“These people are not your friends, man,” Sanchez said. “They don’t owe you anything. You think Jack’s daughter’s murder makes him like other grieving fathers? He counts on that. He’s preyed off public sympathy since her funeral. His daughter’s murder was the best thing to ever happen to his business. We gave him a walk for years after that. Then his freaky son Jeremy goes and gets himself murdered? Jack must have pinched himself, he was so happy.”

Sanchez had a point. But right now Archie couldn’t entertain it.

“Are you going to pull Leo out of there or not?” Archie asked. He spun the compass in slow circles on his palm.

“It’s an active investigation,” Sanchez said. “I can’t comment.”

“I see,” Archie said.

Sanchez started to say something else, but hesitated. Archie wondered if he was thinking about the letter. “Thank you for your help,” Sanchez said.

“Sure thing,” Archie said. He slid the compass back in his pocket as he stood. “By the way, you owe me three hundred and twenty-eight bucks for the tux.”

“Wait,” Sanchez said. He rubbed his forehead. He looked conflicted, like he was struggling with something. Archie had a feeling this wasn’t about the tux. “Wait,” Sanchez said again. He exhaled slowly and then reached into the inside pocket of his khaki jacket and pulled out a folded piece of printer paper. “I shouldn’t be showing this to you,” he said. “But I think you have the right to know.”

Archie took the paper and sat back down.

“Gretchen was spotted crossing the border in Blaine two days ago,” Sanchez said.

Archie stiffened. Blaine was just south of the border between Canada and Washington State, just a five-hour drive north on Interstate 5.

“Gretchen is spotted everywhere,” Archie said, fingering the still-folded paper. “She’s like Elvis.”

“It’s a still from a security camera,” Sanchez said. He snapped the paper from Archie’s hands, unfolded it, and returned it to the table. “Look at it,” he said, tapping the printout.

Archie looked down. The image showed a close-up of the driver’s side of a car, probably taken from a camera mounted to a customs booth. The vehicle was a white SUV, though Archie couldn’t see enough of it to determine the make or model. The woman behind the wheel had her blond hair pulled back and was wearing a white blouse. The car window was rolled down and her arm was outstretched, a passport in her hand. She was smiling, apparently at the customs agent who was about to receive the passport. The passport was blue, but a blacker blue than the U.S. passport. The woman was reaching toward the customs agent, but she was looking right up into the camera. There was no doubt in Archie’s mind that it was Gretchen.

“How did she get through?” Archie asked hoarsely.