffed the other.

“You can’t do this! I’m a citizen!”

“This is a crime scene and you are not allowed to be here. You are interfering with an active investigation.” She pushed him in the direction of the gate. “I’ll escort you to the road, sir.”

“I just want to know how many times he was shot! Were they multiple gunshot wounds?”

“Multiple gunshots? What do you mean by that?”

He shut up.

Tess continued to push him up the path.

They reached the gate, and Tess used one hand to pull the loop over, shoved the fence pole sideways to the right so the gate fell into the dirt. She marched him over the strands of the gate and aimed him toward the Range Rover. Pulled him to a stop just shy of the car and felt in his pockets and came up with his wallet and checked his DL. His name was Steve Barkman, thirty-six years old.

“This your car?”

He shut up. He said nothing when she uncuffed him and told him to get into his vehicle. He did as he was told.

She watched him drive away.

She waited for him to turn around and come back.

The sun warm on her head, bearing down on her.

The brightness in her eyes. She watched the hill he’d driven around.

Multiple gunshots.

Why’d he ask her that?

CHAPTER 6

Before heading back to the Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Office, Tess drove past the exit and turned on W. Mariposa and worked her way over to Animal Control. She badged the woman behind the glass and was buzzed in to the office.

“I’m looking for a dog named Adele,” Tess said, giving her the names of both George Hanley and Bert Scofield.

“I’m sorry, but number 014489 was adopted already.”

“She was? When was she adopted?”

“Right after she came in. We didn’t even have time to process her.”

“Who adopted her?”

“I don’t think we can give that out.”

“This is a homicide investigation,” Tess lied. “The dog is important to the case. Did the person who adopted 014489 look at any other dogs?”

Wondering why it was important to her.

“I wasn’t here. I could ask, but I don’t know if Sally would remember.”

“Sally was the one who adopted the dog out?”

“Yes.”

“Is she here now?”

“I’ll get her.”

Tess waited. The intake papers were on the desk, and Tess looked at them. Adele was five years old, an “Aussie mix.” There was a place to clip a photo, but it was blank. They didn’t even have enough time to even take a picture?

When the woman returned, another woman wearing a similar knit shirt and khakis but with considerable more girth nodded to her shyly.

Tess asked her about the person who came in.

“I barely put her in her run before someone asked about her.”

“They asked to see an Aussie mix?”

“Yes. Probably, they walked around and saw her. That’s what most people do. I was out on the floor, hosing down the runs, and the woman wanted to adopt the dog. So I took her up to do the paperwork, and then we went back and got the dog.”

Tess craned her neck to read the name. Bernadette Colvin.

“This is her address, right?”

“Uh-huh.” The woman pulled the card back, worried that there was a confidentiality issue. Tess could have pressed her to give her the card, but decided it was unnecessary.

Tess was still unclear why she had felt compelled to come here. To see the dog, or to rescue her? But now that she was here, she had more questions. The quickness with which someone adopted the dog seemed fortuitous, if not downright strange.

Maybe Colvin was a friend of Hanley’s. Maybe, since she adopted the dog, they had been close.

The address for Bernadette Colvin was nearby—just ten minutes out of her way. Tess drove to Walnut Tree Place, a uniformly beige townhome in a housing division full of them. The homes and garages presented blank faces to the street, and Ms. Colvin’s house was no different.

Tess pushed the bell. No answer. Hard to tell if anyone was there, with the drapes drawn. She remembered the phone number on the card, used her cell phone, and got voice mail. She left a message, asking for Bernadette Colvin to call her.

Tess was walking toward the homicide room when Bonny poked his head out of his office. “When you’re in, why don’t you come by.”

He sounded grim.

Tess dumped her briefcase by her desk and walked down the short hallway to Bonny’s office. She noticed his nameplate was finally up next to the door: “Thaddeus Bonneville, Undersheriff.” Bonny hadn’t made much headway in setting up his office. There were boxes and files on every chair and file cabinet. He was still moving in, having taken over as the Santa Cruz County undersheriff when his good friend of forty years died in harness two months ago.

Bonny had brought Tess with him. He looked like he was regretting it, now. “I just got a call from the sheriff,” he said.

The sheriff was on vacation, so this was a big deal.

“John’s not happy. You know what you did? You handcuffed the son of a sitting federal judge.”

Tess opened her mouth to protest. Bonny held up a hand. “Not just any judge. Geneva Rees.”

Tess had heard of Geneva Rees. She was the kind of judge who loved the spotlight, especially when it came to border issues. Tess was already acquainted with some of her virulent lectures from the bench.

Rees was also a girlhood friend of the governor.

Tess said, “Barkman presented a potential danger to me.”

“I’m sure you felt that way. But you know how Geneva Rees can hold a grudge. And see, the deal is, little Stevie Wonderboy out there is her only child.”

Tess could feel the trail narrowing, and it was lined with thorns. “He’s from Judge Rees’s first marriage.”

“Yes.”

Tess cleared her throat. “To the governor’s brother.”

“That pretty much covers it. Judge Rees and her ex are still on very friendly terms, so I hear. And you know her and the governor are like that.” He crossed his fingers. “But that’s not all. She’s a Democrat—‘big D.’ Our boss is not going to like this.”

Tess knew what he meant. The sheriff of Santa Cruz County was influential in party politics—in fact he made sure the party was run like a well-oiled machine. She said, “Her son needs to learn some manners.”

“That may be, but you got to remember we have two political parties in this state. One’s all brains and no principle, and the other is all principle and no brains. But this county is Democrat and this is how the game is played. Barkman’s got a dipshitty little job researching minor crime scenes, which makes his mama happy, and that makes all of us happy. He does the legwork they can’t afford to do, and one hand washes the other. So you see my problem. Now suppose you tell me your side of the story.”

Tess told him.

“Can’t blame you, considering where you were. Hell, just going out there you should get combat pay. I have no problem with what you did, but the sheriff thinks you should send Barkman a written apology.”

Tess felt her stubborn coming on. For a moment she thought about digging her toes in, but in the scheme of things—considering what they were faced with—it wasn’t worth it. “Sure, I’ll send him a note.”

“I’m gonna want to see it when you’re done.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” He leaned back in his chair and started swiveling—something he’d always done when he had something hard to think about. “So what’s your take on this? On Hanley?”

“I’m not sure.”

He rested a cowboy-booted foot over the other knee, clasped his hands over his stomach. Bonny had a bad back, and liked to keep at least one leg up high for relief to his lower spine.

He turned his pale blue eyes on her. “Your theory?”