Today, unfortunately, the wilderness drama was taking a backseat to the human kind. At the bottom of the slopes sat a cauldron of smoldering residue belching smoke and soot. Scattered in the gray fog were fire trucks looking like Tonka toys. The fire fighters’ voices echoed throughout the canyons. Decker could make out sentences a quarter-mile up. Not that the boys were saying much at this point, mostly doing paperwork—writing out reports. The fire had been put out, but there was still lots of cleanup. He’d meet with the fire captain as soon as the M.E. and the photographer arrived. Sheriff’s deputies had begun cordoning off the area.

The hardest part was keeping his mind off Caitlin Rodriguez, and on the job. If he didn’t, a little baby would remain an open file—something gnawing at his gut every time Hannah reached a birthday.

Concentrate, Deck.

He looked over the ledge and tried to reconstruct the scene prior to the drop. He figured the car must have plunged off about five yards from where he stood. It was the sharpest kink of the road’s curve, although the turn wasn’t a hairpin. It could have been easily negotiated if the driver had been sober and the car had been going at a prudent speed. Tire tracks had carved their impressions in the plants. Some of the shrubbery had been ripped, pulled from the roots—probably entangled in the car’s fender and dragged along for the ride.

Decker thought. If arson was involved, then it made sense to think of the car as being pushed off. But why here? His eyes dipped down below. The drop was vertical, and the spot was isolated—a narrow paved road framed by mountain and sheer falls. No ranger stations or campsites in view. And this particular turn had a slight shoulder. There was enough space for the car to sit while being prepped to explode.

The Santa Ana winds were hot and dry and stirred up the stench of smoke and gasoline. Decker knew his nostrils were too inundated to differentiate which smells were coming from where. He walked over to the tire tracks, picked some random leaves in the area, and put them in a plastic bag. Then he took out a roll of yellow crime-scene tape and began to isolate the area, watching where he stepped. After the area seemed secured, he loaded his camera with film, taking closeups of the crushed plants and tire impressions. When he was done, he checked his watch—a little before one.

The sun was at its strongest, cooking his nose medium well. He cursed his ruddy coloring, then cursed his stupidity for not using sunblock. His mind was just too preoccupied to remember. His shirt was a sodden lump, his feet swollen in his oxfords. What he wouldn’t have given for a T-shirt and a pair of rubber-soled sandals.

Take in the details.