The Eastbank Esplanade, where Archie stood, was skinnier and less colorful than the west side, and shoehorned between Interstate 5 and a riverbank choked with blackberries. The air tasted like exhaust, and the constant din of traffic blurred all other sound. Even the geese stayed away. But Archie liked it. There were fewer people, and more historical plaques.

Ginger tugged on her leash at a passing cyclist and Archie reeled her in closer to him. She plunked down at his feet and quickly became absorbed by a couple of seagulls paddling by in the river. The water sparkled in the midday sun, and looked deceptively clean and blue. Archie knew better. They pulled a corpse from the Willamette once a week.

“Nice watchdog you have there,” Raul Sanchez said with a grin. He stepped beside Archie and Ginger, who didn’t even look up. Sanchez was a compact man, with thick dark hair and rough-hewn features made rougher by the pockmark scars that peppered his face. Whether the scars were a result of childhood acne or a close encounter with gravel, Archie had never asked. Some people didn’t like to talk about their scars.

“She’s monitoring those dangerous gulls,” Archie said. “And I saw you coming as soon as you crossed the Hawthorne Bridge,” he added. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your FBI windbreaker.”

“You should see my FBI pj’s,” Sanchez said. He started to say something else, then stopped and fiddled with a button on his tan jacket. “Obviously, you know I can’t talk to you about the Beauty Killer thing,” he said.

Sanchez was the FBI liaison on the task force charged with hunting down Gretchen Lowell. Archie heard updates through the grapevine. He read the headlines. He knew she’d supposedly been seen in six countries so far. But there was never any solid evidence. No trail. They had all agreed, back in August, that the best thing for Archie’s mental health was not to be involved. Nothing had changed. Archie had been the one who’d lobbied for Sanchez to take the lead.

“I just want to know when she’s dead,” Archie said.

One of the gulls squawked and flapped off, flying low above the water.

“Let’s talk about Leo, then,” Sanchez said.

Archie glanced over his shoulder at the interstate behind them. “Somewhere quieter,” he said. The two men headed north, toward the Steel Bridge. Archie had to give Ginger’s leash an extra tug to get her to leave gull duty, but soon she was trotting happily ahead of them. A cyclist pedaled past pulling a small boy in a three-wheeled netted trailer. The boy smiled at Archie. He was probably high on exhaust fumes.