“I’m going to go call Mr. England,” his wife said. “To let him know why Tommy didn’t make it to his lesson.”

She walked away and disappeared into the interior of the home, heels clacking.

“Things like this don’t happen here,” he said.

Anne had been born and raised in Oak Knoll, a town of twenty thousand (twenty-three when the college kids were in residence). It was a civilized, upscale town nearly two hours removed from Los Angeles. Home to a prestigious private college, the population tended to consist of well-educated professional people, academics, artists. Crime here ran along the lines of small-time drug deals, petty theft, and vandalism, not murder, not women buried in the park.

“Do they know who the woman is? Do they know what happened to her?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Anne said. “I don’t know what to think.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Well, thank you, Miss Navarre, for bringing Tommy home. We appreciate your dedication to the kids.”

“If I can help in any way, please don’t hesitate to call,” Anne said. “You have my number.”

She leaned down to Tommy’s level. “That goes for you, too, Tommy. You can call me anytime if you need to talk about what happened. Try to get some rest tonight.”

Her mother’s cure for everything: rest. Bad day at school? Get some rest. Dumped by a boyfriend? Get some rest. Dying of cancer? Get some rest.

In all her life Anne had to say rest had never solved anything. It was just something to say when there was nothing adequate to take its place, something to do when unconsciousness was the best option available.

As she backed out of the driveway and turned for home, she hoped Tommy would have better luck with the concept than she ever had.

Chapter 5

5

“This is the third victim in two years.”

“It’s the second.”

“In our jurisdiction. The second vic was in the next county, but it’s the same perp. Same MO, same signature.”

“Signature?” Frank Farman said. “Where’s his signature? Maybe he left his address and phone number too.”

Sheriff’s Detective Tony Mendez clenched his jaw for a beat. Farman, chief deputy, was old-school and resented the hell out of him for being one of the new faces of law enforcement—young, college educated, a minority, eager to embrace all the new technology the future promised.

“Why don’t we consult a crystal ball?” Farman suggested. “No need for any legwork at all.”

“That’s enough, Frank.”

Cal Dixon, fifty-three, fit, silver-haired, uniform starched and pressed, had been county sheriff for three years. He had a long solid career with the LA County Sheriff’s Department before he had moved north to the quieter setting of Oak Knoll. He had campaigned for the office on a promise of progressive change. Tony Mendez was an example of his promise in practice.