Back where I started, I returned my attention to the shed. Earlier, when I’d gone looking for Jasper, I’d taken a peek inside. The building looked just the same now. Strapped to its exterior wall on the west side was a thirty-two-foot aluminum ladder, but it looked as if it hadn’t been touched in years. I pushed up the latch, and the door to the small building swung open without a sound.

The inside of the shed was as Abella described it, sawhorse and all. Rakes and hoes and coils of rope hung from hooks on the walls. She’d been right about the woodpile, too. Firewood was stacked floor to ceiling in the corner and there was a general odor of sawdust and wet bark. Crouching, I examined the floor and found a cluster of footprints in the dust. They could have belonged to Norton, Bebe, Ned, Jasper, or anyone.

I shrugged deeper into my coat and dialed McIntyre’s number. It wasn’t much warmer in the shed than outside, but it was dry, and private. Given the conversation I was about to get roped into, I needed that.

When I accepted this job, it was partly because of Maureen McIntyre. A twenty-eight-year veteran of the state police, a former senior investigator with the BCI in Alexandria Bay, the first-ever elected female sheriff in the history of New York State . . . the woman was a legend. I’d met her once before, years earlier. Shortly after she was first elected, she visited NYPD headquarters and the chief of the Community Affairs Bureau gave her a tour. I made sure to be there that day. A lot of female officers did. It wasn’t long ago McIntyre was one of just ten women in her State Police Academy class. We ladies like to support our own.

McIntyre’s law enforcement career was impressive on every level, but what she was doing now to clean up Jefferson County was more remarkable still. Watertown, where she was stationed, was embroiled in controversy—four former town officials had just been indicted on charges of misconduct and corruption. Half the town was convinced the accusations against the longtime officials were false, while the others felt so betrayed they wanted them convicted on the spot. McIntyre had her hands full. Couple that with weeks of flooding that led to multiple drownings, damage to public facilities and roads, and countless other hazards, and I wasn’t surprised it took her a few rings to answer my call.

“Tough morning?” I asked, checking my watch. With a start I realized it was coming up on 3:00 p.m.

“Neither snow nor rain nor a goddamn nor’easter,” McIntyre said. “How’s by you? Your first big case on the river and it sounds like a doozy. Everything going okay?”

I’d hoped against all hope there would be no trepidation in her tone, and to my relief she sounded as collected as ever. “Still no sign of our missing person,” I said. “The interviews are taking some time. Seems like some of our witnesses have reason to want Jasper Sinclair gone.”