“So,” Harutyun said, returning to them. “No leads. No suspect.”

“We have the evidence,” Crystal Stanning offered. “From the crime scenes and what we collected in Edwin’s backyard.”

“Evidence,” Harutyun muttered, a sour tone that Dance counted as yet another shred of emotion from the reserved detective. “Life’s not like CSI, I’m sorry. Charlie’s folks are good but you need more than finding. You need figuring out.”

Yet another dust devil whirled up nearby. Dance cocked her head as she stared at it.

“What?” O’Neil asked, perusing her face. He sensed something was up.

The miniature cyclone vanished.

Kathryn Dance pulled out her phone and made a call.

Chapter 52

TWO HOURS LATER this foursome reconvened in the sheriff’s office—in the digs of ousted P. K. Madigan, specifically. It was the largest in the Detective Division, the only one with room for more than two or three people at one time.

Dance noted, with some sad poignancy, that the chief detective had been clipping coupons from Safeway. Maybe he did the family shopping. Only one coupon was for ice cream. Buy one pint, get another free.

She received a text, read it and then asked the deputies, “Can you show me your service door?”

Harutyun and Stanning regarded each other and she said, “Sure, I guess. Follow me.”

Dance and others did and after a brief walk stopped at a wide doorway in a delivery area at the back of the main building, opening onto a ramp that led to the parking lot.

“Good. This’ll do.” She made a call and gave directions to this entrance. Dance disconnected and explained, “I’m having some houseguests this weekend. They’ve been in San Jose at a conference. I took the liberty of asking them here. I had our San Francisco office lend them a set of flashing lights. They made better time than I thought.”

Just then a white van pulled up and stopped. The side door opened and a disabled-passenger ramp extended to the ground. A moment later a handsome man with dark hair and a fleshy nose drove a red motorized wheelchair quickly down the ramp and through the doorway of the service area. Wearing tan slacks and a long-sleeved burgundy shirt, he was pale, as befits someone who does not get outside very much. Joining him was a tall, redheaded woman in jeans, black T-shirt and black jacket, and a slim, younger man with perfectly trimmed hair. He wore well-tailored slacks, a white shirt and a striped tie.

“Lincoln!” Dance bent down, pressing her cheek against that of the man in the wheelchair. “Amelia.” She embraced the redhead, Amelia Sachs, Lincoln Rhyme’s partner.

“Hello, Thom,” she said to Rhyme’s caregiver, who also hugged her warmly.

“Been way, way too long,” the aide said.

“Kathryn … and Michael O’Neil,” Rhyme said, casting his eyes quickly on the detective.

Surprised, O’Neil said, “That’s right.” He’d never met Rhyme. “How’d you know?”

“A few observations. You’re carrying a weapon so you’re public safety and those Fresno-Madera folks there”—a nod toward Harutyun and Stanning—“are in uniform but their name badges show they’re detectives. So, the policy here is that even detectives wear uniforms. You’re not, so you’re probably from another jurisdiction. There’s a car outside with a Monterey County wharf pass on it. You’re tanned and pretty fit—the way somebody who boats or fishes in the ocean would be. I know you and Kathryn work together frequently. Therefore … you were Michael O’Neil. Or, maybe I could tell that from the body language between the two of you.” This was delivered, like most of Lincoln Rhyme’s wry comments, without a smile.