Colin named the county park. “Knowing how those groups operate, this could get dangerous. You may want to read the memo and the backup material, just in case.”

“Yeah.” Brent swiveled toward his desk. “But Antifa is a known quantity. They’re easy to identify if they go black bloc, with those dark hoods and masks—and that attire is also a tip-off to prepare for violence. I’d rather deal with them than this shadowy figure targeting Eve, whose appearance and methods are a mystery.”

“I agree with you in principle—but I clashed with Antifa folks once. It wasn’t pretty. Let’s hope they’re content to carry signs and chant slogans, and that they leave the black garb at home.”

“I hear you.”

“You still on chauffeur duty for Eve?”

“Through tomorrow. We’ll have to regroup after that. Phoenix is a possibility for security.”

“Excellent resource. Also pricey.”

“That’s why I’ve tried to pick up the slack while the case was hot.”

Colin booted up his laptop. “Maybe something will break in the next couple of days.”

“I hope so.”

Brent opened his email to read the memo from Sarge about the Antifa situation—but his mind kept wandering to Eve. As far as he could see, given the lack of clues to follow on this latest threat, it would take another incident to generate new leads that could help them identify the most recent note writer.

But much as he wanted a break in the case, the prospect of another episode that could put Eve in the line of fire curdled his stomach.

It was possible, as Colin had suggested, that whoever was behind the latest note was nothing more than a thrill seeker. Someone who’d fade away once the press sniffed out the news that Jackson was a serious person of interest in the case.

Much as he wished that was how this would play out, however, every instinct in his body was screaming that another incident was about to happen.

And that this one could be deadly.

“Hey, Buzz, you wanna stop in at Bubba’s for a beer?” Suds took off his painter’s cap and wiped the sleeve of his T-shirt across his forehead as they walked toward the company truck. “A cold one—or two—would hit the spot after working in an oven all day. It’s not supposed to be this hot in September.”

“Can’t tonight.” Buzz stopped at the truck and set down the drop cloths he’d been carrying. He had more important things to do than spend an hour guzzling beer with a moron.

“Hot date?” Suds grinned as he repositioned the eight-foot ladder he was lugging and slid it into the truck.

“Nope. Errands to run.”

“Can’t they wait? Crip and most of the other guys will be there.”

Not a selling point.