She looked at Janelle and said, “He won’t get away with it. I promise.”

Chapter 16

Sitting in his garage, alone with his Lexus, his Bronco, and his thoughts, Gavin ran through his cleanup tasks one more time. Something was bothering him. He had changed the tires on the Bronco, so if he had left any tread prints along the river, they wouldn’t match. And there was no way they would find the dealership that sold him the used tires, and even if they did, the cash transaction severed the connection. He had cleaned the Bronco thoroughly—twice. He had used plastic sheathing so there would have been no transfer of fibers or hair. Nothing in the Bronco could link him to Sadie Vauk, but still, the Bronco bothered him.

Gavin knew that one of the biggest mistakes people made in committing illegal acts was to be cheap. A guy builds a bomb and keeps the wire cutter that links him to the device. A woman poisons her husband but refuses to throw away the computer she used for her research. As Gavin stared at his Bronco, he realized that he was being cheap. He loved the Bronco. It had been there for him from the beginning, and the hunk of metal felt almost like a friend. But a true craftsman would not tempt fate.

He thought about driving it into the river, but in broad daylight, that would be a high-risk move. What if he just parked it along a random, lonely street? Undoubtedly, some nosy neighbor would wonder about it and call it in. It was well past noon, the earliest time he’d given the detectives to track him down, and the possibility of them showing up at his door grew with every passing minute.

Then an idea came to him.

He drove the Bronco to the University of Minnesota, an area famous for its quick vehicle impoundment, found a quiet street with a No Parking zone, and parked. He watched the sidewalks and nearby porches and windows until he was satisfied that no one was around. Then he got out of the Bronco, screwdriver in hand, and slipped under the front of the truck. It only took him a few seconds to loosen the plug from the oil pan, letting oil stream to the pavement.

He rolled back out from under the truck, stood, and casually looked around again. He was still alone. He slid into the driver’s seat one last time, wiped his fingerprints off the key and steering wheel, and started the Bronco’s engine.

Then he shut the door and walked a block away to watch as his beloved Bronco coughed and shuddered. When the engine seized up, it sent a wisp of smoke into the air, as though its soul were leaving. His friend was dead—ruined. By the end of the day, it would be in the custody of an impound lot. An old truck like that with a blown engine would quickly be sold for scrap and crushed into a cube of rusted metal, forever hidden from his pursuers.