Mahler retaped the photo to the whiteboard and stood for a minute staring at it. “Steve and Eden,” he said without turning around, “go up to the park and see if you can talk to this homeless guy who says he saw a body.”

“You mean like tonight?” Frames asked.

“Afraid of the dark, Stevie?” Coyle said.

“Hey, man, seven years ago I was taking point on night patrols in Diyala Province. What were you doing?”

Walking across the room, Mahler saw Truro in the doorway. The chief was back in his white shirt and Dockers. “We need to talk,” Truro said.

Truro led Mahler a few feet down the corridor from the VCI room door and out of earshot of the others. “You know, after you walked out,” Truro said, “one of the reporters asked if it was unusual for the chief investigating officer to leave in the middle of a press conference. She wanted to know if I thought you were having a nervous breakdown.”

“The investigation’s just getting under way,” Mahler said evenly. “I think we covered everything.”

“That’s your answer? Really?”

“I don’t want to waste my time when I don’t have anything to say.”

The two men faced each other.

“You have any idea what this town’s going through?” Truro glared at Mahler. “Have you been out on the streets lately? Talked with anyone outside this office? They’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. City Council wants me to put an armed patrol around Spring Lake. The newspaper asked me to comment on a story they’re running about a barista wearing a Glock to work.”

“We’re working this thing as fast as we can.”

“It’s your job. For any other case, that might be okay. But this is a murdered girl at the lake, and another one may turn up in three days.”

“My job is to find this guy. I can’t change what the public thinks.”

“We work for the public. It’s all about them. So, okay, you don’t want to talk to reporters. But you ever disrespect me again like you did this morning, and I won’t hesitate to go after you. We clear on that?”

Mahler looked at Truro and, without answering, walked past him back to his office.

Chapter Nine

(i)

(TUESDAY, 9:23 P.M.)

Dorothy Knolls had ruddy cheeks. Around her lips radiated the deep lines of an inveterate smoker. In her late forties, she was dressed in sweatshirt and jeans, her hair combed into a bun snatched together by a plastic claw.

She had called the incident tip line an hour earlier, saying she might know the victim’s identity. She asked to see Mahler in person; she’d found his name in an online news article—one describing him walking out of the press conference.