“Did you call Dr. Wallington?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know my brother-in-law very well yet. I thought it best to call you first.”

Nate assured her she’d done the right thing and then requested she email a copy of the prescription and the patient’s details to him before hanging up.

“What the hell, Nate?” Kia asked as she got in the car. She tossed his sandwich and M&M’s on his lap, looking annoyed as hell.

He couldn’t tell her this either. Kia was dating Julia. Julia was his prime suspect. A person who’d stolen OxyContin samples was more than capable of stealing prescription pads.

“Sorry,” he muttered, unwrapping his sandwich.

She opened her mouth to issue a reply, but he was saved by the ringing of his phone. It was Lisa Hamilton.

“We found Mr. Martinez’s car. It’s parked outside the Sonora Motel near Sea-Tac Airport. Can you meet us there in an hour?”

“We’re on our way,” Nate said.

NATE PULLED up behind an old Ford Thunderbird at the edge of the motel’s parking lot. The lot was scuzzy and weed-choked, the motel seedy and dilapidated. The car had been sectioned off with yellow tape. Lisa Hamilton and Phil Greene stood next to it, a tow truck parked nearby.

He checked his phone again before he got out of the cruiser; still no reply from Emma.

“Figured you’d need it towed to your department to process,” Hamilton said as she shook Nate’s and Kia’s hands. She was dressed in a severe black pantsuit, her hair slicked back into a bun, her mouth in a line.

“Keys were in the ignition.” Greene tossed Nate the keys.

Probably doesn’t want to get his fancy Italian suit dirty, Nate thought.

Nate and Kia both slipped on latex gloves, and Nate opened the driver’s door. A half-drunk bottle of Coke sat on the floor of the passenger’s side, a plastic Taco Bell bag in the console. A Seahawks sweatshirt in the back.

“Video recording from the gas station across the street shows the car arriving here a few hours after we think Mr. Martinez was killed,” Hamilton said.

“Was Martinez driving?” Nate asked.

“Can’t tell from the video. It’s too far away. But the car’s GPS shows that it left the house shortly before one a.m. and drove about forty-five minutes, straight here.”

“The killer drove his car here,” Nate said.

The four of them crowded around as Nate popped the trunk. They breathed a sigh of disappointment. It was empty.

“Wait.” Greene leaned in and pried at the edge of the trunk’s floor. He lifted it to expose the spare-tire well. But instead of a tire, a black briefcase rested inside.