An hour later, we drive past the road to the cabins and find ourselves at Coyle’s address. Montrose has sharper eyes than I do. He sees the entrance to the Coyle property right away. It’s narrow—too narrow, I think, for a semi—and it’s shrouded under a canopy of big-leaf maples and hemlock trees.

“Creep lives here,” he announces, pulling in.

“And you do all this without GPS,” I say.

He shrugs. “GPS is for wusses.”

A man wearing paint-splattered blue jeans and a tank top emerges from a single-wide trailer at the top of the long, rutted driveway. A tuft of white chest hair protrudes over the top of his shirt. It’s so long I think that it might possibly be braidable.

By the time we park, Jim Coyle is right next to the driver’s side, looking us over with an unfriendly glare. “See the ‘No Trespassing’ sign?” His face is ruddy from the sun. His eyes are so brown that it is hard to distinguish the iris from the pupil. He doesn’t smile. In fact, it looks as if he hasn’t ever. He has no laugh lines on his face.

Montrose opens his door so Coyle has to step back, and I join him outside the car. As Montrose makes the introductions, it’s immediately apparent that Coyle is used to people like us stopping by uninvited.

“I know why you are here,” he says.

“Really?” Montrose asks.

Coyle folds his arms across his chest, pushing his tuft nearly to his chin. “I made a mistake a long time ago,” he says. “I met the wrong girl, and she set me up.”

“You held her at gunpoint,” I say.

“I pled guilty to that. Yeah, I sure did. But that bitch is a liar, and she proved it later when she decided to ask forgiveness. Called me. Harassed me. Said she was sorry. What am I supposed to do with that? Judge says nothing. Case stands. I am a goddamn rapist, and that’s why you’re here. Such bullshit.”

A yapping Pomeranian, one of my least favorite dogs, sweeps down from the trailer, and Jim scoops it up.

“Where were you yesterday?” I ask.

“I was running a load down to Longview. Got back here this morning.”

Montrose looks around. “Where’s your rig?”

Coyle shifts his dog up to his left shoulder. “At the lot in Chehalis. Brakes are a little sticky.”

“No one likes sticky brakes,” Montrose says.

I give my partner a bit of a side-eye. He always promises to rein in his immediate disgust for a person of interest with a criminal record, but he never seems to get there. When I look past Coyle, I see his pickup truck. It’s red. On the back bumper, I can make out the green fringe of some reeds.