“That’s the interesting part—on a little mountain road, not more than a lane, where people have second homes. It’s sparse. Hardly anyone lives up there year-round. Just summer homes. Cabins on a creek and in the woods, that sort of thing.” She took a sip from her cup as she settled into her chair, and he stood next to her to view the monitor on her desk.

Rivers’s mind churned. “Does one of the cabins belong to James Cahill?” he asked, focused on her computer screen. An aerial shot, where a small spur of a county road was visible, came into view. Maybe this really was something.

“Nope. Not Cahill.”

“Then who?”

She zeroed in on one plot of land. “I checked the county records for all of the lots in the area, and most meant nothing, but the registered owner of this place,” she tapped the screen with a fingernail where the roof of a cabin was visible through the tree branches, “just happens to be one Harold Sinclaire, aka Mr. ‘Good Guy’ Harry.”

“Harry Sinclaire?” The name rang a bell. “Jennifer Korpi’s boyfriend?” he asked, surprised. Though he hadn’t discounted her as a suspect, Rivers hadn’t really thought the nervous schoolteacher James Cahill had once dated was involved in Megan’s disappearance. She hadn’t seemed the type, despite what he’d felt while holding her tension ball: the sadness, the anger, maybe even a hint of jealousy. Nonetheless, this was something, and that familiar tingle in his blood that came with the thought that they finally had something to go on, a lead, singed through his veins.

“Yep. Jennifer’s current main squeeze, as my grandma used to say. One and the same.” Mendoza seemed pleased with herself. “How do you think Sister Rosemarie would like them apples?”

He allowed himself a laugh.

Mendoza said, “I think we should go and check the place out.”

He was already reaching for his keys, and within minutes, they were driving west out of the city. With Mendoza navigating the GPS, Rivers kept to the main road, then, near the summit, turned onto a county road that was packed with ice and snow. They met few other vehicles as the road twisted upward through dense old growth laden with snow, fir trees and pines that spired high into the sky.

“Here!” Mendoza said as they rounded a sharp curve and she spied a narrow one-lane bridge that spanned a frozen creek. The lane was unplowed, with only a few visible ruts. They decided to walk in and trudged through knee-deep snow in places to the third house in, a rustic, two-storied cabin with a steeply pitched roof, the walls built of rough-wood siding that had grayed over the years. The doors were locked, but a few of the windows didn’t have the shades drawn. They peered inside, their breath fogging the panes, the interior dark.