Over the years, Archie had gotten good at projecting calm. He’d developed that skill first as head of the Beauty Killer Task Force, dealing with relatives of victims, his bosses, other cops. Then, after he finally went home from the hospital, after Gretchen Lowell had held him captive for ten days while she tortured him, he had again come to rely on that particular expertise, so he could pretend to be normal for his family. Two years later, when he’d come back to work after medical leave, addicted to pain pills, he pretended every day. He could look anyone in the eye and assure that person, with absolute confidence, that he was fine. He had learned to lie.

That skill had come in handy. He had Gretchen to thank for that.

Now Archie forced himself not to hurry. He relaxed his limbs. Henry transferred the evidence bag to one of the patrol cops and Archie and Henry exited through the side door. Archie searched for anyone watching, anyone out of place. It was almost eight P.M. on Friday night. Four patrol cars were parked in front of the Meridian on Hawthorne Boulevard. If Portland was hipster central, then the Meridian was Portland condensed down to its hipster nucleus. The vibe was midcentury, but the zeitgeist was 1970s cocktail lounge. An oil portrait of a topless pinup girl hung just inside the door. There was a crowd out on the sidewalk most nights. But tonight’s crowd was different. The patrons who’d been interviewed and released were now milling around out front. Many were in costume. A man dressed like Jesus Christ was hitting on a young woman in braids and a brass breastplate. Thor was arguing with a woman whose costume of strategically placed green fabric led Archie to presume that she was either a superhero or some kind of saucy leprechaun. Cleopatra was taking video with her cell phone. Three zombies stood chain-smoking on the sidewalk. The bar had clearly been hosting some sort of Halloween event. Then there were the array of pedestrians who’d stumbled upon the scene—people with take-out boxes, cyclists, dog-walkers, and diners from nearby restaurants who’d wandered out to rubberneck. Some of them had cell phones out and were taking pictures. Cars slowed as they passed.

Archie and Henry walked around the corner past a Lebanese restaurant housed in a restored Queen Anne Victorian. In the restaurant’s yard, stainless steel patio heaters glowed dark orange over the outside dining area.

As they rounded the corner, the street turned residential. There were fewer people around. Maybe someone was watching; maybe someone wasn’t. But Archie didn’t want to take chances. He unlocked his car, and they got in. He didn’t turn on the car. He didn’t want the dash lights to illuminate their faces.

The dead man in the bathroom was Carl Richmond. He was a DEA agent.