The Police Department headquarters was a three-minute drive away, and the procedure was the same as at Santa Barbara PD two days earlier. They put Vincent in an interview room and gave him coffee, and then a couple of detectives came and asked him what had happened.

Other than omitting Gutierrez, he stuck to the facts. When he told them about the narcotics concealed in the soup cans, the detectives stepped out and left him alone for twenty minutes. When they came back, they told him there would be some other people wanting to talk to him, too.

Vincent said, ‘Yeah, I thought there might.’

It was five minutes to four in the afternoon. He’d charged his phone and done some Googling, so he knew he needed to be out of here by nine forty-five at the latest. No one was hurrying, though. A technician swabbed him for cordite residue, and then he had another round of questions with the San Luis Obispo PD—detectives wanting to hear the story for a second time. Again, he kept to the truth wherever he could: told them Sly Junior and Delroy Clemons had arrived in the van, shot Leo and then opened fire on the house. When they came inside, Vincent killed them.

He knew his story would come undone when the crime-scene staff confirmed trajectories and shell casings, but that would take time. Provided he wasn’t arrested, the delay might be enough to get him out of here. And in any case, he could attribute the errors to the stress of the moment.

Ninety minutes in, they let him have a break—left him alone in the interview room with a fresh cup of coffee—and Vincent used his cellphone to call the hospital. The duty nurse told him Erin was still in surgery, but couldn’t give him any details. He tried Deborah Forsyth.

No answer. He called Beauden’s number.

Beauden said, ‘Good timing. I just got off the phone with your lawyer friend, Page. They’ve decided the odds aren’t great, going on the run from the law and a drug cartel.’ He chuckled. ‘I told them that was my feeling, too. They want cooperating witness status, and they want to contract us for protection.’

Vincent said, ‘You can do it. I’m not interested.’

He told Beauden what had happened.

‘She’s shot?’

‘She’s in surgery right now.’

‘Oh, man. Shit, okay. I’ll come up.’

‘No, it’s all right. Stay there. But call her ex. Her son’s with him.’

The phone buzzed against his ear. He checked the screen: Deborah Forsyth.

He said to Beauden, ‘I’ll call you later.’

‘Hold on. Why—’

He cut Beauden off and accepted Deborah’s call.

She said, ‘Oh, my God. It’s awful, you wouldn’t believe it—a man was killed in our home. A police officer, a Marshal, was killed—’

‘Yes, I heard.’