Clad in a long, filthy coat, worn sneakers, jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, the dead man landed just this side of the trunk, toppling forward to land facedown on the hard dirt floor.

“Freddie Lansing?” Melba asked, even as Eli crouched, turned the corpse over onto its back and reached for the pillowcase.

“Yes,” Eli said. He would have been a liar if he’d said he wasn’t relieved, but he also knew that this situation was the start of a major crap-show.

He pulled the pillowcase away, revealing Freddie’s purple, bloated face. His tongue protruded, a classic response to strangulation, and his eyes bulged.

Melba was on her way to the SUV to call for backup and the coroner.

She returned after a few minutes.

“Alec and Sam are on their way,” she said. “I told Alec it looks like a suicide, and he asked if he ought to roust one of the state’s CSI teams.”

Eli, standing beside J.P., was looking around the chilly space, chinked with blue sky and sunlight, comparing it to the images Dan had opened up on the dark web, back at Sara’s place.

“What did you tell him?”

Melba looked extremely out of place, in her bright red holiday dress, and she was shivering. Realizing for the first time that she must have forgotten her coat in the rush to get to this place, Eli took off his uniform jacket and laid it over her shoulders.

“I said he was probably the best person to make that particular call,” she replied. “If Freddie Lansing didn’t take his own life—and I don’t see any reason to believe otherwise—then Alec will be able to tell us.”

Eli nodded, mildly distracted. He squinted, found the cot he’d seen online and then the backpack. Went for it.

“What can I do to help?” J.P. asked quietly. He was standing with his booted feet apart and his arms folded. Like Melba, he’d forgotten his coat, but he didn’t look cold.

“Go back to the gate,” Eli suggested, carrying the backpack outside, into the sunshine. J.P. and Melba followed. “Point Alec and the others in the right direction.”

“Got it,” J.P. said, and headed for his truck. On his way, he turned, tossed Melba a grin and remarked, “I like your uniform, Deputy Summers.”

Eli gave a grim chuckle, and Melba pretended she hadn’t heard what J.P. said.

The wind was brisk now, and without his coat, it bit into Eli’s hide like row on row of shark’s teeth.

He set the bag on the hood of the SUV, examined the outside for any kind of identification, but there was nothing beyond a partial orange price tag bearing part of the word “clearance.”

Melba drew nearer, as intrigued as Eli was. Had been since they’d spotted the backpack in Freddie’s website photos.