On Monday afternoon, a UCST sophomore named Julie Riordan had been killed in a two-car collision on Highway 154 while returning home from San Francisco. Walker McNally had been at the wheel of the other car. According to witnesses, he’d lost control of his Mercedes, crossed into oncoming traffic, and slammed into her head-on. He’d then crawled out of the wreckage and taken off on foot. By the time the cops caught up with him, he’d collapsed on the side of the road. He’d been admitted to St. Terry’s with a blood-alcohol level well over the legal limit. His injuries were non-life-threatening and his condition was listed as stable. Julie Riordan, age nineteen, was pronounced dead at the scene.

No wonder Carolyn McNally had hung up on me. Walker was probably still in the hospital when I’d called his house. She must have assumed I’d been hired to investigate the accident. When and if Walker returned to work—assuming he hadn’t been thrown in the pokey in the interim—he wasn’t going to be any friendlier than his wife had been. His colleagues at the bank would be on lockdown as well, warned about disseminating information of even the most benign sort. All I wanted was his father’s current address and a few minutes of his time. If Dr. McNally had forgotten the dog, I’d be facing another dead end, but it made me crazy to think he might be in town and me with no access.

I flirted with the idea of contacting Diana Alvarez. She could probably bully or bullshit her way through to any source she pleased, but I didn’t want to tip her to my interest in the wolfdog buried on that hill. Flannagan Sanchez had given me as much information as he had, so another chat with him would net me nothing. I abandoned the run and went home.

I tossed the newspaper on the counter and flipped on the TV. I tuned into one of the local stations, hoping the story would be covered in an upcoming news segment. All I caught was an endless stream of commercials. I tried two more channels with the same result. I left the TV on and went upstairs to shower. Once I was dressed, I put the coffee on and then ate a piece of toast while I read the article again. No two ways about it, Walker McNally was in deep shit. So now what?