“I do,” he admitted, his breath smoky in the night air. “Right now, the police seem to think I had something to do with it.”

“Did you?”

“What? Jesus. No! You can’t still think—”

His phone chirped loudly. He checked his cell. “It’s my foreman.” He didn’t answer, but before he could say anything, it rang again. “Bobby again.”

“Take it.”

Frowning, he asked, “What’s up?” then stood stock still. The conversation was one-sided. “Shit. What? . . . Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . slow down.” His eyes found Rebecca’s, and in the half-light she saw the strain on his face, the worry. “Holy Christ,” he finally said, then, “Stay put. I’m on my way.” He ended the call, jammed the phone in his pocket, and grabbed her hand. “Come on.” He’d started jogging, dragging her with him toward the glowing lights of the Christmas tree lot, hurrying along a row of spruce trees laden with snow.

“What?”

“One of my employees. She didn’t show up for work today.”

“And,” she prodded, hurrying to keep up with him.

“I don’t have all the details. Don’t know if it’s true, but . . . what they’re saying is, is that she’s dead.”

“Dead?” She stopped in her tracks, jerking on his arm so that he turned to face her. “Who?”

“Willow Valente. Maid service. Christ, she can’t be twenty-five.” He tugged on her arm again, pulling her behind him, the dog loping beside them.

“What happened?”

“Don’t know.” His jaw was set as they cut through the evergreens. “But we’re damned sure going to find out.”

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 43

Rivers and Mendoza were far from the first cops on the scene. By the time they’d arrived at Willow Valente’s out-of-the way apartment, two other department-issued vehicles were parked in the lot, their lights strobing the night. A crowd had started to gather, and one deputy was putting up a barrier of yellow tape, another keeping track of who came and went. Rivers and Mendoza signed in to the crime scene, donned boots to cover their shoes, and hurried up the exterior stairs.

In the sparsely furnished unit, the victim lay in her bed, just as the first cop on the scene had found her, in exactly the same position as Rivers had seen her on Earl Ray Dansen’s phone.

Her television was flickering in the corner, a cup of what looked and smelled like some kind of flowery tea was cold on a nearby table, the gun pointed at her head where a bullet hole was visible just above her temple. Blood had matted her black hair, then trailed onto her pink pillowcase, where it had congealed in a dark pool. “James Cahill’s Glock?” Rivers asked, pointing to the gun in the victim’s hand.