Toomey found the house easily. It was the charming, Spanish-style one-story home with a half dozen police cars and reams of yellow police tape in front of it. There were also two television trucks. He drove past all of them and parked halfway down the block, where they wouldn’t be seen.

“How are we handling this?” he asked the rest of them. “We can’t have Hunt be seen walking into that house. If this is the handiwork of either Thurman or Crutchfield, they’ll be watching closely to see if she shows up. And even if it’s not theirs, we don’t want her face splashed all over the news.”

Jessie waited to see if any of them would suggest the obvious solution. When no one did, she spoke up.

“Pull around back,” she instructed. “There was no driveway. That means there’s garage access from the alley. It’ll be closed off to TV crews and they can’t get those wide vans back there anyway. We should be able to get in without any cameras getting close.”

No one seemed to have any objections so Toomey started the car up again and did as she recommended. He radioed the other marshals to let them know the plan and advised them to remain on the main street.

Sure enough, the narrow alley was blocked off by patrol cars at either end. They pulled over and got out. Murph and Dolan flashed their badges to the nearest officer, who let them pass without asking for ID from either Toomey or Jessie, who was reluctant to reveal her identity to anyone, even a cop.

They walked through the back gate and up the porch steps to the entrance, where another officer asked for identification. He was less reluctant to let them pass without seeing everyone’s. But Dolan leaned in and whispered something Jessie couldn’t hear to the officer, who nodded and stepped back to let them through.

As they stepped through the door, Jessie tried to block out all the hassles of the morning and focus on her surroundings. She was on a case now and the victim, whoever it was, deserved her full attention.

The back door opened into the kitchen, which was contemporary and well-appointed with all the latest appliances. In fact, everything looked so pristine that she suspected it had all been redone in the last six months. Something about the place reminded her of the brand new McMansions of all those newly wealthy couples in Orange County, where she’d lived briefly before learning her now ex-husband, Kyle Voss, was a violent sociopath.

“Who lives here?’ she asked no one in particular.

A youngish-looking uniformed officer with sandy blond hair standing in the corner heard and walked over.

“I thought the detectives were all done,” he said.

“FBI is helping out,” Dolan volunteered, flashing his badge and looking at the young cop’s name tag. “What can you tell us, Officer Martin?”

“Yes sir,” Martin replied. “The home is rented by two women. Gabrielle Cantu and Claire Stanton. Stanton is the victim. She was twenty-three years old. She was found early this morning by Cantu and her date.”