He said, ‘Maybe just let him know I called, and that I’ll try him again later.’ He turned from the window and saw the Marshal—Colton Locke—standing by the desk, looking at something on his phone.

Susan said, ‘All right. I think we can manage that.’

Vincent thanked her and hung up.

The Marshal said, ‘You have an interesting choice in literature.’ He looked up from the screen. ‘Or diverse, maybe that’s a better way to put it.’

He stood there reading, scrolling occasionally with a thumb. He said, ‘Backpack in the Lincoln contained … where was it. Barbarian Days, by William Finnegan. A film script about Catholics, and a hundred pages of that Senate Intel report about CIA torture.’

Vincent didn’t answer. He’d read parts of the CIA report on WikiLeaks during his convalescence, and knew he would have to read the whole thing. He needed to know what he’d been part of. So he’d worked through it the past few weeks, swapping to Finnegan’s surfing memoir when he needed a mental detox.

Locke said, ‘I believe they’ll have more questions for you shortly. But I thought I’d pick your brain in the meantime. If that’s all right.’

They went back to the interview room, and Vincent took his seat at the table. The Marshal remained standing, still looking at his phone. He brought it over and showed it to Vincent, holding his tie flat with his other hand as he leaned over. The screen showed a headshot of the Cuban guy.

Locke said, ‘You recognise him? Andre Gutierrez?’

Vincent nodded. ‘He’s the one I said shops at Gelson’s.’

Locke dropped the phone in his coat pocket and took his seat in the corner. He said, ‘You didn’t see him in the house?’

‘They wore masks.’

‘But no one said anything? You didn’t hear his voice?’

‘I didn’t see him or hear him.’

‘So when was the last time you did see him? That you can be certain of?’

Vincent said, ‘State Street. Opposite the train station.’

The Marshal consulted his phone again. ‘Santa Barbara PD found a three-fifty-seven Colt Python in the trunk of the Lincoln. And there was blood on the edge of the lid, apparently.’ Watching him carefully. ‘You know anything about that?’

Vincent didn’t answer.

Locke said, ‘I can appreciate your inclination to hold your tongue. But I don’t care if you punched someone in the nose in a parking lot. I just want to know about it so I can see how it fits the story.’

Not a big guy, but he carried his authority well—the way he didn’t break eye contact when he spoke, posing questions in his quiet voice. Calm and unrushed, like he knew his role in the world.

Vincent said, ‘What’s so special about Gutierrez?’

The Marshal said, ‘You talk first. Then I’ll maybe tell you some theories.’