In the past year, without being fully aware of it, Mahler had begun to doubt the business of detection—crime-scene evidence, eyewitness testimony, database patterns—the things that were supposed to identify a suspect. The two earlier homicide victims took with them to the next world not only every trace of their killer but also Mahler’s belief that any killer could be found. Facts, he discovered, were useless without faith in them, and he’d lost his, as another man might lose faith in his religion or his god.

He looked across the room. For a major homicide investigation, the group was an untested squad. Rivas and Coyle had been through important cases before, but Eden and Frames were new to VCI. This would be the first major case he’d lead with his new agnosticism. How long before one of them noticed he was racing the clock with tools he no longer trusted?

Rivas took a file from his desk and handed it to Mahler. “Two pounds of meth in Peña’s house. A nine mil that looks like a match for the weapon used to kill Castillo Saturday night. Mike took in the cousin and uncle for possession. Arraignment on Thursday. Gang Crimes is waiting to see if they want to talk.”

Mahler scanned the first page of the file and handed it back. “If Peña talks, make sure Mike gives you a call. We might clear a few other cases while we’re at it. Any problems?”

“Peña pulled a gun.” The room went quiet. Rivas shrugged. “We took care of it.”

Mahler waited to see if Rivas would say more. Threatening situations brought out different reactions. Some officers responded with bluster; others kept it to themselves. Rivas was usually a joker, underplaying the gravity with a wisecrack. A year earlier, when a teenage drug dealer had fired two rounds during an arrest, Rivas had said his weight-loss regimen made him a smaller target.

Now something new in his manner caught Mahler’s attention. He made a mental note to talk to Rivas when they were alone. “Do we have a crime-scene report on our Jane Doe?”

Coyle looked at his laptop. “Shoe prints on the path from the parking lot to the victim. Still trying to sort them out. No usable fingerprints on the wooden seat or seat back. No indications the body was dragged. Blood on the bench and the ground under it. We’re waiting on analysis, but it’s probably the victim’s.”

“Blanket’s a Pendleton brand.” Coyle scrolled further down the screen. “What the company calls Eco-wise wool. Southwestern Red. King size. Can be purchased at a store here in town, in any of five other retail outlets in California, or online. They sell about five thousand a year. Hair fibers on the blanket are canine.”

“Does everyone in this town have a dog?” Frames asked.