“And why’s that?”

“The necklace has the initials A.R. on it, and we’ve discovered that you’ve got a missing woman with those initials.” I stretch my legs under my desk.

“What’s this necklace look like?”

“Hold on. I’ll send you a picture.” I wait for the technical stuff to happen. Listen to the sheriff breathing on the other end. He’s either a husky guy or has asthma, by the sound of it.

After a minute, he clears his throat. “Where’d you say you found this necklace?”

“In the home office of our vic. Here in Graybridge. Forty-year-old local psychologist.”

He draws another labored breath, covers a cough. “How in hell did it get there?” he mumbles to himself.

“Well, that’s what we’d like to know. But there is a connection. The vic owns a vacation home up there in Mountclair. What can you tell me about your missing woman?”

The line goes silent. “Wait a minute,” he says at last, and I hear the clicking of what sounds like computer keys.

Certainly, he knows the details by heart. How many missing women does he have in that little place? As if reading my mind, he says, “I just sent you a file, but this is the gist of it. Annalise Robb was drinking with her boyfriend at the Mountclair Tavern on July Fourth. She and he got into an argument about one a.m., and she said she’d walk home. We have a bar full of witnesses who attested to that. It was busy, being the Fourth. Anyway, the boyfriend, Lyle Peabody, drank another beer, then left. After that, nobody saw her. Well, somebody saw her, but we just don’t know who.”

“The boyfriend?”

“We’ve had him in here half a dozen times. Says he didn’t see her. Passed a polygraph. We’ve got nothing to connect him to her disappearance. And no leads. It’s like that girl just vanished.”

“This was last July Fourth?”

“Yes.”

“Busy up there in the mountains during that time?”

“It sure is.”

“What about the necklace?”

He draws a deep breath. “It matches the description her mom gave us.”

“Could be our vic happened to find it and picked it up.”

“Maybe. What’s his name?”

“Dr. Jay Bradley. You know him?”

“Yup.” The sheriff clears his throat. “The Bradleys have owned a big place up here for years. So he’s dead? Victim of a homicide?”

“That’s right.”

“Jesus. We’ll need to get together on this, looks like.”

“Yes.” I make some notes, and the sheriff and I make tentative plans. I hang up, lean back in my chair, and let go a deep breath.

* * *

It’s nearly six o’clock, and I’m starting to get hungry, so I switch off my desk lamp and scrape my notes together to stuff into my satchel. I think about my dinner options. My fridge is empty, as usual, and André and Collin are downtown catering a conference, so I poke my head in at Bob’s door.

“You want to grab a bite across the street?”