The words knocked the wind out of Harley. Well, that takes the cake, she answered bitterly. All you need is enough money, and you can get away with anything. And if anyone should try to stop you, God forbid, you can just sic the law on them.

She laughed ruefully. What, pray tell, were the grounds for this restraining order?

Callaway spoke quietly, not looking at her. Said we threatened them.

We threatened them? Shit, Callaway, youre the one who lost your cool! I thought you were supposed to be the level-headed one.

She felt her frustration boiling over. Some of it was from the case, some from her conversation with Greg.

That scumbag was coercing her, okay? Callaway snapped. Raping her. What was I supposed to do, ask him if he wouldnt mind confessing to a few murders so we could be on our way?

As frustrated as Harley was that Callaways outburst had jeopardized their investigation, she understood his feelings. Their work required a level of detachment that felt alien at times, even cruel.

Still…what did they have left to go on? Roth had completely boxed them out. Harley felt hopeless.

Well find a way to get to him, Callaway said, but she could hear the discouragement in his voice. He checked his watch. Ill take over here. Why dont you go get some rest? Youve got to be running on fumes by now.

She nodded, feeling worn out. She needed a break, yes, but more than that she needed a fresh perspective. She needed to go over the details of the case again, maybe talk it out with someone who could show her what she was missing.

The name of an old friend, a coworker from her time in the Chelsea field office, popped into her head. He had recently retired and moved to New Mexico. It wouldnt hurt to sit down with him and see what he thought about the case. Maybe he could help her see a new angle.

Because until that happened, the killer was going to stay freeand there was no telling when he would stop killing.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The next morning, Harley climbed the creaking steps to the door and knocked, certain she must be in the wrong place.

Everything about the house struck her as wrong: the chickens scrabbling for insects in the sparse tufts of grass along the road, the faded welcome mat that read Hang Your Spurs Here, the rusted dinosaur of a tractor consumed by weeds in the yard. The Emerson she remembered was organized, tidy, meticulous.

Not the kind of man who would spend his twilight years on a small farm in the middle of nowhere, fifty miles outside Albuquerque.