“Then don’t be that guy again,” Somers said. “I need good police I can work with. Now, help me with this.”

He motioned for Yarmark to take hold at the bottom, where more plaster had broken away, and he gripped the top. Together, they pulled. The whole wall came free, and both men stumbled. Somers hit the wall behind him. Yarmark landed on his ass. Extending a hand, Somers helped Yarmark up, and they examined the piece of wall. It had only been supported, Somers could see now, by the walls on either side—there was no framing behind it, nothing to which the laths had been nailed. Whoever had put this here, it hadn’t been intended as a real wall. It had been a temporary measure. Like the door that had led them into the factory, it had been a decoy. No, Somers thought, his heart picking up. No, not a decoy. It had been a blind. Like hunters use.

The hallway extended another three feet before terminating at a broken window, where sunlight poked through honeysuckle branches. Somers motioned for Yarmark to stay where he was. Studying the floor, Somers pointed. Then again. Then again.

“Piece of shrink wrap,” Yarmark said. “Cheap stuff. Brittle. And that’s, what, a piece of cardboard?”

“The back of some packaging. I’m guessing for batteries.”

“Batteries? Why batteries?”

“Because this monster decided to include a light show in his most recent performance.” Somers stood. “That’s the same kind of wire he used to suspend her body, see it? Just a snipping, but it’s there. This was where he prepped everything. We wondered how he staged it so quickly; here’s the answer. He had it all ready. Less than a hundred yards from where he wanted to set her up. For the love of God.” Somers wiped his hands on his jeans. “Go get Norman and Gross; we’re going to have to process this whole damn building.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

JULY 3

WEDNESDAY

8:16 PM

PROCESSING THE SCENE with Norman and Gross, though, wasn’t quite as straightforward as Somers had hoped. Someone—he wanted to point the finger at Russell, although the scrawny asshole hadn’t done anything where Somers could see it—had notified Park, and within twenty minutes of finding the fake wall, the FBI agent and her team were back at work, shunting Somers and the rest of his team to one side. Somers had hung around, unwilling to relinquish his find, but he hadn’t been able to do much besides pace and swear and demand updates. Finally, hours after she’d arrived, Park grilled him, making him run through the whole chain of events. Then she did it again. And then again. And then she stared at him, a candy cigarette drooping between her lips, and told him to go home. That, she added, was an order.

It had taken a lot of self-control not to remind her that she didn’t give Somers orders.

By the time Somers got home, the sun had dropped below the horizon, leaving nothing but a band of ocher at the edge of the world. Everything else was dropping into a blue haze, the blue deepening to purple, the purple thickening to black. He parked in the garage, spotted trash cans that needed taken down to the road, and hauled them toward the curb. He was wheeling them into place when a gunshot cracked.