What bothered him was Bobbie. After he got dressed, he’d found her at the kitchen table, staring into her mug, with Cupcake’s head on her lap. He sat beside her and told her how sorry he was about Falk. That it was his fault, all of it. Bobbie just shook her head and turned away. A moment later, she stood up and left the house, taking the dog with her. Framed photos of her and Falk, smiling and happy, hung on every wall. He had asked for Bobbie’s help just a few hours ago, and her generosity had taken the heart out of her life.

Worse still was thinking about Helene. She appeared in flashes as if he were still trapped in the back of the sheriff’s cruiser, watching through that shattered windshield as Roy assaulted her. The pain on her face, and the hopelessness that filled her eyes as she realized that nobody would come to save her. Difficult as that was to witness, Peter knew it was nothing compared to Helene’s experience, living through it. Peter had failed her twice, and he had no way to find her again.

“I’m sorry, son, could be I’m dim or something, but why didn’t you just call the law when this whole thing started?”

This was Campbell, the older of the two DCI investigators. With his long, seamed face, his blue suit with contrasting stitching, and a folksy way of talking, he reminded Peter of a singing cowboy from a black-and-white movie, except he never sang a note. Instead, he was polite and patient and doodled in a large black book as he asked question after question in no particular order, looping endlessly forward and back, waiting for the misplaced or altered detail that would tell him Peter was lying.

Peter wasn’t lying. Four sworn officers were dead, and Helene had disappeared. He’d told them everything he knew, including what he’d learned from Helene, and the fact that Roy was obviously the leader of the group, with Frank his second in command. He’d identified the men he’d known as Hollywood and Pony Boy from pictures on Campbell’s phone. Their real names, or at least the names in their wallets, were Bradford Pitts and Arthur White Horse.

Peter looked at Campbell. “Because Helene said Roy was connected to a bunch of cops. Hollywood and Pony Boy each said the same thing. Sheriff Johns said Roy gave money to his campaign, and was a guest at his annual county law enforcement picnic. I’ve told you all of this at least four times. Maybe now you can let me know what you’re doing to find Helene.”

“Mr. Ash, that’s not your concern.” Buckley, the younger DCI investigator, didn’t talk much. He was dressed in designer jeans, running shoes, and a silvery tracksuit jacket. He had a digital recorder going on the coffee table, and he sat watching Peter with one ankle propped on the opposite knee, his foot twitching like the tail of a cat. Unlike Campbell, Buckley didn’t even try to conceal his hostility.