“Of course.” He clears his throat. “Listen. There is something I can do for you guys. It’s not much, but we’ve got a helicopter patrolling night and day now, with a photographer shooting anything that looks out of place or notable from the air. There’s so much ground to cover. So many places this girl could be.”

“Ours too.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. It wouldn’t take much to send the crew higher and wider, down to Gualala, too. As you said, we wouldn’t want to miss anything.”

“That’d be great.” I reach for his hand, and then hug him impulsively instead, leaning into his barrel chest and neck for one beat longer than the moment warrants, missing Frank Leary and my partner. Missing Brendan, as complicated as that sounds. But most of all missing Hap. I’ve never needed him more.

“If Shannan Russo’s dead, her remains might be hidden in the forest somewhere,” I tell Rod. “Just a tip we got. And keep an eye out for her car, too. I’ll get you the plate number.”

“Sounds good,” he says as I step off the porch, feeling the smallest flicker of promise. Rod hasn’t offered much, but sometimes you have to start there, with almost nothing. And hope for everything anyway.

(twenty-nine)

“A helicopter can cover a lot of territory,” I relay to Will as we walk toward his cruiser. “That will help make up for the men we don’t have.”

“I’d rather have the men,” he says without looking at me.

Wickersham Park is still eerily silent. We pass by an empty teeter-totter traced with shadows. “I know you’re mad at me. Let’s talk this through.”

“What’s the point?”

When we reach his vehicle, he slides behind the wheel, his body language all barricade. “You heard everything Rod said,” I try again. “Let’s use our energy to learn more about Cameron.”

“Did it ever occur to you that you could be wrong about all this? What if there is a connection and you’re missing it, Anna? Have you never made a mistake?”

I hold my tongue, looking into the splayed shadows along the street. “What if we go to Napa to see Drew Hague?”

“Maybe.” The tension in his body shifts microscopically.

“We’re less than an hour away from there. What do you think?”

“It can’t hurt.”

—

It’s only been an hour or so since we left the downtown area for Fourth Street, but it’s clear as we head back in that direction toward the highway that something has accelerated. Kentucky Street, one block west of Petaluma Boulevard, is bumper-to-bumper with media trucks now—local, regional, and national. Dateline, Primetime Live, America’s Most Wanted.

“Must be a press conference,” I say.

“Another one?”