Vince Leone, forty-nine, former special agent with the FBI’s legendary Behavioral Sciences Unit, former Chicago homicide detective. Leone had been his mentor during his course at the FBI’s National Academy—a training program for law enforcement agencies around the country and around the globe. In fact, Leone had come to Oak Knoll more than a year past in part to work a serial-killer case, in part to try to recruit Mendez to the Bureau.

The case was ongoing. Neither of them had left.

Leone had just arrived on the scene. They drifted slowly away from his car toward the house, both of them taking in the cool, eucalyptus-scented air.

“The woman’s four-year-old daughter,” Mendez said. “She had a faint pulse. She’s on her way to the hospital. I wouldn’t expect her to make it.”

Leone muttered an expletive under his breath.

He was an imposing man. Six foot three with a mane of wavy salt-and-pepper hair. A thick mustache drew the eye away from the small, shiny scar marking the entrance wound of the bullet that should have ended his life. Instead, the thing remained in his head, inoperable because of its precarious location.

“I hate when it’s a kid,” he said.

“Yeah. What did a four-year-old do to deserve that?”

“Witness.”

“She knew the killer.”

“Or he’s just one mean bastard.”

“I’d say he has that covered,” Mendez said.

They went through the little gate to the yard and followed the rock path around the side of the house, past an old concrete fountain that gurgled soothingly despite the occasion.

“Who called it in?”

“A friend who happened to drop by.”

Leone stopped and looked at him. “It’s the crack of freaking dawn.”

To be precise, 7:29 A.M. The sun was barely up.

“Yeah,” Mendez said. “Wait until you meet him. Odd guy.”

“Odd how?”

“Looks-like-a-suspect odd. Who drops in on a neighbor at six in the morning?”

“Is he here?”

“He’s with Bill.”

Bill Hicks, sheriff’s detective, Mendez’s partner. Hicks had a way of putting people at ease.

“Is Cal coming?” Leone asked.

Cal Dixon, county sheriff, Mendez’s boss.

“On his way.”

“I don’t want to step on toes here.”

Leone was not on the SO payroll, but he was too good a resource not to call. Studying the country’s worst serial killers for more than a decade, he had seen just about every atrocity one human being could inflict on another. More important, he could discern much from the scene that could point them in a direction in the search for the perpetrator.

“I spoke with him,” Mendez said. “He agreed.”

“Good.”

They paused at the kitchen door. Mendez pointed at the tree.

“The official puke zone. In case you need it.”

“Good to know.”