The GPS quits on her.

No matter.

She knows where she’s going.

Up ahead she sees the sign for Linden, makes a left, and then pulls her rental car over. There is a mess of people and police cruisers down the street, along with a fire truck and ambulance, and she knows she has to take this one easy. For one thing, Captain Cornwall might not be connected to this in any way. And for another, locals are always suspicious, and rightfully so, about having the Feds—FBI, ICE, military police—come in and stomp over everything.

Rosaria steps out, puts on her jacket, and slings her black leather bag over her shoulder. She starts walking down the street, retrieving her Army CID shield as she does so, walking by the fire truck and ambulance. Clustered around the plain one-story house are two black-and-white police cruisers belonging to the Three Rivers Police Department, one white cruiser belonging to the McMullen County Sheriff’s Department, and another black cruiser with a white hood from the Texas State Police.

Officers with drawn weapons are slowly going through the yard, and one officer comes out of the house—also with weapon in hand—and yells out, “Clear, but for Christ’s sake, we got a goddamn bloodbath in there. Anybody know when the chief will get here?”

Someone answers him, and Rosaria pushes her way through a handful of civilians, until she comes up to a heavyset Three Rivers officer, wearing a dark-blue uniform, holding his arms out.

“Sorry,” he says. “This is an active crime scene. Nobody’s allowed through.”

Rosaria shows her badge. “Warrant Officer Rosaria Vasquez, US Army. I’m a special agent with the Criminal Investigation Command.”

He eyes her badge and identification, and almost looks relieved. “Sweet Jesus, what a mess we got.”

“I’m involved in an investigation that might have a connection to what’s happened here,” she says, still keeping her identification in hand. “May I ask who’s in charge?”

“That’d be Sergeant Morales, over there by the door.”

“Your name, Officer?”

“Puntez.”

She smiles, one Hispanic to another, helping out. “Thanks, Officer Puntez, I appreciate the cooperation.”

Rosaria walks by him just as another officer trots up, quickly unspooling the traditional black-and-yellow crime scene tape, and as she gets closer to the house, there are a lot of loud voices, cursing, and more loud voices, until a woman’s voice cuts through and says, “That’s enough. Right now we got two victims inside, and nothing’s getting moved or touched until the chief and our own crime scene investigator show up.”

The woman is Sergeant Morales, skinny and short but wearing her dark uniform with pride and, now, with anger. She’s glaring at the other officers—two from the county and one from the state—and then notices Rosaria.

“And where the hell are you from?” she demands. “Border Patrol?”

Rosaria displays her identification and badge, and Morales nods and says, “Nice. The Army. Why the hell not? Add more confusion and jurisdictional pissing to this mess. What brings you here?”