I’m thinking about the missing red Range Rover and I mention it. I’m the first to say it’s unlikely kids stole it out of this driveway in a downpour after the police were at the house most of the morning. I’m quick to admit that it sounds like the calls to 911 about a late-model high-end red SUV and rowdy kids might be completely unrelated.

“But what if they aren’t and what if they’re false?” I ask. “What if it’s a game?”

We know who might play a game like that and why, and the River Basin is near here. It’s only minutes from the Gilbert house.

“I guess we have to think of every worst-case scenario,” Marino says, and he gets on his radio. “Anything further on the red SUV and subjects in it?” he asks the dispatcher and he’s not flirty this time. “We got a plate number, a make and model?”

“Negative. Nothing further.” The dispatcher—Helen I presume—sounds somber too as if there’s been an announcement somewhere that all is wrong in the world.

“Do we have a phone number for the complainant?” Marino’s jaw muscles are clenching.

She recites a number that has an exchange I don’t recognize. But it’s not local. Marino tries it and it rings and rings and rings.

“No voice mail set up,” he tells me. “Probably some bogus disposable phone. Probably kids having a great time messing with the police.”

“You hope so at any rate.”

“Well it’s better than the alternative that someone’s out joyriding in a murdered lady’s red Range Rover.”

“Or that Chanel’s killer is the one calling nine-one-one. Or that her so-called housekeeper is.”

“You’re thinking they’re the same person?” His eyes are on me, and we know we’re both considering the possibility.

It’s shocking to contemplate. It would mean that Carrie murdered Chanel Gilbert and at some point when it suited her called 911. Then she answered the door when Officer Hyde showed up. She stayed just long enough to answer a few questions but was long gone by the time Marino and I got here. One look into Elsa Mulligan’s eyes and I would have known it was Carrie. Marino might not have, but it was only two months ago when I watched her shoot me.

“I’m thinking we should finish up. Let’s try ALS on the bed. Maybe she wasn’t in it alone before she died,” I suggest.

He opens what is actually a heavy-duty toolbox made of tough black plastic. He finds a kit that contains an Alternate Light Source, a set of what looks like small black flashlights of different bandwidths.

“What do you want to start with?” He sets a box of gloves on the floor and grabs a new pair.

“UV.”