He hit the INCLINE button, and the treadmill responded, its nose inching upward so that he was running uphill, the sweat rolling off his muscles and dripping off his nose, his calves and thighs protesting.

The answer to the case was right in front of him, he was sure of it, he just couldn’t see it.

Why?

Because he was wearing blinders?

Was he too focused on James Cahill, who was at the center of the investigation, linked to the victims, suspects, and crime scenes? Could Cahill really be completely innocent?

“No way,” he said aloud.

Today, he promised himself, things were going to break.

He would make them.

First, by leaning on Bruce Porter.

He’d viewed the footage from the airport parking-lot security tape that Detective Tanaka in San Francisco had sent, and all they could determine from the grainy black-and-white image was that the individual appeared male, though there was no certainty in that hypothesis. Just because the driver leaving Charity Spritz’s parked van was nearly six feet, that was no guarantee. In an oversized sweatshirt, face obscured by a hood, and loose jeans, the figure could be a woman in disguise.

But he was betting on Gus Jardine. The reason? Teeth marks on Jardine’s hand. Rivers had learned about Gus’s injury from a surgical nurse who hadn’t been able to keep her mouth shut despite the current HIPAA rights of patients. She’d called, spoken anonymously, but swore there had been a human bite mark on Jardine’s palm that had been visible, despite the damage done by the tile saw. Also, she’d insisted there had been other marks on him, bruises on his arms and torso that he claimed were all due to the accident, but the nurse didn’t buy it—she’d seen her share of injuries from a struggle. She’d found a way to send over the pictures of Jardine’s wounds, including the bite marks, and Rivers had forwarded the info to Tanaka, who had promised to have a lab take an impression of Charity Spritz’s teeth for comparison.

Rivers had discovered it was possible to fly back and forth to the San Francisco area with enough time to kill Spritz in between. Unfortunately, Gus Jardine’s name hadn’t shown on any flight manifests.

Of course, he could have driven—but that would have pushed it time-wise. Why would Jardine go to all the trouble to follow Charity to San Francisco to kill her?

Rivers only hoped the scrapings beneath Charity’s fingernails would ID the person who attacked her.

Bruce Porter, Jardine’s friend, might have the answers.

He shut off the treadmill and television and faced the day.

Forty minutes later, he was walking into the sheriff ’s office.