“We’ve already got Knowlton’s statement,” Mendoza reminded him as she fiddled with a knob on the dash, adjusting the vehicle’s temperature.

Robert “Bobby” Knowlton was the person who had found Cahill and called 9-1-1.

“He might have forgotten something.”

“Okay.” She wasn’t buying it, but she quit messing with the controls for the heater.

“And I like to see the scene when it’s not crawling with techs and deputies and EMTs tromping all over the place.” He didn’t know why he was explaining it, as it was, as she’d said, his case. He slowed for a curve just as an oncoming pickup drifted across the middle of the road.

“Watch out!” she yelled.

Rivers jerked on the wheel, his SUV swerving, a tire skimming the edge of a snow-covered ditch.

The truck, fishtailing, missed them by inches.

The Jeep slid and caught as, beside Rivers, Mendoza braced herself. “Holy—”

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

Mendoza was twisted in her seat, aiming her phone through the back window as she attempted to snap pictures through the glass. “You should go after that guy! He could’ve killed us!”

“I should.”

“I’m serious, Rivers! That prick is dangerous! I’m calling it in.”

Rivers checked his rearview, but the truck was already out of sight, having disappeared around the curve and into the curtain of snow.

Mendoza had her phone pressed to her ear and was already describing the pickup to a dispatcher. “I don’t know . . . Chevy, older model.”

“Ford,” he corrected. She shot him a look.

“Rivers says it was a Ford. White, I think.”

“Silver.”

Another dark glance was sent his way. “Silver. With . . . Washington plates, I think. I couldn’t really see. And no, I didn’t get the plate numbers.”

This time he didn’t interject as she told the dispatcher the location; but it was an effort in futility, just a chance for Mendoza to let off steam. She clicked off.

“He probably just hit ice and slid into our lane.”

She frowned. “Doesn’t matter. No excuses! Either you know how to drive in the damned snow, or you stay the hell home.” Craning her neck again, she peered through the back window as if she expected the pickup to reappear. It didn’t. “Anyway,” she said, letting out her breath as she settled into her seat again. “Road deputies will be on the lookout. I hope they nail that moron.”

“They could get lucky.”

She let out a huff of air. “You don’t even care.”

“Got my mind on other things.”

“Bigger problems than getting killed and meeting St. Peter today?” There was still an edge to her voice.

“Right.”