Or maybe she was lying low. Whether or not Fraser Harmison had already tracked her down, Cheryl might not be too keen on talking about her dead ex-boyfriend to a stranger. I rang a second time and knocked intermittently for several minutes before resorting to my phone. When Cheryl’s number went to voicemail, I gave up and reached into my wallet for Harmison’s card.

I owed the police chief an update, and managed to catch him at his desk. He was interested to hear about Cheryl and the letter from Brett, but it was immediately clear the top spot on his watch list was occupied by Russell Loming. Apparently Loming had a record that included domestic abuse. He’d beaten up his first wife on more than one occasion, and that history of violence, coupled with his allusion to an unpaid debt, made him a viable suspect.

Loming. He was little more than a blip on my radar. Had I been too focused on Bram and Felicia? Was I letting him off easy? By all accounts Loming and Brett had been friends, but I’d seen plenty of happy relationships turn toxic, especially when money was involved. Loming was one of the few people who knew Brett was leaving, and when. If Brett owed him some cash, Loming might not appreciate the man’s hasty retreat.

Russell Loming had also made a point of trying to sidetrack me by bringing up Cheryl. Redirecting my attention would seem like a smart strategy to a guy who was guilty of murder.

I’d told Harmison my connection to Brett would be useful. I’m coming at things from a different angle, I’d said. But what if that angle was skewed, like so many moments from my past? Like that night Abe, Suze, and I went drinking. It was Abe who planted the idea in my head that he’d saved us all from a ride in the paddy wagon. If my obsession with the idea that the buck stopped at the Skiltons’ front door was making me shortsighted, I might overlook critical evidence. What if that meant I couldn’t find Brett’s killer? What if it meant we would never find Trey?

Back at my parents’ house, I parked next to Doug’s car and turned off the ignition. I hadn’t talked to Tim all morning, and while his silence didn’t bode well for positive progress on Trey’s case, I had to know what was going on. This time, he answered his cell on the first ring. That didn’t bode well, either.

“Anything new?” I asked, sinking into the residual heat of the seat warmer. Through the big living room window I could see the back of my mother’s head. She was sitting on the sofa.

“Let me put you on speaker,” said Tim. “McIntyre’s here, too.” I heard a click, and the ambient sound of the station.

“Mac?” I said eagerly.

“I’m here. We just got the composite sketch from that forensic artist.”

“Check your e-mail,” said Tim.

In recent weeks I’d gotten used to the barren column of white that greeted me when I opened my mail app. Tim’s message was a welcome sight. I clicked on the attached image and found myself looking at the man in the hat who had left the poster of Trey and Brett at Smuggler’s Cargo.