First thing he did was go to the station and check the call logs for his son’s car. Uniforms had discovered it outside an abandoned warehouse at 4:47 in the morning. French pictured the address, and worked the math in his head. Nine or ten miles from the Carriage Room. Too far for Gibby to walk.

Ditched, then.

From there, it was a short drive to the municipal impound yard. The shield got him through the gate. Finding the car was not so easy.

“Sixty-six Mustang?” The mechanic was grease-stained and bored.

“That’s right.”

“Color?”

“Maroon. It came in early.”

“Well, now.” The mechanic sipped from a Dr Pepper can. “I didn’t get here ’til seven, and it’s not on the clipboard.”

“Check again, please.”

He took his time, pages turning with the same slow, licked-finger rhythm. “Wait, yep. Here it is.” He pressed a damp finger onto a single page, twelve sheets down. “Problem is, you said Mustang. The paperwork says Ford. You also said maroon, and this says dark red.”

“Are you screwing with me?”

“Why would anyone screw with a cop?”

The smile showed in his eyes, but city employees with a bitter streak were hardly rare, so French gave him the win. Working through the bay, he opened a door on to an acre and a half of parked vehicles, and found the car where he’d been told to look.

Registration in the glove box.

Plenty of gas.

French pulled on rubber gloves, and searched it front to back. Nothing. Returning to the small office, he found the same mechanic sipping on the same can of soda. “I want that car moved to deep impound.”

“Huh? It was just a tow.”

“I’ll have a forensics crew here in thirty minutes.” French reached across the desk, snatched up the phone, and spoke as he dialed. “In the meantime, move the car. Do it now. I’ll need your fingerprints, too.”

“Huh?”

“You and whoever hooked up the tow.”

When French returned to the station, he went to see the captain. David Martin was a fair man, but a stickler for the rules. French didn’t care. He barged into the office.

“I want in on the Tyra Norris case.”

“There’s this new thing.” Captain Martin leaned away from the desk. “It’s called knocking.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

The captain regarded him carefully, twisting a pen between his fingers. “So your son, at last.”

“I should have done this sooner.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Shock. Disbelief. I don’t know. Too much cop and not enough father. I thought like the rest of you.”

That was about recovered photographs and the murder weapon, a slab of evidence thick enough to bury Jason alive.

“Kathy,” the captain called out, and his assistant appeared around the door. “Two coffees, please. Cream for the detective.” She left, and he gestured at a chair. “Let’s talk about Gibby first.”

“You heard?”