“I don’t know where to begin,” Drue said. “I went to the hotel last night, and figured out that it was Neesa Vincent, not Jaz, on video, working that night, and like I kinda suspected, it was the head of housekeeping who killed her.”

“What? How’d you find all this out?”

“It’s too long to go into over the phone. But one thing I wanted to tell you. Neesa said she talked to an investigator. But Zee’s reports said he couldn’t find her. I can’t get past the idea that Zee should have figured this whole thing out. Ben, I really think Zee is up to his ears in this thing.”

“Are you sure?” Ben asked. “I mean, have you talked to your dad or anybody else about this? That’s a pretty radical theory, Drue.”

“I know,” she admitted. “And I guess I’m kinda keyed up because I haven’t had hardly any sleep.”

“Okay, well, we should definitely talk before you go accusing Zee of stuff,” he said. “Oh shit. I gotta go. My next session is starting. I’ll call you as soon as I get out, okay?”

“Talk soon,” Drue said.

53

August 20, 1976

Colleen was momentarily paralyzed with fear. The barrel of the revolver was pointed directly at her. She glanced around, frantic for help. A homeless man was slumped over on a nearby bus bench, the pages of a newspaper ruffling gently in the faint breeze while pigeons pecked at potato chips from a spilled bag. A pair of elderly women occupied the next green bench over, their heads bent together, deep in conversation.

She should scream. Or run. Or both. But her feet were rooted to the pavement, her mouth bone dry.

“I said, get in the goddamn car.” The driver reached over and wrenched the door handle open. “Now! Or I swear to God, I’ll kill you right here.”

Colleen obeyed, setting the train case on the floorboards by her feet. With the gun lowered, she could concentrate on the woman’s face, and she gasped involuntarily. The driver was Sherri Campbell. Brice’s wife.

“Put your hands out in front of you,” the woman ordered. Colleen did, and a moment later a pair of handcuffs were snapped across her wrists.

“Why are you doing this?” Colleen’s voice was hoarse.

The light changed and the car began moving, picking up speed. “Shut up,” Sherri replied. “I don’t want to hear a word from you.”

Colleen studied her captor’s face. The features were regular, but contorted in barely controlled rage.

She began to softly weep, hating herself for being weak and afraid, and as her terror mounted, she was unable to choke back the sobs.

“Stop that!” Sherri backhanded her so hard, Colleen’s ears were ringing. A trickle of blood ran down her chin, merging with the unstoppable tears.