Rivers picked up his cup, and Mendoza began refilling hers. She said, “I’ve been checking on Cahill. Yeah, he’s a trust-fund baby, but he hasn’t inherited yet. He did borrow from it, though. That’s how he bought all the property up here and started his business.”

“Make that businesses.”

“Right. But he won’t be able to get his hands on the bulk of the money until he turns thirty.”

“So how does that fit in with a girl gone missing?”

“Dunno. Yet. Just spit-balling,” she said as she stirred creamer into her cup.

“We got anything else?”

“The lab came back with the analysis of hair samples found in James Cahill’s bedroom.”

This was news. Rivers looked up. “And?”

“And aside from James Cahill’s and his dog’s, they found a couple of others. One blonde, very light.”

“Sophia Russo?”

“Seems likely.”

“And the other one?”

“Dark. Almost black.”

“Not Megan Travers?”

“Nope, hers is light brown and curly. We’ve got samples from a brush left in her apartment. But this one, dark and straight, was found in his bed. On his pillow.”

“Another woman.”

“Looks like.”

That was a new wrinkle, but maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised. His eyes narrowed. “DNA?”

“Not yet, and only if there’s a root. And it won’t help unless it’s in the database.”

“Or we get a sample.”

“Right.”

It wasn’t much, but something, he thought, as they reached his cubicle. He checked his watch just as the phone rang. He picked up and was told by the receptionist that Rebecca Travers had arrived. Good. Maybe she could shed some light on what had happened to her sister.

Then again, maybe not.

He thought about how she’d walked in on him early this morning at her sister’s apartment and felt a rush of heat climb up the back of his neck. Ignoring the sensation, he said to Mendoza, “We’re on.”

“Rebecca Travers?” When he gave her a nod, she grinned. “Good. Let’s go.”

Together, they headed to the interview room.

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 17

Phoebe Matrix’s hip was aching again.

In her bathroom medicine cabinet, she pushed aside her backup EpiPen, antacids, and cough syrup to locate her near-empty bottle of Tylenol and pop two into her mouth before bending over the sink and swallowing from the tap, washing down the caplets and hoping they did the job. Then she hobbled to the living room, where she opened the blinds to another wintry day. Snow covered the parking lot of the Cascadia Apartments, her pride and joy, and she frowned, knowing she’d have to rouse that slacker Dabrowski to salt and shovel the lot again. He always grumbled about it, though she gave him a break on his rent for doing some of the tasks around the grounds. Between her bad hip and other ailments, she just couldn’t keep up with the place any longer.