Nick turned without further comment and headed back toward the spot where the deputy stood guard—downwind. He sat down and stretched out on a patch of remaining grass and took out his cell phone. He dialed a number from memory.

“Donovan here,” a voice said. “What’s up, Nick?”

“There are three bodies in one of the graves,” Nick said.

“Really? Which grave?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I have to kill her first.”

A pause. “Okay, what’s the problem?”

“Who hired the cadaver-dog lady?”

“Beats me. I requested a dog team through the Bureau. She must be on somebody’s Approved Vendor list. Why?”

“I need to know something: Whose crime scene is this?”

“Mine.”

“Okay, what about when you’re not here? Whose crime scene is it then?”

“Mine. Would you like to put your sister on the phone so I can tell her that the ball belongs to you?”

“Would you?”

“No. You kids will just have to work this out between the two of you—it’s a part of growing up. Now if you don’t mind, Dad has some work to do.”

Nick closed the phone.

Three hours later he was still sitting in the same spot. Elgin was sitting beside him now; he had meandered over and taken a seat beside Nick, and the two men were leaning back on their elbows and watching “Marge” and “Bosco” work. Marge carried a bundle of small wire flags in her left hand, each one topped by a rectangle of bright red plastic; Nick assumed that their purpose was to mark the location of each grave as it was identified—but after three hours no red flags were visible on the ground.

“Not makin’ much headway,” Elgin observed.

“Not a whole lot,” Nick replied. “Are you a betting man, Deputy?”

“At times. I play the lottery when the numbers get high enough.”

“How many graves would you bet there are in this graveyard?”

The deputy considered. “No way to tell.”

“If you had to bet.”

The deputy looked over the area. “Well—I see four in a row right there. I suppose that could be the end of it, but most likely not—I figure they’s at least another one or two on either side. But it don’t make sense they’d plant ’em all in one row like peas or pole beans, so I figure they’s another row or two behind ’em—maybe more.”

“That’s good figuring,” Nick said. “So what’s your guess?”

“If I had to bet? I’d say thirty—thereabouts.”

“And how many of those thirty has Bosco found so far?”

“Maybe he’s just warmin’ up.”

Nick looked at his watch. “What is he, a Crock-Pot?”