“No. She called in to Missing Persons. Filed the original report. But she lives out of town. Seattle.”

He remembered that.

Mendoza went on, “She answered some questions on the phone with a deputy, but is scheduled to come in on Monday.”

“Good.” Maybe then they would make some progress. He had several people he wanted to interview again, plus he wanted to talk to someone at the state police about Megan Travers’s Toyota. So far the BOLO hadn’t turned up anything on the Corolla. “Why didn’t the hospital call us and let us know he was awake?”

“Don’t know.”

He checked his pocket, jangled his keys, felt for and found his wallet.

Mendoza stepped out of the way and started for the exterior door, following half a step behind him. “The nurse, Sonja Rictor, had already spoken to Dr. Monroe, and he gave us the green light to talk to his patient.”

“Good of him,” Rivers said sarcastically.

“We all have rules.”

“And some don’t make sense.”

“So you end up bending them, right?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, didn’t want to go there. “I’ll drive.”

“Have you had dinner?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll drive. I brought along half of a veggie sandwich from Jerry’s Deli for you.”

“Veggie?” he repeated as he pushed open the back door and Mendoza stepped through. The bitter cold wind slapped his face.

“It’s got two kinds of cheese—Havarti and cheddar—so not really vegan.” She shot him a glance. “And you know what they say about beggars not being choosers.”

“Yeah. I heard.”

They crossed the lot to the spot where she’d parked her Prius, and he slid into the passenger seat. Once inside, Mendoza reached behind him to the back seat and retrieved a white sack. “You can eat on the way. Hopefully it’s not frozen.”

“Thanks.”

The sandwich wasn’t, and was better than he expected. He munched away, wishing he had a beer as she drove through the streets, where Christmas lights had been strung and were now dancing in the wind. “So tell me about Rebecca Travers,” he said around a final bite.

“Don’t know a lot. She’s unmarried—not sure if she’s divorced or single; no kids and a couple of years older than Megan. As I said, she lives in Seattle, Queen Anne district, a condo she bought a few years back, and does some kind of marketing, I think. Not sure about that. Something with computers, though.” She slowed for a light.

“She tight with her sister?”

“Tight enough that Megan called her last Thursday after the fight with Cahill.”

“Alleged fight,” he cut in.

“Phone records concur. And I caught a glimpse of him when I stopped by earlier. He does look like he went two rounds with a bobcat.”

“Nothing’s been proved. Yet.”