“Before this happened he told one of the other kids there were bodies buried in the woods,” Anne said. “I wondered if he might have seen something before-”

“Look, Miss Navarre, I’m the sheriff’s deputy, you’re the teacher. I do my job. Why don’t you stick to yours?”

Anne pressed her lips together to keep the words she wanted to say from spilling out.

“I’ll deal with Dennis,” he said, turning to the hall table to go through his mail.

She took a step toward the door then turned back. “If Dennis has an unexplained absence tomorrow, he’ll be on probation. If he has three unexcused absences, he’ll be expelled for a week.”

“Oh, he’ll be there,” he guaranteed.

Farman looked at an envelope promising he may already have won a million dollars.

Anger flushed through Anne. “Mr. Farman, could I please have your undivided attention for two minutes?”

He set his mail aside and looked at her with an impatient sigh.

“Does it not bother you at all that your son claimed to know there were bodies buried in the park before anyone actually found a body there?”

“Miss Navarre,” he said. “Dennis is a boy. Boys make up stories. I’m not concerned that Dennis saw bodies in the park before because there were no bodies. Believe me, if Dennis had seen a dead body before yesterday, he would have told me because that would be a very big deal to him.

“If you believe everything kids say, you’re either crazy or unbelievably gullible,” he said.

Anne wanted to kick him in the shin. In the span of a few sentences he had managed to make her feel both stupid and furious. She wanted a brilliant, scathing comeback line, but nothing came.

“Go home, Miss Navarre,” Frank Farman said. “And don’t read so many mystery novels.”

Anne left the Farman house and stormed back to her car-now blocked in the driveway by Frank Farman’s cruiser.

Condescending ass. “There, there, little lady, don’t worry, you’re just an imbecile.”

With no regard for possible consequences, she got in her Volkswagen, turned around on Farman’s neat lawn, and drove down over the curb to the street.

She needed to speak to Detective Mendez.

“Hamilton and Hicks are getting copies of employee records from the Thomas Center,” Mendez said, glancing at Dixon sitting in the passenger’s seat. “I reached out to a guy I know on the job in Simi Valley. He’s going to find out what he can on the missing girl’s ex-boyfriend.”

“Good.”

“This will be a hell of a lot faster when we can all get computers.”

“Dream on, Detective. We’re lucky we have ink pens that write. There’s no leeway in the budget for toys.”

Mendez let it go. The wave of the future would have to crash over Oak Knoll eventually, but it wouldn’t happen in time for this case.

“I spoke to Lisa Warwick’s supervisor at Mercy,” he said. “She said Lisa was quiet, did a good job, but didn’t call attention to herself.”

“Was she seeing someone?”

“The supervisor didn’t know. But I found a coworker who says Warwick had hinted there might be a man in her life, but she was pretty tight-lipped about it. The coworker had a hunch the guy might have been married, but she’s got nothing to back it up.”

“When was the last time anyone from the hospital saw her?”

“About ten days ago.”

“And no one reported her missing?”

“She had scheduled time off. She said she was going on a trip to the wine country.”

“Check that out. Find out where she had reservations and if she was going alone or if it was supposed to be some kind of romantic getaway.”

Mendez checked the rearview mirror, signaled, and slowly changed lanes in the choking LA traffic, leaving the 405 freeway for the Howard Hughes Parkway.

He had thought about moving to LA once he had made detective in Bakersfield. He could have gone to LAPD with the goal of one day making the prestigious Robbery/Homicide Unit that worked out of LAPD headquarters downtown in the Parker Center. But it had seemed a better plan to become a big fish in a smaller pond and put in some solid years, then move on to the big pond of LA with an already established reputation as a detective.

When he had the opportunity to go to Oak Knoll and work under Cal Dixon, he had jumped at the chance. Dixon had a solid rep with the LA County Sheriff ’s office; he had contacts. With this job, Mendez knew he could stand out. If Dixon liked him, this job could provide him a shortcut to bigger things.

So far that plan had worked very well.

As daylight faded into evening, Mendez entered LA International Airport, followed the signs, and parked in the garage opposite the American Airlines terminal.

At first glance through the throng of people arriving into baggage claim from the Dulles/LAX flight, he didn’t see Leone. He was looking for a man slightly larger than life, dressed in a flashy suit with a loud tie, a big white grin splitting his face. He scanned the crowd more slowly, spotting a tall, thin man coming toward them with a wheeled suitcase tagging along behind him. The long face broke into a familiar smile.

“Tony! It’s good to see you.”

Mendez met the handshake. “Jesus, Vince, I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve lost thirty pounds.”

Leone waved off the remark. “It’s a long story.” He offered his hand to Dixon. “You’re Cal Dixon. Vince Leone. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Bruce Washington from LA County SO is an old friend of mine.”

Leone was a master at disarming people. He greeted every stranger as a long-lost friend. He had gotten a lot of confessions out of suspects that way, luring them in with a smile and a pat on the back.

“I haven’t heard from Bruce in a while,” Dixon said.

“He’s gone into the private sector-executive security. Somehow, he thought making a pile of dough beat the glory and accolades of being a civil servant. Go figure.”

He nodded toward the exit doors. “Shall we, gentlemen? I don’t want to hold up the show.”

What Vince wanted was to lie down on the ground and pass out after the trek through the terminal. He had been determined to get to baggage claim ahead of Mendez and Dixon, so he could have a minute to catch his breath and spot them before they spotted him. The five-and-a-half-hour flight had drained him. He had time to amp up his energy and muster the big grin, even while he questioned his sanity at coming here.

Show no weakness, he reminded himself. The first rule of thumb in dealing with the locals.

Exhausting himself doing something necessary was far preferable to lying around thinking about the shrapnel in his brain. So he wouldn’t think now about how his head was pounding or how he was beginning to feel edgy and shaky. All he had to do was keep himself together a little longer. All he had to do was get through an autopsy, then the drive up to Oak Knoll, then finding his hotel…

Mendez briefed him as they drove across town to the LA County Coroner ’s facility on North Mission Road. Vince taped the conversation on a pocket-size recorder. He would make notes later. He had already started gathering impressions of the situation.

Dixon had the shield of authority up. He was too smart to drop his guard just because they had one person in common. This case was his baby. He was running the show and he didn’t want some G-man coming in and upsetting the balance of power.

That was nothing new. Cops were territorial animals. They all pissed on the fences. Some of them more than others. And no doubt, Dixon had checked him out as well. He could have heard a hundred stories of Vince Leone cutting a wide swath everywhere he went, drawing the media like flies to a rump roast.

He had a certain reputation for being loud and flamboyant, always cracking wise with his unapologetic Chicago accent. What Dixon wouldn’t have heard was that he did what he had to do to make his case. If that meant drawing a killer out with a challenge or a taunt or whatever, that was what he did.