Rivas held up his hands. “Come on, Eddie, it’s after midnight. A lot of these people—”

“So what? What is it with you two? This is a homicide. You want to wait for permission? Wake them up. Wake them all up. I want an answer in thirty minutes.”

When Bailey had retreated to her desk and the others had left the room, Mahler picked up the evidence bag with the handwritten note. He read the lines through and saw again the victim lying on the park bench, her lips parted as if she were about to speak.

(ii)

(THURSDAY, 12:10 A.M.)

A noise came from the back of the car as Frames shifted into fifth. He turned down the Dave Matthews. Clutch slipping? Too far back. Universal joint? Does a Dodge Charger even have a universal joint?

Alone in the fast lane, running at seventy, Frames backed off the accelerator. He didn’t want to get rung up on the empty freeway by a highway patrol unit looking to make its daily numbers. He felt the release of getting out of the office, on his own time, moving fast. He figured fifteen minutes to reach his apartment in Rohnert Park, another twenty to take a shower and microwave a chicken potpie. Back in the VCI room by one thirty at the latest.

The noise again. A deep grinding from higher in the car’s back end, not the undercarriage. He accelerated to see if speed changed the sound. It stopped but immediately returned, this time two different grindings, both much louder, echoing off the car’s interior.

Heart pounding, Frames looked ahead. No exit for a couple miles. He needed to pull over and call for a tow. He downshifted to fourth.

Suddenly a powerful scratching came from behind the rear seat. Fuck, was someone in the trunk? His skin turned to ice. He tried to twist around enough to look toward the noise, but the space was dark. He pulled out his Glock. “Hey, who’s back there?”

Grinding and scratching blended, faster and louder. He checked the road, then turned around again. The rear seat, which was not far away in the Charger, shook violently. “Police officer,” he shouted. “I’m a police officer.”

Just get the fuck off the highway. In the passenger-side mirror, headlights hovered a quarter mile back. Reaching for the shifter, he remembered the Glock in his hand. He put the gun on the passenger seat and downshifted to third, swinging the car into the middle lane. At fifty in third, the rpms roared. He picked up the Glock, hand trembling.

In the rearview, he saw the back seat bend forward, rocking wildly.

Where was his phone? Left front jeans pocket. He’d never get it out!

This time, as he turned around, the head of a large animal burst over the rear seat—a thick, square face, mouth open and growling.