The woman who stood there was petite and strong-shouldered, anywhere from fifty to sixty. She wore a royal blue and yellow checked shirt tucked into tight jeans that showed off a flat tummy, tight waist, boyish hips. Creased but clean work boots peeked out from under the jeans. White hair that retained some of its blond origins was tied back in a short ponytail—a merest upward twist of free locks. Her features were strong in a way that made them attractive in later life, but as a girl she’d probably been plain. Her eyes were a mottle of green and brown, lacking too much of the former to be called hazel. She’d plucked her eyebrows into spidery commas but wore no makeup. Her skin was testament to everything the sun could to do to skin: puckered, cracked, corrugated, coarse to the point of woodiness. A few scary-looking dark patches danced under the eyes and crowned her chin. When she smiled, her teeth were the milky white pearls of a healthy virgin.

“Mrs. Schwinn?” said Milo, reaching for the badge.

Before he got it out of his pocket, the woman said, “I’m Marge, and I know who you are, Detective. I got your messages.” No apology for not returning the calls. Once the smile faded, not much in the way of any emotion, and I wondered if that contributed to even-tempered horses.

“I know the cop look,” she explained.

“What look is that, ma’am?”

“Fear mixed with anger. Always expecting the worst. Sometimes, Pierce and I would be riding, and there’d be a sound, a scurrying in the brush, and he’d get the look. So . . . you were his last partner. He talked about you.” She glanced at me. The past tense hung heavy.

She bit her lip. “Pierce is dead. Died last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. I miss him terribly.”

“When did—”

“He fell off a horse seven months ago. One of my tamest, Akhbar. Pierce was no cowboy, he never rode until he met me. That’s why I gave him Akhbar as a regular mount, and they bonded. But something must’ve spooked Akhbar. I found him down near Lake Casitas, on his side, with two broken legs. Pierce was a few yards away, head split on a rock, no pulse. Akhbar had to be put down.”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

“Yeah. I’m dealing with it okay. It’s the gone-ness that hits you. One day someone’s here and then . . .” Marge Schwinn snapped her fingers, looked Milo up and down. “Basically, you’re what I expected, given the passage of time. You’re not here to tell me something bad about Pierce, are you?”

“No, ma’am, why would I—”