She looked hurt. When she opened her mouth to speak, Sergeant Martin cut her off with an admonishing finger. “Or I’ll have Constable Neavis, here, escort you back to your car. Understand?”

At last she nodded.

Satisfied, the sergeant turned back around and continued walking. “Do you know what you’re going to say to him?”

Ranger Brock shook his head. He was familiar with most of the logging company employees who worked the redwood forest, but he’d never seen this man before. He was tall and lean and had a dark complexion, a mix of light and shadow with eyes that could hide a thousand little secrets and a half-dozen big ones. In a nutshell, he looked like he was from somewhere else. The ranger didn’t like that one bit. He preferred to deal with people who were born and raised in the area; who had roots in the land and were aware that anything they did affected family and friends. This guy probably had ties to the company he worked for and that was about it. If things went bad, he’d be on the road back to wherever he came from in a minute, leaving the likes of Sergeant Martin and himself to clean up the mess.

“Afternoon,” the sergeant said, tipping his cap slightly. “I’m Sergeant Martin, RCMP.” He turned to his left, then right. “This is Constable Neavis, and Ranger Brock.” He didn’t bother to mention Donna, who looked on from behind.

“Gentlemen,” the man said.

“You have a name?” asked Sergeant Martin.

He nodded and said, “Tyler Allen Ceballo.”

No one in this part of the province went by three names, let alone two first ones. “You’re from the city, aren’t you?” asked Ranger Brock.

“West Vancouver,” Ceballo said.

That figured. West Vancouver was a tony suburb where only the richest people could afford to live. The ranger had passed through the neighborhood once on his way to a conference and when he’d wondered aloud how anyone could afford to live in those houses, his colleague riding with him in the van said, “They screw the poor, how else?” This man looked capable of screwing the poor—and anyone else he could—just to get ahead.

“I’m a vice president of Conservco and this site’s supervisor.” He extended his hand. “My friends call me Ty.”

Neither Sergeant Martin nor the ranger extended their hands. “This isn’t a social call,” the ranger said.