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StandDownAJ.P.BEAUMONT

NOVELLA

J.A.JANCE

Dedication

ForAudreyandCeleste

Contents

Dedication

StandDown

AnExcerptfromDanceoftheBones

AbouttheAuthorAlsobyJ.A.Jance

CopyrightAboutthePublisher

StandDown

AS THE MACHINE spat out thelast drops of coffee thatMonday morning, a tinywhiff of hairspray wafteddownthehallwayfromMel’s

bathroom and mingled withthe aroma of freshly groundbeans and the distinctivefragranceofHoppe’s#9gun-cleaning solvent. While shewas down the hall gettingreadytogotowork,Iwasinthe kitchen cleaning ourweapons—her standard-issueSmith & Wesson and herbackupGlock,alongwithmyownGlockaswell.

It’s what I did theseMondaymornings—cleanourweapons—while she gotready to go to work inBellingham and while I gotreadytodowhateveritisIdothese days. I don’t supposethe architect who designedour penthouse condoimagined that our granitecountertop would oftendouble as a gun-cleaning

workshop, but then again,where else would I do thisnecessary, lifesaving task—thelivingroom?Itonlytakesoncetolearnhowcompletelya tiny piece of pistol innardscandisappearintothehiddenreaches of a plush living-room carpet. And cleaningher weapons every Mondaymorning was my smallcontribution toward keeping

hersafe.The hairspray told me that

within a minute or so, mywife, Mel, would emergefrom her bathroom dressed,made up, properly coiffed,and ready to go out into theworld as the city ofBellingham’s newly hiredpolicechief.While Iwasmarried tomy

firstwife,Karen,we’dshared

a single bathroom, with asingle washbasin and acombination tub and shower.BythetimeAnneCorley,mysecond wife, came into mylife, however briefly, I stillhad a single bathroom, but itcontained two washbasins,and a tub/shower combo.ShortlyafterMelSoamesandI tied the knot, it becameclear that even a deluxe

bathroom, one with twobasins, a tub, and a stand-alone shower, simplywouldn’tcutit.Melhadsolvedtheproblem

by collecting her lotions andpotionsanddecampingtothefar end of the hallway andturning the guest bedroom,bathroom,andcloset intoherprivate domain. At the time,since we were both working

the same shifts for the sameoutfit, having separatebathrooms worked for us.Nowthingshadchanged.Shehad a relatively new job. Asforme?Iwasstrugglingwiththeuncomfortable realitiesofbeing newly and quiteunwillinglyretired.Mel came down the hall,

looking very official in herspiffy police chief’s uniform

and a pair of sensible, low-heeledpumps.“Goodmorning,gorgeous,”

I told her. I knew she had ameetingwith theBellinghammayor, thecitymanager,andcitycouncilthatmorning,andIalsoknewshewasdreadingit. “Girls in uniform alwaysturnmeon.”She stopped and glared at

me. “Don’t lie,” she said.

“YouknowIlooklikehell.”The truth is, and much to

mysurprise,shedidlooklikehell. There were darkshadows under her eyes thateven deftly applied makeupdidn’tquitecover.Ihadspentthenight lyingnext toher inbed as she had tossed andturned her way through thehours. During my years inlaw enforcement, including

twentyorsoatSeattleP.D.,Ihad never once entertainedthe idea of climbing thetreacherous career ladderfrombeinganordinarycoptobecoming one of the brass.Mel was different. She hadbeenonthecop-to-brasspathin a previous jurisdictionwhen those plans had beenderailed by a complicateddivorce. That detour had

brought her to WashingtonState,wherewehadmet.Secondchancesdon’tcome

alongallthatoften.Thistimeone had. Earlier the previousfall,Melhadbeenofferedherdream job as chief of policeinBellingham,Washington,asmall city some ninetymilesnorthofSeattle.Themomentthe job was offered, I knewshe wanted to take it, so I

supportedherinthatdecision.Ihad,however, tried towarnherthatmakingthetransitionfrombeing part of a teamofinvestigatorstobeingtopdoginanewdepartmentwouldn’tbeaneasyone. It turnsout Iwasright.Previously, Mel and I had

both worked for theWashington State AttorneyGeneral, Ross Connors, on

his Special HomicideInvestigationTeamor, aswehadbeenperverselyproud tocall it, the S.H.I.T. squad.Ross had been the best bosseither of us ever had, barnone. He had expected hispeople to deliver excellentresults while, at the sametime, giving his teams ofinvestigators an amazingamount of autonomy. Ross

was a political animal, butpoliticsstoppedatthedoortohisoffice.IknewevenbeforeMelsat

down at her desk that shewould find herself in apolitical quagmire andprobably with a dearth ofsupport from the rank andfile. Unfortunately, that wasprovingtobethecase.Mel’ssecond-in-command,

Assistant Chief AustinManson, evidently thoughtthe chief’s job should havebeen his for the asking, andhe hadn’t been happy whenshe was chosen over him.From what she’d said, I hadgleaned that Manson was amuch-divorced kind of guywith a rancorous and still-ongoing child-custody battleinhisbackground,alongwith

a few anger-managementissuesbesides.Melhadspentthe whole weekend distantand preoccupied. I suspectedManson was the root of theproblem,but shehadn’tbeenwilling to discuss it. I hadn’tbroughtitup,andneitherhadshe.Now, even without being

Mirandized,Iunderstoodthatin this dicey situation,

anything I said could andwould be held against me.Besides, handing out a doseof“Itoldyouso,”brightandearlyinthemorning,isneveragoodwaytostartanewdayor week. I couldn’t comerightoutandtellMelthatsheshould just bust AustinMansonbacktothegangandgetitoverwith.AndIsureashell didn’t see myself in the

roleofSirGalahad, riding inon my white charger tointervene on her behalf, sothat morning, I took the lineofleastresistance.“Coffee’s ready,” I said

noncommittally, shoving hernewly cleaned weaponsacross the counter. Once shehad stowed them in theirappropriateholsters,Ihandedover Mel’s favorite mug,

loaded with fresh coffee.“Thisshoulddothetrick.”Melgaveme thebenefit of

a small, rueful smile.“Thanks,” she said, taking atentative sip. “Coffee is justwhatthedoctorordered.”That hint of a smile was

enoughtomakemehopethat,asfarasdealingwithwomenis concerned, maybe I wasgettingolderandwiser.

“What’s on your agendatoday?” she asked. She hadleft piles of unfinishedpaperwork on the dining-room table beforewe’d goneto bed the night before. Shegathereditintoasinglestackand shoved it into an openbriefcase. The stack wasbulkyenoughthatclosingthecasewasabitofastruggle.“Late this morning, I’m

scheduled to drive up toArlington to meet with thecontractor and take a look atthefinalestimate.”Twoandahalfmonthsinto

her new job, Mel was stillspending four nights a weekat a drearyExecu-StayHotelin Bellingham. Once sheaccepted the job, we haddecided that, although wedidn’t want to give up our

penthouse in downtownSeattle, we’d find someplacenearer to her workplace as asecond home. As spouse-in-chief, I hadbeen taskedwithfindingussuitabledigsintheBellingham area that wouldallow us to stay there whenshe was working and comeand go from Seattle as oftenaswewished.Initially,Mel hadvoted for

anothercondo. Iwas lookingfor something else. Afterdecades of high-rise living, Iwas ready for a pied-à-terrewith . . . well . . . a littleactual terre. I wanted acovered patio where, rain orshine, I could walk outsideand barbecue steaks fordinner without messing upthe kitchen. I also wanted aplacewhere, if the grandkids

cametovisit,wecouldputupa volleyball net or flymodelairplanes.My first fewmeetingswith

Helen Tate, the Realtor,hadn’t gone well. She hadevidently checked up on thevalue of our home in Seattleon theWeb, and I could seethedollar signs swimming inher eyes the first time sheshoweduptotakemelooking

at properties. She had beensomewhat dismayed when Ifell in love with a vintage-but-dilapidated three-bedroommidcenturymodern.Located in the Bayside areaof Fairhaven, with aspectacular, cliffside view, itwas listedasa“fixer-upper.”With plenty of sixty-year-oldplumbing issues, lots of dryrot,andasaggingroof,notto

mention a collection ofmorerecentbut steamydual-panedwindows that had long sincelost their seals, the placeshould have been listed as atear-down. There was onlyone problem with that—Iwantedit.The original owner, a

widower, had recently beencartedoff toanAlzheimer’s’facility. His son, who lived

outofstate,simplywantedtodispose of the placewith theleast possible amount ofeffortandfuss.Thethingis,Icouldtellthat

underneath all the filth andtrash, the house had goodbones. The spectacular viewof the bay, the interiorcourtyard, and the expansivewindowsallbeckoned tome.Therewassomuchglassthat,

once the fogged windowswere replaced, we’d be abletoseerightthroughthehousefrom back to front. You canget those kinds of views inhigh-rise condosoccasionally, but findingtheminahousewasunusual.Even so, I hoped it would

be possible for Mel to seepasttheneglecttothehouse’sburied charm. Something

about the old place feltfamiliar and inviting andmade me want to bring thederelict back from the dead.Thatstormyday inFebruary,when Mel agreed to meetHelen and me at the houseduring her lunch break, boththe Realtor and I held ourcollective breaths as Mel,dressed in her uniform andheels, wandered thoughtfully

fromroomtoroom.“Iseewhatyoumean,”Mel

said at last, picking her waythroughyetanotherminefieldof debris as she returned tothe living room. “The placedoes have good bones, butit’s going to take a lot ofwork.Areyousureyou’reuptoit?”Inodded.“What happens to all this

stuff?” Mel asked, gesturingat the piles of junksurroundingher.“The owner’s son lives out

oftown.Hedoesn’twantanyof it, and he doesn’twant tohave to deal with it, either,”Helenexplained.“He’sreadytobedonewithit.”“We’d be buying the place

as is, contents and all, nocontingencies,” I added.

“Thatmeanswhatever is lefthere,we’dhavetohaulaway,andwhatever’s broken,we’dhave to fix. I’ve alreadycalledJimHunttoseeifhe’dbe willing to come take alook and give us somesuggestions.”Mel eyedme speculatively.

“JimHunt,asintheguywhodesigned both your bachelorpads?”

Inodded,guiltyascharged.After Karen divorced me, Ihadmoved into a unit at theRoyal Crest in downtownSeattle with little more thanthe clothes on my back andtheonepieceoffurniturethatKarenhadallowedmetotake—my recliner. One of thesecretaries at the departmenthad referred me to Jim, andhehaddoneacompletejobof

creatingalivablecondofroma barren shell, up to andincludinglinensandpotsandpans. Our only disagreementwas over the recliner. Hewanted it gone, but I wasadamant. The recliner wasmine,andIwaskeepingit.Inthe years since it had beenrecoveredmorethanonce.Mel wandered over to the

spot where a baby grand

piano peeked out fromunderamountainofmagazinesandnewspapers. “You sayeverything stays, even this?”she asked, pausing longenoughtoopenthedust-ladenlid and play a scale. Even Icouldhearthatthepianowashopelesslyoutoftune.Helen nodded. “That, too,”

theRealtorsaidhelpfully.“All right, then,”Mel said.

“I’mheadedbacktowork.Aslongasthepianoisincluded,you’ve got my go-ahead tomakeanoffer.Whenyoutalkto Jim, see if he knows of agood piano guy who couldhaulthispooroldthingoutofhere, refinish it, and tune itup. Obviously, it can’t stayhere if the place is about toturn into a constructionzone.”

Talk about an assumedclose! I learned all aboutthosebackinmyyouth,whenIwas selling FullerBrush toearnmyway throughschool.We were trained not to say,“Do you want this brush?”but, rather, “How do youwant to pay for this, cash orcheck?” That was longenough ago that credit cardsstillweren’tanoption.Itwas

also typicalbehavior forMelSoames.WhenIaskedhertomarry me, she hadn’t comeright out, and said, “Yes.”Instead, her response hadbeen more on the order of,“Well,okay.When?”I don’t think that was the

reactiontheRealtorexpected.She was still standing in anopenmouthed daze, as Melwalked out of the house,

closingthedoorbehindher.“You’re buying it, then?”

Helenasked.“Justlikethat?”“It’slookinggood.”I waited for Jim to arrive

beforemakingaformaloffer.He’s a tall, good-looking,narrow guy—maybe evenskinny. He’s about my agebut fared better in the kneelotterythanIdidsincehisarestill original equipment. He

has an enviable head ofsilvery hair combined withthe good looks of an agingmoviestar.He’salsogayandattemptingtocutdownonhissmoking, but in the thirtyyears we’ve known oneanother, neither of thoseissues—smoking or sexualorientation—have impactedour friendship. He goes hisway; I go mine. And he

thinksMelisterrific.Jimshowedupawhilelater

in his shiny white MercedesC230andspentthebetterpartof two hours prowling theplace before rendering hisverdict. “I think we couldmake do with this,” he toldme, “but, if you want myhelp,there’sonecondition.”“What’sthat?”Iasked.“TheonlywayI’mtackling

this jobis ifyouagree togetrid of that damned recliner.Finally.”WhenIcalledMeltoreport

Jim’ssingledemand,shehadjumpedatit.“Ifhecangetyou to letgo

of that ugly old thing, thenmake an offer on the houseandtellmewheretosign.I’mthere.”And so we did. Once the

dealwasfinalized,theformerowner’s son and a grandsonhad dropped by long enoughtogatherupseveralboxesofclothing and a fewmementoes, then they droveaway without so much as abackward glance, leavingbehind seven decades’ worthof accumulated trash and ahouseful of dead and dyingfurniture and mountains of

out-of-date foodstuffs. Someof the canned goods hadexploded, leaving behind thedistinctive aroma of decay,which would only disappearonce we’d stripped thewallboarddowntothestuds.That’s what we were

working on now—the reno.The trash had been hauledaway. The piano had beencollected by a piano restorer

and carted off to berefinished, tuned, and storeduntilitwassafetocomebackhome.Originally, the house had

been insulatedwith layers ofcedar shavings that, overtime, had been reduced tolittle more than dust. Afterevictinga familyof raccoonsthathadtakenupresidenceinthe attic, we vacuumed out

thesmellyremains.Withthatgone, alongwith the reekingwallboard, the place smelledalmost civilized. Jim hadcome up with an elegantredesign. By sacrificing thethirdbedroom,hewasabletogive Mel and me a masterbedroom suite that includedtwo separate bathrooms andtwowalk-inclosets.The master-bedroom plans

alone were enough to sendMeloverthetopwithdelight,but after that, the projectseemed to have stalled out.The challenge now wasnailing down a busycontractorandgettinghim tocommit to doing the job in atimelyfashion.ThatwaswhatI was hoping to accomplishtoday.Onlythenwouldwebeable toapply forpermitsand

startactualconstruction.“I know about the meeting

with Jim and that contractorlater today,”Mel saidwith afrown, “but aren’t you alsoscheduledtoseeHarry?He’sduetobereleasedfromrehabanytimenow,isn’the?”Making Harry I. Ball’s

house wheelchair accessiblewas currently my otherpressing home-remodeling

issue. While waiting for theproject in Bellingham to getunder way, I—along withJim’shelp—hadbeenrunningpoint on the renovations tobring Harry I. Ball’s houseinto compliance with hiscurrent wheelchair-boundstatus. His project, too, hadbeen plagued with delays.Now, even though we weredown to finishing touches,

theyallhad tobecompleted,inspected, and signed off onbefore Harry could bereleased from rehab to gohome.I nodded. “The foreman

told me yesterday that theyexpect tobedoneby theendofthisweek.That’s thegoal,anyway.”“And you’ve got Marge

lined up to look after him

oncehe’sbackhome?”Marge Herndon was the

crusty retired RN Mel and Ihad first encountered whenI’d hired her to come lookafter me after my bilateralknee-replacement surgery.The woman was about aswarm and fuzzy as aMarineCorps drill sergeant, but sheknewhowtogetthejobdone,and she had kept me on the

straight and narrow as far asrehab was concerned. HarryIgnatius Ball, aka Harry I.Ball, was a tough customerunder the best ofcircumstances.Now, stuck ina wheelchair, with both legsamputated above the knee, Iknew he would be ademanding and difficultpatient.“She’swilling,”Ianswered.

“She’s supposed to show upthismorning tomeethimforthe first time, then we’ll seewhat happens. If those twolock horns, it could turn intoWorldWarIII.”Standing with one foot out

the door, Mel turned backlong enough to give me agenuinegrin.“I’dlovetobeamouseinthecornerwhenthathappens. Between Harry I.

BallandMargeHerndon,mymoney’s on Marge—all theway. She managed you justfine,andI’mbettingshe’llbeabletohandlehim,too.Harrywon’tknowwhathithim.”“Drive carefully,” Iwarned

her, giving her a good-byepeckon the cheek. “It rainedhard overnight. They’resaying to watch out forstanding water on the

roadways.”While Mel took the long

elevator ride from our aeriedown to the parking garagefar below and drove up foursetsoframpstostreetlevel,Iwent out on the balcony andstood waiting for her toemerge. If Mel had knownthatIdidthateverymorning,rain or shine, when she leftfor work, she would have

thought I was being asentimental fool, but Icouldn’t help myself. Now Iknew how it felt to be thespouse of a cop heading outthe door for a day ofconfrontingthebadguys.Forthe first time in my life, Iunderstood what it meant tobe the one waiting at home,knowing that my belovedwould be at work some

ninety-onemiles and at leasttwo hours away in goodtraffic.Moreifanythingwentwrong along the way. Yes,karmaisdefinitelyabitch!Soischange.I walked back inside and

made myself another cup ofcoffee. Then I sat down onthe living-room window seatand looked out at the SpaceNeedle. That iconic piece of

Seattle’sskylinehastakenonawholenewandmuchdarkermeaning these days. It waswhere all of our lives hadtakena sudden turn inanewandunexpecteddirection.

THINGS HAD STARTED goinghaywire almost threemonthsearlier, on the Friday, twoweeksbeforeChristmas.Melwas back in her bathroom

gettingreadyforoureveningout while I sat in this samewindow-seatperchlookingatthe red and green lights,including the glowingChristmastreethattoppedtheNeedle’s flying-saucer-shaped roof. Ross Connorshad scored the Needle’slower level for a SpecialHomicideInvestigationTeamChristmas party. If Ross had

beenusingstatefundsfortheevent, he probably wouldhavehadtocallita“HolidayParty,” but since he waspaying for the whole thingout of his own pocket, hewould, as he told me, call itwhateverthehellhewanted.The people from all three

S.H.I.T. squads—the ones inSpokaneandOlympiaaswellas our Seattle-based one—

along with theirspouses/partnerswereinvited.Ross was also springing forhotelroomswherenecessary.We all knew what the realdeal was. It was really athinly disguised post-electioncelebration. When the pollshad closed the previousNovember, and when all thevotes were counted, RossConnors had won again

despite all the predictions tothe contrary.Hewas still theAttorney General becausecountless people had crossedparty lines to vote for him.The problem was, Ross wasthe exception. All the otherstatewide office holders,including the governorhimself,nowbelongedonthe“oppositesideof theaisle.”Ihadn’t a doubt in my mind

that Ross’s Christmas partywas apoke in thenose at allthose folks—awayof lettingthem know that he was thelastmanstanding.As for his people, those of

us privileged to call RossConnors “boss”? We reallywere “his people.” Ross hadused that same considerablepolitical savvy that had woncross-party-line voters in

creating S.H.I.T. He hadcollected a diverse set ofpeople—always the ones hethought most skilled ingetting the job done—andhadmoldedusintoacohesivewhole, a team in every senseof the word. If this was aChristmas party,wewere allgoing, and that included thetwo guys in the organizationwho describe themselves as

“non-observant”Jews.The event was due to start

promptly at six. It was fivefifty-five whenMel emergedfrom her private domain atthe far end of the hall.Dressed in a long, ruby-reddresswithherlongblondhairswept up onto her head, shewouldhavebeenat homeonanyHollywoodredcarpet.Sowould the shoes—amazing

bright red stilettoheelsmadeby a guy named Jimmysomething.Theymatchedherdress perfectly. In four-inchheels, she was only slightlyshorter than me. In honor oftheevening,shewascarryinga small, glittery clutch ratherthan one of her morecustomary suitcase-sizedpurses.I had sat there, waiting for

her and holding her coat.Standingup,Islippeditoverher shoulders and inhaled ahintofperfume.“It’s spitting snow,” I said.

“Howaboutifwetakethecarandusethevalet?”“Come on,” she said. “It’s

onlythreeblocks.”The thing is, I was well

acquaintedwithalmost everyinch of those three blocks.

Doing rehab in the aftermathof my knee-replacementsurgery, I had done morewalking than ever before,trudging alone throughSeattle’s Denny Regradeneighborhood. I knew fullwell that the Space NeedlewasamerethreeblocksawayfromBelltownTerrace’sfrontdoor, but I also understoodthat those three blocks are

linedwithmaturetreeswhoserootshave,over time,playedhavoc with nearby sidewalksurfaces. Not only is theconcretelumpyandbumpyinspots, it’s also riddled withcracks and iron drain coversthat are thenatural enemyofmisplaced feet, especiallyonesinveryhighheels.“Besides,” Mel said, “it’ll

befun,andIpromisetohold

ontoyourarmfordearlife.”“Right,” I said, “as in the

blindleadingtheblind.”Someone once told me,

“Happywife; happy life,” sowe walked, laughing andtalking through spatteringsnow that we both knewwould never stick. WecrossedBroadatSecondthenwalked up the north side ofthe street as far as Denny,

whichwecrossedatthelight.Walking along the grassy

bermbetweenDennyandthePacific Science Center, wewere almost at the valetparking entrance at thebottom of the Space NeedleandtheChihulyGlassGardenwhen Iheard the firsthintofsirens—lotsofsirens.When you live downtown,

you grow accustomed to

sirens. You learn todifferentiatebetweenthoseofthe fire engines and aid carsat the Seattle F.D. stationoveronFourth.Therearetheshort bursts from patrol carsthat usually indicate trafficstops. Those are especiallyannoyingintheweehoursofthe morning, just after thebars let out, when the trafficguys are busy taking drunks

off the street. But this wasdifferent.Thiswassomethingmore. It sounded like a carchase to me, comingsouthbound toward us alongElliott. Suddenly, sirensblossomed all around us aspolice vehicles from all overthe city converged on thearea.Therewerecarscomingnorthbound on the avenuesfrom downtown and cars

coming down from QueenAnneHill.Car chases are inherently

dangerous. The potential fortragedy—for death andserious injury—is alwaysthere, whether it’s on adeserted highway in themiddle of the night or on acity street in broad daylight.Acarchaseduringrushhouron a dark and rain-slick city

street was insanity itself.Someone else must havecometothatsameconclusion.The sirens went silent, and Isurmised thatorders tobreakoff thechasemusthavebeengiven. The cops got themessage.Theybackedoff,allof them. Unfortunately, thecrooksdidn’t.Let’sjustsaythatguyswho

set out to make a living by

robbing banks usually aren’tthe sharpest pencils in thebox. The only place smartbank robbers show up is onscripted television shows.AndbankrobberswhowouldpulloffaheistinBallardthenhead into the city center inrush-hour traffic, hoping tomake good their escape,exhibit a particularlyastoundingbrandofstupidity.

But that’s what these twodimwits had done. They hadsomehow convincedthemselves that if they justmade it into the downtowncore, they’d be able to blendintotrafficanddisappear.Intheolddays,banktellers

wouldslipdyepacksintothecrooks’ tote bags that wouldstain the robber and renderthe money unusable. These

days, tellers have access topacketsofbillsthatcomepre-equipped with GPS locatorchips.All the tellerhas todois activate the chip beforeslipping it into the bag, andvoila.Thatmoneyisinvisiblyfindable with no car chasesnecessary.I’msurethat’soneof the reasons the chase wascalled off. The chip wasworking. The good guys had

all the time in the world totrackthebadguysdown.So far the two boneheads

hadn’t figured that out. Iheard the squeal of tiresbehind us as they camescreaming up past WesternandontoDenny.Then,tomyamazement, a set ofheadlightsweavinginandoutof oncoming traffic, turnedoff Denny and onto Broad

with other drivers slammingup onto sidewalks indesperate attempts to escapeharm. Obviously, themaniacbehind the wheel hadn’tgottenthememothatBroadisnolongerathroughstreet.Instinctively, Mel and I

both headed for higherground although Mel didn’tstartupthegrassybermuntilafter she’d pulled off those

damned shoes. We werestanding side by side whenthe robbers flew past us,herding their stolen RangeRover between rows ofstopped cars and tearing offmirrors and door panels astheywent. TheRangeRoverslewed sideways directly infront of us then acceleratedupBroad.I knew what was going to

happen long before it did. AvehicleturnedoffFourth.Thethen, with oncoming trafficapparently stalled, theunsuspectingdrivermade theleft-hand turn into the SpaceNeedle’s valet parking area.The speeding Range Rover,driving in the wrong lane,smashed into them midturn,T-boningthem,hard.You can go to movie

theaters and watch all thecomputer-generated mayhemyou want, but none of thatcompares to the real thing—to the terrible crash followedby the sickening, grindingsound of twisting metalcomingtorest.Andthen,outof the sudden silence thatfollowed the carnage camethehauntingsoundofnotonebut two wailing car horns.

They sounded like sentinelsannouncing the end of theworld, or at least the end oftheworldasweknewit.By then, Mel and I were

both moving, toward theaction rather than away fromit.Therewouldbeothercopsintheneighborhoodsoon,butwe were closer than anyoneelse,andinwhatwouldsoonturn into a massive traffic

jam, we’d get there beforeanyoneelsecould, too. If thecrooks,whosecarwascloser,managed toexit theirvehicleand tried to take off on foot,we’dbeabletorestrainthem.Not surprisingly, neither of

them—dumb and dumber—had been smart enough towear a seat belt. They hadboth been ejected from thevehicle.Wefoundthemlying

onopposite sidesofBroad. Ilocated the first one on thenorth sideof the street, lyingwith his head cracked openlike a brokenwatermelon onthe sharp edge of the curb. Ididn’t need to check for apulsetoknowhewasagoner.The other guy, the

passenger,had slammed full-tilt into a metal utility vaulton the far side of the street.

Mel reachedhimat the sametime several passersby did.Shekneltbrieflyanddroppedout of sight. When shestraightened up, she caughtmy eye and gave me thethumbs-down. So that onewas dead, too—no great lossthere. Subsequent computer-generated reconstructions ofthe collision estimated thatthe two dunces were doing

seventy and still acceleratingwhen they slammed into theturningvehicle.Therewasnosign that the driver evertouchedthebrakes.Knowing those guys were

dead, Mel and I turned ourattention toward the otherdamagedvehicle. Itwasonlythen that we realized, withgrowinghorror, thatwhatwewere seeing, stalled in the

middle of Broad, were thestill-smokingremainsofRossConnors’sLincolnTownCar.Evenmonthslater,recalling

that horrific scene thatchanged all our lives wasenough to shock me back toreal time. I set down mycoffee mug and headed forthe shower. An hour or solater, when I left BelltownTerrace, I turned right on

Secondanddroveallthewaydown to Olive and used thatto make my way up toHarry’s rehab facility on thefar side of Capitol Hill.That’s the official name forthat particular neighborhood,but due to all the hospitalsbased there, locals generallyrefertoitasPillHill.IntheolddaysIwouldhave

turned right on Broad and

overtoFifthtomakethattrip.Not anymore. For one thing,the city’s traffic engineershave fixed it so Broad nolongergoesanywhereuseful.Besides, I avoid Denny andBroad as much as possible.That’s where the accidenthappened. It’s where RossConnors and his driver, BillSpade,losttheirlives,andit’salso where Harry Ignatius

Balllostbothhislegs.Just glancing up either of

those streets is enough tobringbackvividmemoriesofthat nightmarish scene.Ross’s aging Lincoln TownCarhadbeenhitsohard thatboth people on the driver’sside of the car—Bill at thewheel and Ross seateddirectly behind him—haddied on impact, crushed to

deathwhen the stolenRangeRover plowed into thepassenger compartment,ending up with the Rover’sfront bumper crushed upagainst theTown-Car’s driveshaft.Momentum from the

collision carried the twoconjoined vehicles into anearbylightpolewithenoughforce that the pole toppled

over.Itlandedontheroofsofboth cars, crumpling metallikesomuchtissuepaperandsendingajaggededgeofroofinto Harry’s lower thighs,nearly severing his legs. Theweight of the pole on top ofthe roof was the only thingthat kept him from bleedingtodeathonthespot.Ihadreachedinthroughthe

wreckage and checked both

Bill and Ross. Neither ofthemhadapulse.Theyweregone. By then, Mel was onthe far side of the car,reaching in through theshattered passenger windowand trying to comfort Harry,who was howling in pain.Looking at his legs, I wassurehewasagoner,too.The nearest fire station, at

FourthandBattery,wasonly

five blocks away, but in thesuddensnarlofstalledtraffic,itcouldjustaswellhavebeenin Timbuktu. It seemed totake forever for them to gettherewiththejawsoflife.Infact, an EMT, a youngwoman, jogging from thestationandcarryingafirst-aidkit, arrived long beforeanyone else or any otherequipment. She was small

enough to maneuver insidethe tiny space left in thevehicle and somehowmanaged to fasten twotourniquets around Harry’supper thighs, thus saving hislife but dooming his legs. Inthemeantime,IwasleftwithnothingtodobutwishIcouldslam my fist throughsomeone’s face, preferablythatof thestupiddriver,who

wasalreadydead.MelandIhadsetoutforthe

Space Needle just minutesbefore the party wasscheduled to start. It turnedout that Ross, too, had beenmaking anuncharacteristically lateentrance. I found out laterthat Harry’s car haddeveloped a fuel-pump issueonhiswayintothecityfrom

Bellevue. When he’d calledRosstolethimknowhe’dbelate,Rosshadinsistedthatheand Bill drive over LakeWashington on the I-90bridge, pick Harry up, andbring him to the party. I’vealways been struck by thatold saying about no gooddeed going unpunished, buthaving Ross and Bill deadbecause they’d done nothing

more than give Harry a ridewastoomuch.The jaws of life were not

yet on the scene when Irealized that if most of theotherpartygoerswerealreadyupstairs, I was the one whowouldhavetodeliverthebadnews. And so I did, pushingmy way into the SpaceNeedlelobbyandthroughtheline of holiday revelers

waiting for the elevator.People protested vigorouslyas I fought my way to thehead of the line and flashedmy badge in front of theboyish-facedoperator.“Skyline Banquet level,” I

snarledathim.“Now!”Withoutaword,heallowed

me into the elevator, barredthe other waiting passengersbymeansofavelvet-covered

rope, closed the door onthem,andpushedthebuttons.We rode up in utter silence.“Wait here,” I ordered. “I’llbecomingrightbackdown.”Just inside thedoorstooda

waiter holding a tray ofglasses filled with bubblingchampagne. Iwas tempted tograb one of them. In fact, Iwas tempted tograb themalland swill them down one

after another. Instead, Istoppedshortandscannedtheroom.It tookamoment forme to

locate Katie Dunn, Ross’ssecretary. Shewas talking toBarbara Galvin, Harry’ssecretary and the cornerstonefor Unit B of SpecialHomicide. Finding bothwomen togetherwasastrokeof luck. Katie must have

caught sight of the look onmy face. She turned awayfrom Barbara and hurriedtowardme,withBarbara,alsosensing something amiss,closeonherheels.“Beau,” Katie asked,

frowning, “whatever’s thematter?”With no time to lessen the

blow,Iblurteditoutatonce.“There’s been a car accident

down on the street. Ross isdead, and so’s his driver.Harry may not make it,either.”Katie’s face drained of all

color. “Oh, no!” shewhispered.“Rossisdead?”I nodded. Without a word,

Barbara sprinted for theelevator.“Go with Barbara,” Katie

said tome.“I’llhold thefort

here.Keepmeposted.”WhenIenteredtheelevator,

Barbara was already there,white-faced and furious,screechingintotheoperator’sface. “Go, damn it!What onearthareyouwaitingfor?Gonow!”ButIhadmadeabelieverof

thepoorguy.HewaiteduntilI stepped on board beforepushing theDOWNbutton. By

the time we hit the groundlevel,Barbarawasoutofhersequinedheels.Holdingtheminonehandandatinybeadedclutch in the other, shesprinted out of the elevatorandleftmeinthedustasshepushed through the crush ofpeople waiting for the long-delayedelevator.I caught up with Barbara

onlybecauseshewasstopped

short by a uniformed coptryingtomaintainaperimeteraround the crash site. “She’swithme,”Itoldhim,holdingup my badge. “Let herthrough.”We reached the wreckage

while firefighters were stillmaneuvering the jaws of lifeintoposition.Despiteprotestsfrom more than one firstresponder, Barbara shoved

Mel out of the way. “Don’tyoudieonme,youbastard!”sheyelledatHarry,snatchinghis hand fromMel’s. Bad asthings were, Harry focusedhis eyes on Barbara’s faceand favored her with a tinygrin.“Do my best,” he

whispered.“I’lldomybest.”Believeme,therelationship

betweenHarryI.Ballandthe

reformed punk rocker,Barbara Galvin, had nothingtodowithanofficeromance.Itwasmore like a love/hate,father/daughterkindofthing.At that point, one of the

firefighters simply pickedBarbara up and carried heraway from the wreckage,bringing her over to whereMelandIhadtakenrefugeonapieceofsidewalkslickwith

shattered glass. “Keep herhere and get her shoes backon,” the man growled at us.“Weneed thiswomanoutofourway!”Another firefighter

appeared behind him.“Okay,” he said. “We’ve gotpermission to land thechopperontopofKOMO.”Thesnarloftraffic,growing

worse by the minute, made

transporting Harry to ahospital by ambulance anonstarter. The building forthe local ABC affiliate,completewithahelipadonitsroof, was almost directlyacrossthestreet.Inmoments,they had Harry out of thecrushed vehicle and onto agurney,rollinghimacrossthestreetandtowardthebuildingto the helipad. Once at

Harborview Hospital, a teamoftheERdocstriedvaliantlyto save his legs. It didn’twork. His legs were gone,and soon, so was everythingelse,S.H.I.Tincluded.Within weeks of Ross

Connors’s funeral and whileHarrywasstillinthehospital,the governor—the one fromthe“othersideoftheaisle”—hadappointedanewattorney

general, whose first order ofbusiness was to disbandSpecial Homicide altogether.Suddenlywewerealloutofajob.Well, not all of us.Melwasoneoftheyoungerones,and she’d already decided tomakethemovetoBellinghambefore the axe fell. But therest of us—the old duffers—were out of luck. For rightnow, I was keeping busy

wrangling constructionprojects.WhatI’ddolateronwhen all the plaster dustsettled was something Imostly avoidedcontemplating.I found a parking place on

Cherry and trudged half ablock in the wrong directionto find the applicable paystation, grumbling to myselfthewholewayabout the loss

of old-fashioned parkingmeters. They might haveeateneverybitofchangeoutofyourpocketintheblinkofaneye,butatleasttheywereright there by your car. Youdidn’t have to go searchingforthem.I was back on Boren and

about to walk through theautomatic doors into thelobby,whenHarryhailedme

by name. Turning, I saw hiswheelchair parked some fiftyfeet away from the doorunder a bus-stop-like shelterdesigned to keep smokersaway from the building andoutoftherain,atleast,ifnotoutofthecold.Ihadwheeledhimuptheremorethanonce,sohecouldhaveasmoke.Coming closer, I saw that

Harrywasn’t alone.Standing

nearby was Marge Herndonherself, the hoyden who hadlooked after me during myboutwith postsurgical rehab.She was smoking like achimney, and so was Harry.He looked happier than I’dseenhiminmonths.“Hey,” he said, waving his

burning cigarette in herdirection.“Thanksforputtingme in touch with Margie

here.Shecamebyjustnowtointroduce herself. She gothereafewminutesearly.Thewomanisagem.”Are you kidding? They’d

barely been introduced, andHarrywasalreadycallingherMargie? I had known thewoman for months withoutevergettingbeyondthebasicNurseRatchedstage.Andhethought she was a “gem”? I

regarded the woman as anabsolute terror, one who hadrun roughshod over me forwhathadseemedlikemonthsratherthanweeks.I nodded in Marge’s

direction.“Goodtoseeyou,”Isaid.“Same here,” she muttered

tersely in away that toldmethat even though Harry hadscoredbigwithher,Ihadnot.

Iknewinthatmomentthat,once again, Mel had beenright,andIwaswrong.Inthecourseofasinglecigarette,ormaybe two, Marge HerndonhadHarryI.Balleatingoutofherhand.Itwasenoughtopissoffthe

GoodFairy.Clearly, since Marge and

Harryweregettingalonglikegangbusters, my planned

introduction as well as mycontinued presence weren’trequired. I chatted for a fewminutes, then, excusingmyself, I found my car,complete with paid-for-but-unused parking time, andmade my way down the hilltoI-5,whereIheadednorth.

JIM HUNT HAD located threepossible contractors for us.

This one, Don Hastings, thelast one on the list, lived inSmoky Point, a tiny ex-burbnorthofEverett.Don had done jobs for Jim

Hunt several times in thepast, and he and his peoplehad done quality work. Hehad also handled projects intownsstretchingfromEverettall the way to the Canadianborder. That meant he had

contacts and workingrelationships with people inplanning departments fromhere to there. Thoseconnections were bound tostreamline the permittingprocess.Moretothepoint,hehadacrewbasedinArlingtonthatwasfinishingupone jobandwouldbe ready to tackleanother within a matter ofweeks.

We’d taken proposals fromthe two other constructionoutfits—so we had threeestimates altogether. Jim hadwarned us that the one fromHastings would most likelycomeinasthepriciestoneofthe three in termsofup-frontcost, but I’ve learned overtime that you get what youpay for. And I’d alreadymadeupmymind to signon

the dotted line long before Ifound my way to Don’soffice, located inaconvertedgarage next to his residenceon the outskirts of town. Istayed long enough to meetthemaninpersonandwriteadeposit check thatwould putthe wheels in motion, then Iheaded north again, leavingDon and Jim Hunt huddledtogetheroverastackofplans

spread out across a draftingtable.Once on I-5, I tried calling

Mel to letherknowthedeedwas done, but when herphone went straight to voicemail,Ididn’tbotherleavingamessage. She was probablybusy, and I’d be there soonenough to give her the newsinperson.AlthoughIwasgladtohave

the project out of my handsandinthecareandkeepingofa competent professional, Iwasalittleblueaboutit,too.I had been so preoccupiedwithdealingwiththehousingissues that I’d had little timeto think about what I wasgoing to do with the rest ofmylife.BetweenmyyearsatSeattle

P.D. and the ones with

S.H.I.T., I’d spent almost allmy adult life in lawenforcement. It’s not just acareer. It’s a mind-set and awayof life.Therearefar toomany storiesout thereof ex-cops who, having pulled theplug on working, end uptaking their own lives. Ofcourse, that wouldn’t be me.Forstarters,IhadMel.Iwasdetermined to spend every

possible moment with her.She had her own career pathnow—a complicated careerpath—butwhatthehellwasIsupposedtodowithmysparetime?Takeupgolf,forPete’ssake? That seemed to beworkingformyfriend,RalphAmes who, along with hiswife,Mary,wasnowliving—and golfing—at adevelopment called Pebble

Creekwhichissomewhereinthe Phoenix metropolitanarea. Ralph had triedunsuccessfully to interest meingolfing.Itjustdidn’ttake.Twenty miles out of

Bellingham, I dialed Mel’snumberagain.ThistimeIdidleave a message. “Hey,” Isaid. “I signed the contractwith Don Hastings. ThingsmovedfasterthanIexpected.

Since I’m sort of in theneighborhood, I thought I’dsee ifwe could grab a quicklatelunch.Callmewhenyouhave time. I’m about twentyminutesout.”It was frustrating to know

thatMelwasinacomplicatedsituation at work and that,other thanofferinghermoralsupport, there was little Icoulddoabout it.Asfaras I

could tell, Mel’s tenure aschief had been completelydevoid of a honeymoonperiod. It had become clearall too soon that Mel’sselection by the city counciland city manager had beenmade over the mayor’sstrenuous objections. MayorAdelina Kirkpatrick was atypical small-time politician.The mayor was a lifelong

Bellingham resident whoknew where all the bodieswere buried while Mel wasnewtotown.Melhadlearnedthat the mayor had fullyexpected Assistant ChiefAustinManson to be handedthe job of chief, amove thathadbeenthwartedbyboththecity manager and the citycouncil. That meant Mel’srelationship with the mayor

had started out on thewrongfootandhadstayedthatway.Midway through Mel’s

second week in office, therehad been an officer-involvedshooting in Bellingham at alowlifebaronthewaterfront,a roughplace called theFishBowl. For most of myworking life, that term—theFish Bowl— had referred tothe window-lined office on

the fifth floor of Seattle’sPublicSafetyBuildingwhereHomicide Captain LarryPowell long held sway. Sothe irony of the bar’s nametouched my funny bone. Onthe surface, the shoot-outshouldn’t have been all thatserious. For one thing,nobodydied.Melhadbeenlockedupina

meeting with the mayor and

the city manager at the timeof the incident. At themayor’s insistence, pagersand other electronic deviceswere not allowed inside heroffice.Thatstruckmeasoddall by itself. I warned Melthat anyone that concernedabout electroniceavesdropping was either aconspiracy freak or else s/hehadsomethingtohide.Asfar

as Mayor Kirkpatrick wasconcerned,itmighthavebeenalittleofboth.Some people stream music

on their phones and tablets.Once Mel ended up inBellingham, I spent a lot oftimetunedintoaradiostationthere. I alsoprogrammedmyiPad so breaking news alertsfrom there would be sent tomeastheyoccurred.Theday

of the shooting, with Mellocked in themayor’s office,I knew about the incidentbeforeshedid.Assoonasthenews alert showedup onmyscreen,my heartwent tomythroat. As police chief, Melshouldn’t have been out onany kind of patrol, still Ididn’t breathe easier until Ihadcalledheroffice,checkedwith her secretary, and

learned that Mel was stillupstairsinameeting.Whew!Over the course of time—

thatdayandsubsequentones—the details emerged. Ayoung cop, Officer DaleEmbry, had been patrollingthe waterfront area when aguy came running out of theFish Bowl and flagged himdown, alerting him to adevelopingdomestic-violence

situation inside the bar.Embry radioed for backupthen hurried inside. Thebartender’s estranged andenragedhusband,armedwitha butcher knife, wasthreatening to murder hissoon-to-be-former wife andanyone stupid enough to getinhisway.Embryenteredthepremises

with his weapon already

drawn.WhenEmbry told theguytodrophisknife,theguyswungaroundandstartedforhim. I know firsthand thatwhen you’re facing anassailant armedwith a knife,you’re caught in a chaoticsituation, and you’re notexactly thinking straight.Adrenaline is pumping; yourheart is hammering off thecharts, and you’re hoping to

God it’snotyour lastdayonplanetearth.Embry pulled the trigger.

The shot should have takenthe guy down. It didn’t, butonly because someone elsetook him down first. One ofthe customers, armed with abarstool, clobbered the iratehusband and put him on thefloor.Theonlyothercasualtyturned out to be the mirror

behind the bar, whichshattered into a millionpieces.The assailant was knocked

out cold. An ambulance wassummoned and hauled himoff to theERwithapossibleconcussion. Whendepartmental supervisorsarrivedon the scene,agroupthat ultimately includedAssistant Chief Manson,

OfficerEmbrywassenthomeonadministrativeleave.In officer-involved

shootingswhere aweapon isdischarged, administrativeleave is standard procedure.When Mel came out of hermeeting, however, andlearned it was a done deal,shewasnotpleased.Yes,shehadn’thadherpageralonginthe meeting, but she was

offended thatManson hadn’tbothered to come upstairshimself or even sendsomeone up to let her knowabout the incident while itwas still unfolding. She tookthe position that, by issuingthe leave order himself,Manson had undercut herauthority.In the heat of the moment,

shehadcalledAssistantChief

Manson out about it andgiven him a dressing-down.Later on that day, she paid acallatOfficerEmbry’shome,encouraging him to use hisleavetimeconstructivelyinawaythatwouldturnhimintoa better cop. After that visit,she had attempted toapologize toManson, but hewasn’t having any of it. Thedamage was done. Manson

waspissed,andapparentlyheplannedtostaythatway.The problem was, I could

see both sides of the issue.This was a routine situationand a routine call onManson’s part. If Mel hadbeen a more seasoned chief,she wouldn’t have feltcompelled to assert herauthority in such a heavy-handed fashion. Perhaps she

shouldn’t have reacted thewayshedidinitially,butnowit was too late. Rather thanhavingMansonasanally,shehad turned the man into aswornenemy.WhenMelhadacceptedthe

job,Ithinkshehadimaginedherself as being the kind ofskilled leader Ross Connorshad always been. Theproblemwas,whenitcameto

building S.H.I.T., RossConnors had been able to goout and handpick the peoplehewantedonhisteam.Ithadbeen an older, wiser, anddedicatedgroup,withlittle,ifany, deadweight. In her newdepartment, Mel didn’t havetheluxuryofhandpickingherpeople.Shehadtoworkwithwhatwasalreadythere.Two months later, Embry

wasbackfromhisleave.Dueto the Fish Bowl incident,Mel was stuck with both anextremely loyal but peach-fuzzed young cop and agrizzled veteran whowouldn’tgiveherthetimeofday and didn’t miss a trickwhenitcametobadmouthingMelbehindherback.Intermsofdepartmentalmorale,guesswhich one carries more

weight?Oneevening,overdinner, I

hadmadethetacticalerrorofventuring an opinion on thesubject.Asaresult,AssistantChiefMansonwasno longera topic of conversationbetweenMelandme.Hewastheelephantintheroom—thetaboo place where neither ofusdaredtotread.I was coming up on the

Fairhaven exit when I triedMel’sphoneonelasttime.Bythen, Iwas slightly annoyed.Obviously, my idea oftreating her to a surpriselunchwasn’tgoingtohappen.Consequently,Iturnedonthedirectionalsignal.Exitingthefreeway, I left anothermessage.“You’re probably too busy

forlunch,”Isaid.“There’sno

sense inmycomingdown tothe department and beingunder hand and foot. I’mturning off at Fairhaven. I’llwaitatthehouseuntilyougetcut loose. Maybe I can takeyou out to dinner instead oflunch. If you’re really lucky,youmight even talk me intospendingthenight.”IdroveovertoBaysideand

downthesteepdrivewaythat

leads to our house. Mel’sPorsche Cayman was tuckedin behind a massiveconstruction Dumpster thathad taken over a big portionof the concrete slab that hadoncebeenadetachedgarage.The rest of the garagestructure, afflicted by aterminal case of dry rot, hadbeenred-flaggedasahazard,knocked down, and the

splintered remains hauledawayduringthefirstweekofour renovation efforts. Melhad worried that perhaps itwas an omen about theinadvisability of the entireproject. Jim Hunt hadattempted to reassure her byexplaining that in sixty-year-old wood-frame buildings,dryrotwassimplythenaturalorder of things, especially in

therainyPacificNorthwest.I wasn’t surprised to find

hercarparkedthere.Melhadtoldme thatwhen things gottoo stressful at work, she’dgrab a sandwich fromSubway and drive out to ourplace, where she would eatlunch in her car, take a fewdeep breaths, and relieve thepressure by watching thebirds out on the bay. I

suspected that once theworkers showed up, andconstruction kicked into highgear, parking there for lunchwouldn’t be nearly aspeaceful.Given all that, I half

expected to see her sitting inthe car, but she wasn’t, so Iwalked on down to the frontof the house and stepped uponto the sagging front porch.

The door was locked, so Iused the key and steppedinside.“Mel?” I called into the

echoing skeletal shell. “Areyouhere?”Shewasn’t.Thehousewas

empty.Leavingthefrontdoorajar, Iwentbackoutside andwalked across the slopingfront yard until I came to ahalt at the fence thatmarked

theendofourproperty.“Mel?” I called down the

bluff, “where are you?”Again,therewasnoanswer.Mel is physically fit, but

clamberingaroundonasteephillsideeveninauniformandlow heels didn’t seem incharacter unless, of course,someone else had been introuble. Then all bets wereoff. For the first time, I felt

the smallest frisson ofconcern.“Mel,” I called again,

shouting this time. I peeredoff down the bank. At thecondoinSeattle,wekeeptwopairsofbinocularsparkedonthe sill next to the windowseat. We used them foroccasional bits of bird-watching, for viewing theFourthofJulyFireworks,and

occasionally, duringsnowstorms, for beingentertained while watchinghapless drivers attempt tomaketheirfender-benderwayup and down Broad.Unfortunately,Ididn’thaveapair of binoculars here withme now at a time and placewhereIreallyneededthem.If a boat had overturned, I

knewMelwouldhavewanted

to lendahand,but it seemedunlikely that shewould havegone down the bankon foot.Itseemedfarmorereasonablethatshewouldhaveusedherphone to summon help.Besides,therewasnosignofwreckageoutonthewateroron the steep bank at thewater’sedge.Andnosignoflife either—no sign ofmovement.

There was a rough, steeptrail that ran in breathtakingswitchbacks down to thewater. It might have beenusablebymountaingoats,butI didn’t think it wassomething that should betackledbyanoldcodgerwitha pair of fake knees.When Iwalked over to the path andstudied it closely, I saw nosign of any recent footprints.

If Mel had gone down thebluff, she hadn’t used thepath.Istoodupandlookeddown

atthebayagain.Therewasastiff wind blowing in off thewater. The sky above mayhavebeenarobin’seggblue,but the sea itself was gray-greenanddottedwith rollingwhitecaps. It lookeddangerous—andthreatening.

Genuinelyworriednowandstill staringdown thehillsidefor any sign of movement, Ipluckedmyphoneoutofmypocket and dialed Mel’s cellphone again—withpredictable results. The callwent straight to voice mail.Then I dialed Mel’s office,notherdirectline,buttheonethatwasusuallyansweredbyKelly, the receptionist

stationed just outside Mel’sdoor.“Is Chief Soames in?” I

asked when Kelly answered.“Thisisherhusbandcalling.”“No, she isn’t here,” Kelly

answered, “and I’m a littlesurprised. She was supposedtodoaliveradiointerviewatone.I’vetriedcallinghercell,but she doesn’t answer. It’snot like her to miss an

appointmentlikethis.”No it’s not, I thought

grimly. “If you do hear fromher,”Isaidaloud,“askhertogivemeacall.”Before ringing off, I gave

Kellymycell-phonenumber,then I hurried back up thehill. Ignoring the wide-openfront door, I headed straightforthebackofthehouseandto the spot where the cars

were parked, with minedirectly behind hers. Someancient cop instinct musthave kicked in. As Iapproached her vehicle,rather thangrabbing thedoorhandle and pulling it open, Ibent down and shaded myface enough so I could peerinside.That’s when my heart

almost came to a stop.Mel’s

purse lay half-open on thepassenger seat.Next to it layan unopened Subwaysandwich—her favorite, nodoubt, tuna with jack cheeseand jalapeños. Next to thesandwich, I caught sight ofwhatlookedlikethegripofaweapon. Her Smith &Wesson maybe? There washer cell phone, too, butwhatreally took my breath away

was what I saw on thepassengerfloorboard—ashoe—a single, abandoned shoe,one of the low-heeled blackpumpsMel routinelywore towork. If she had been in thedriver’s seat, and the shoewasinthepassengerfootwell,thatindicatedtheremusthavebeenastruggleofsomekind.I stepped away from the

vehiclewithout touching it—

holdingmyhandsintheairasthoughI’dbeenorderedtodoso by a traffic cop. Ifsomething had happened toMel—if someone had forcedheroutofhervehicle—Ihadto stop being a worriedhusband and transformmyself into a detective. Ilookedaround.Thecarswereparkedbelowthecrestof thehilloutofviewfromthelevel

above and shielded from theneighborsoneither sidebyathick screen of trees. Itseemed unlikely that therewould have been anyoneclose enough to witnesswhateverhadhappened.Fightingpanic,Ifumbledto

pry my cell phone from mypocket. My fingers seemedlike frozen stubs as I forcedthemtodial.

“Nine-one-one,” a calm-voiced woman answered.“Whatisyouremergency?”“It’s my wife,” I said. “I

thinksomeone’stakenher.”“What do you mean by

‘taken?’”sheasked.I tried to keep my voice

steady. “My wife is MelSoames,” I said. “She’s thepolice chief here inBellingham, and she’s

missing.”“Calm down, sir. What do

youmean‘missing’?”I wanted to reach through

the phone and throttle thewoman.Howcouldshebesostupid?“Imeanhercarishere.Her

purse is here.Herweapon ishere. She isn’t. I think she’sbeenkidnapped.”“Where are you?” the

operatorasked.Taking a deep breath to

controlmytemper,Igaveherthe address. “All right,” thewoman said. “I’m sendingunitsyourway.Doyouhaveanyideahowlongshe’sbeengone?”Iwalkedaroundtothefront

of the Porsche and leanedovercloseenoughtothehoodto hear if there was any

clicking from the engine.There was nothing—not asound—and therewasn’t anyheat rising from the hood,either.Thatmeantthatthecarhadbeenparkedlongenoughfor the engine to coolcompletely.“No idea,” I said into the

phone,“butprobablyanhouratleast.”While waiting for a patrol

car to arrive and to avoiddisturbing any possibleevidence, I forced myself tostayawayfromthevehicle.Iwalked past the house,throughthefrontyard,andallthe way back down to thefence, where I stood stock-still, staring out to sea.Anyone seeingme right thenmight have assumed I wassimply admiring the water

view. Iwasn’t. Iwaspeeringintoanabyssat theappallingpossibility of losing what Iheld most dear and knowingthat if Mel was lost, I was,too.That’s when it hitme. If a

woman goes missing, who’sthe first suspect? Thehusband or else the personwho calls it in. In thisinstance, thatwouldbeyours

truly twice over. I thoughtabout how I had forcedmyself to sound calm duringthe 9-1-1 call, and then Ithoughtaboutall theother9-1-1 recordings I had heardover the years—the oneswhere some chump calls toreport that he foundhisdeadwife, the wife he justmurdered, lying on the floorin the living room. Usually,

the killer will mention thathe’s tried reviving her eventhough the autopsy willreveal that she died hoursbefore the 9-1-1 call. Insteadoftryingtobringheraround,he’s spent the interimattempting to clean up thecrimescene.I was that guy now, the

calmoneonthephone.Whenofficers did show up, I’d be

thefirstonetheyinterviewedand the first one undersuspicion. I knew what thatmeant, too. Whileinvestigators were busyinvestigating me, whoeverhaddoneitwouldhaveplentyoftimetogetaway.Thatthoughtbroughtmeup

short.Whohaddoneit?Wasthe unknown assailantsomeone who just happened

tocomeby?Wasthisacrimeof opportunity, or was itsomething else, somethingplanned and deliberate? Andifitwasthelatter,whohaditinforMelSoames.I could think of only one

answer to that question—theguy who had been passedover for the job of chief,AustinManson.Mel’s phonewas there in the car.

Otherwise, I couldhaveusedour Find My Device app tolocate her. But what aboutManson, where was he, and,ifhewastheculprit,wasMelstillwithhim?The house was at the far

southern end of Bellinghamin a low-crime area. Thatexplained why it was takingtimeforapatrolcar toarriveon the scene. I took out my

phone again and redialedMel’soffice.“I’mlookingforAustinManson,”ItoldKelly,identifying myself again andhoping against hope thatwordofmy9-1-1callhadn’tyet filtered upstairs from theemergencyoperator.“Sorry, Assistant Chief

Manson is out sick today,”Kelly informed me. “Cananyoneelsehelpyou?”

I’m not generally a verygoodliar,butrightthenthat’sexactlywhatIneededtobe—acapableandbelievable liar.“Iwanted to surpriseMelbyinviting Assistant ChiefManson to dinner with ustomorrownight,” I said. “Doyou happen to have either ahomenumberforhimorelseacell?”Kellygavemeboth,texting

them tomebecause Ihadnoother way to write themdown.Did I turn around andtry calling either one? No, Ididnot.Instead,mynextcallwas placed to a guy namedToddHatcher.Todd is a self-styled

forensic economist whoseplaybook includes access tountolddatabases.Healsohasan uncanny way with

computers. In S.H.I.T., Toddhad functioned as RossConnors’s unseen right-handman, and now Toddwas theoneIturnedtoforhelp.“Hey,” Todd said when he

answered the phone. I couldhear the noisy sound of achildwailingsomewherenearthe background—most likelyToddandJulie’stwo-year-olddaughter, Danielle. “Long

timenosee.”A momentary silence

followed. IwasrememberingthelastseveraltimesI’dseenTodd—first in the flashing-lightchaosbeneaththeSpaceNeedle minutes after RossConnors’s car wreck; at thefuneralforBillSpade,Ross’sdriver;andfinallyoutsidethepacked gymnasium atO’DeaHighSchool,whichhadbeen

the only place deemed largeenough to hold RossConnors’s funeral. From theodd catch in Todd’s voicewhen he spoke again, Isuspecthewasrecallingthosesamescenes.“What’sup?”Standing in the chilly

midday sunlight, I heard thedistant sound of anapproaching siren. There

wasn’tmuchtime.I toldhimwhatIneededasquicklyasIcould.“You think thissour-grapes

guy Manson may be behindwhat’shappened?”“I do. He called in sick

today.IfItrytotelloneofhisofficers that I think theassistant chief is the oneresponsible for all this, thecop will most likely fall on

the floor laughing. MaybeI’m wrong. Maybe Mansonisn’tbehinditatall,butIstillwant to knowwherehe is asofrightnow.”“Beau,” Todd began, “do

youthink...?”IcouldhearthecomingbarrageofcautionbeforeToddevermanagedtospititout,andIcuthimoffinmidsentence.“I’m texting you his

numbers right now,” I toldhim urgently. “Please, Todd,see if you can locateManson’scell.”“Aslongaswedon’thavea

warrant, anything you findwon’tholdupincourt.”“Mel’s life is in danger.

That means we can getaroundtheneedforawarrant.Besides, I’m not a cop anylonger,” I snarled at him. “I

don’t give a rat’s ass aboutadmissibleevidence.”I disconnected then,

forwarded the numbers tohim, and started back up theslope, just as a patrol carcamedownthedrivewayandscreeched to a stopwith onefinalbleatfromthesiren.When the cop emerged

fromthecar, I tooka lookathis baby face and figured he

wouldbesomethinglessthanuseless.ThenIsawhisnametag—Officer Dale Embry—the young guy from thatofficer-involved shootingmonths earlier. I don’t knowhow many sworn officersthereareinMel’sdepartment,but when I realized who hewas,IfeltasthoughIhadjustwonthelottery.“What seems to be the

problem?”Embryasked.“It’s my wife,” I said,

pointingatMel’scar.“Ithinkshe’sbeenkidnapped.”There probably aren’t that

manyCaymansrunningloosein Bellingham. As soon asEmbryglancedatthevehicle,alookofshockedrecognitionspreadacrosshisfeatures.Heimmediately spoke into theradioattachedtotheshoulder

ofhisuniform.“Officer needs assistance,”

he said. “Chief Soames ismissing.”I’m not sure if the

emergency operator haddeliberately withheld thatpieceofinformationfromherradiotransmissionorifithadsimply been an oversight onherpart,but IknewEmbry’scall would bring a stampede

of officers, most likely noneofwhomwouldturnouttobeAssistant Chief Manson. IalsoknewthatifI letmycarbetrappedinthedriveway,itmight take hours for me toget it loose again. I couldn’triskthat.“Let me move my vehicle

out of the way so thedetectives and CSIs canaccesshercar.”

Embry was very young,bless his heart—young andnaive. I learned later that hewasalsoanEagleScoutandaBoy Scout troop leader. Hehadn’t yet learned that mostpeople can look you straightin the eye and lie throughtheir teeth. The prospect thathischiefhadbeenkidnappedleft him totally out of hisdepth,sohewashappytolet

me. Once back up on streetlevel, I heard the sounds ofmultiple sirens approaching,and so I simply vanished,driving out of the Baysideneighborhood and slippingquietlyintotheparkinglotofanearbyapartmentbuilding.Iwas gone before any otherofficers arrivedon the scene.With any kind of luck, itwould be quite some time

beforeEmbryfiguredoutthatIhadn’tcomebackdownthedriveway along witheverybodyelse.I’m not a man given to

praying,but that’swhatIdid—I prayed my heart out. Iwas still in the apartmentparking lotand in themiddleofmylongheart-to-heartchatwith the Man Upstairs whenmy phone rang, with Todd

Hatcherontheline.“Thatwasquick,”Isaid.“Completely illegal but

quick,”heresponded.“Igotaping off Manson’s phone.He’s currently in the parkinglotofthescenicoverlookataplace called Larrabee StatePark. It’s on Highway 11,about six miles south ofFairhaven at milepostfourteen. Depending on how

fast you drive, it should taketen to fifteen minutes to getthere.”“I’monmyway.Whatkind

of vehicle does Mansondrive?”“I thought you’d want to

knowthat,”Toddsaid,“andIhave it for you. It’s an ’06ChevroletMalibu.”During that drive, Formula

1drivershadnothingonme.I

made it to the overlookparking lot in just undersevenminutes.Driving there,I realized it was probablyclose to the same spotwhereMel, while working forS.H.I.T, had located theremains of a missing guywho’dfallentohisdeathonaSunday afternoon whiletaking a leak on his wayhome from an afternoon of

heavydrinking.Somewhere along the way,

I realized that I’d gone offand left the front door to thehouse unlocked and wideopen.With cops all over theplace, I didn’t suppose thatwas much of a problem, forthe remainder of theafternoon anyway. Besides,since the place had alreadybeen stripped bare in

preparation for the remodel,how much damage couldanyonedo?Todd had said that the

overlook was right aroundmilepost fourteen. I sloweddownaboutahalfamileoutsoIcouldapproachtheplaceunder the flag of yourordinary day-tripper outseeing the sights. When Ipulled into the parking lot,

there were only two othervehicles visible. One was awhite Chevy Malibu, parkedatthefarendofthelot.Inthemiddle of the space was animmense luxury tour busloaded with a group ofJapanese tourists, who werein theprocessof cleaningupafter a chilly, windblownpicnic lunch. Pretending tothrow away some trash, I

blendedinwiththegroupanddiscovered thatmostof themspoke English surprisinglywell. I engaged a couple ofthem in conversation longenoughtolearnthat theyhadspent the weekendsightseeing at the SkagitValley Tulip Festival. Nowthey were taking the scenicroute north to Vancouver,B.C., before catching their

flightbacktoTokyo.I usually grumble about

tourists. The hordes ofcamera-wielding dolts whostream off cruise ships andinto downtown Seattle andtheRegradethesedayscanbedownright provoking. Theymay drop millions of dollarsintothecashregistersoflocalmerchants, but my big gripeis that they tend towalkfour

and five abreast, effectivelyblocking trafficonanygivensidewalkatanygiventime.This particular batch of

tourists, however, I regardedas an absolute godsend.Manson had probably comehere thinking he’d haveplentyof timeandprivacy tosend Mel plunging from theparkinglottocertaindeathonthe wave-pounded rocks far

below. My hope—myslenderestsmidgenofhope—was that the picnickers haddelayedhimlongenoughthatMelwasstillalive.AmanIsuspectedofbeing

the tour-bus driver stood offby himself, smoking acigarette. The passengersmight have been Japanese,butIcouldtellbyhisflannelshirtandbaseballcapthatthe

driver was dyed-in-the-woolAmerican.Takingasteadyingbreath,I

walked toward him, notknowing as I went what Iwould say or even exactlywhatIwantedtoaccomplish.On the one hand, having thetourists present providedcover for me and keptMansonfrommakinghisnextmove. On the other hand, I

was armed, and,most likely,Manson was, too. If theconfrontation ended upturning into some kind ofshoot-out,Ididn’twanttoberesponsible for putting abusload of innocent Japanesevisitorsinjeopardy.The driver stubbed out his

cigarette as I approached.“How’sitgoing?”hesaid.Those three words were

ordinary enough—casuallywelcomingofastranger,but,at thesametime,abitonthewaryside,asthoughtosayhethoughtImightturnouttobean okay guy while stillwarningmenottotrygettingtoo chummy. I needed aquick way to start aconversation, and so, eventhough I quit smokingliterally decades ago, I came

up with the only possibletopic that had any hope ofworking.“Gotasmoke?”Iasked.There’s an instant bonding

among smokers these days.Smokers are so accustomedto being treated like pariahs—glared at, ridiculed, andreviled—that when they findotherlike-mindedindividuals,they tend to let down their

defenses. I had seen thatphenomenon at work earlierthat very morning in theinteraction between Harry I.Ball and Marge Herndon.They met, they lit theirrespective cigarettes, andwereinstantlypalsforlife.After a moment’s

hesitation, the driver reachedintohispocketandpulledoutapackofcigarettes—abrand

I didn’t recognize. From anarm’s length away, I couldsee that the writing on thepackage was in Japanese.WhatIcouldn’tseefromthatdistance was if theindecipherable charactersincludedanyofourcountry’snanny-state grim healthwarnings.“A gift from one of my

passengers,” he explained,

noticing that I was studyingthepackaging.“Theybroughttheir own along on the trip,and that’s a good thing. Itmeans they don’t mind if Istop for cigarette breaks.Theywantthem,too.”He tapped a cigarette out

and held the package in mydirection. Then he took oneforhimselfandlitbothwithalighter he extracted from the

pocketofhisjeans.Itookapuff.Aftersomany

years of not smoking, thatfirst fiery lungful of nicotinehitme likea tonofbricks. Ittookrealeffortonmyparttosuppress a sudden fit ofcoughing.“I’vegotaproblem,”Isaid.“Oh, yeah?” Cigarette

bonding goes only so far.Wariness crept back into his

voice.“Likewhat?”“Youseethatcaroverthere

inthecorner?”“YoumeantheMalibuwith

the guy sitting in it? Heshowedupawhileago.He’sbeen sitting there the wholetime without getting out ofthe car. Made me wonderwhathewasupto.”“And well you should,” I

toldhim.“Theguybehindthe

wheel works with my wifeand hates her guts. She’sgone missing. I think hemight have kidnapped herfrom our new house inFairhaven. I believe she’slocked in the trunk and thathe brought her here to killher. As soon as he has achance, I suspect he’s goingtoshoveheroffthecliff.”Thatdeclarationprovokeda

fit of coughing—from thedriver, this time, rather thanfrom me. “You’re kidding,”he gasped when the spasmsubsided. “It’s March. Whatis this, some kind of weirdAprilFool’sjoke?”“It’snojoke.MynameisJ.

P. Beaumont. I’m a retiredhomicide cop. My wife’sname isMelissaSoames, butshe goes by Mel. She was

recently appointed chief ofpolice in Bellingham. AustinManson is her second-in-command. He’s pissedbeyond measure that she gotthe top job, and he didn’t.He’s known to have atemper.”“Pissedenoughtokillher?”

the driver said, shaking hisheadindisbelief.“Noway!”“Way,”Isaid.

“If he kidnapped her, howcome you know about it?What makes you think hebroughtherhere?”“Wegot a pingoff his cell

phone.”The driver ground out the

remains of his half-smokedcigarette. “I’d better get mypeopleoutofherepronto,”hesaid. “Before the cops showup, and this our picnic turns

into the shoot-out at the OKCorral.”“Wait,” I said. “Please. I

needyourhelp.”He gave me what Jeremy,

my son-in-law, calls thestink-eye. “What kind ofhelp?”“Thefactthatyouandyour

people have been here isprobably the only thingkeeping him from making a

move. I need you to stay.Round up your people. Getthemloadedontothebus,butplease don’t leave. If thingsgo to hell in a handbasket,and there is a shoot-out,chances are we’re talkinghandguns. I doubt he’ll bearmed with a high-poweredrifle.Your bus should be farenough away that thepassengers shouldn’t be in

anydanger.”“But they might be,” the

driverpointedout.“Yes,” I agreed. “They

couldbe.”“You and he might be

armed with handguns only,”thedrivercontinued,“butthecopswhoshowupwillcomewithriflesandshotgunsattheready and with bulletproofvests, besides. My poor

people have nothing,” headded,noddinginthegeneraldirection of the bus. “Zilch.They’llbesittingducks.”This was the part where

things were getting dicey—the place where I wouldeitherlosehimcompletelyorwin him over. It could goeitherway.“Thecopsaren’tcoming,”I

said. “As I said, I’m Mel’s

husband. Right now, I’mmost likely suspect numerouno as far as the cops areconcerned. They’re probablysearching for me high andlow.”“They don’t know you’re

here?”I shook my head. “The

problem is, while everybodyelse is wasting their timelooking for me, I’m afraid

Manson is going to kill her.You and I may be her onlychance.”I said my piece then fell

silent andwaited. For a longtime, the only sound in thegraveled parking lot was thesoft roar of waves breakingon rocks far below. I wasafraid he would simply turnand walk away. He didn’t.Straightening his shoulders,

he looked me square in theeye.“What do you need me to

do?”ItwasallIcoulddotokeep

fromhuggingtheguy.Isaid,“Get your passengers loadedintothebus.Tellthemtotakecover as best they can—tosink down below windowlevelasmuchaspossible.”The driver grinned then.

“Thatshouldn’tbeaproblem.Mostof’emaren’tanybiggerthanaminute.”“By the way, could you

lendmeanothercigarette?”“Lend?” he replied. “Are

you saying you’ll buy me apackwhenallthisisover?”The cigarette-smoker’s

bonding was back, big-time.Thedriver and Iwereon thesamepage.Wewere a team.

He pulled out his pack andpassedmeasinglecigarette.“Pack? Hell,” I declared,

“I’llbuyyouawholedamnedcarton.”“What are you going to

do?”“I’m going to walk over

there,taponthewindow,andaskforalight.”“Ifheworkswithyourwife,

won’therecognizeyou?”

“I doubt it. Manson knowsMel; he doesn’t know me.We’ve never met. When herolls down the window, I’mgoing to take him down.WhileI’mdoingthat,yougeton the horn to 9-1-1. Tellthem there’s some kind ofaltercation going down hereat the state park. You’rewelcometosayI’minvolvedor not, your call. Say you

believe people’s lives are indangerandtogetherefast.”Therewasapause.Finally,

hesaid,“Whatifthingsdon’tgoyourway?”“Then take your bus and

your people and get the helloutofherebecauseifIdon’tsucceedinnailingthebastard,my wife’s done for, and soamI.”Afteranevenlongerpause,

the driver nodded and heldout his hand. We shook.“Good luck,” he said. “I’mrootingforyou.”Withthat,heheadedforhis

bus, and I turned toward theMalibu. It was parked at thefar southendof the lot,withthe passenger side snug upagainstaguardrailmadeofalonglengthoflogratherthanmetal. Given the distance

downthecliffonthefarsideof that slender barrier, Iwould have much preferredmetal.Forcingmyself not to rush,

IsauntereduptotheMalibu’sdriver-side door and rappedsharplyontheglasswithonehand while holding up acigarette in the other. Then Ibentdownandmouthedthreeunderstated words through

the closed window, “Got alight?”BeforeMansoncouldreply,

I slipped my right hand intomy jacket pocket and closedmyfingersaround theplasticgrip on my Glock. MansonmusthavebeendozingwhenI tapped on the window. Hestarted awake at the suddennoise and reached forsomething I couldn’t see—a

gun most likely. After amoment and to my immenserelief, he seemed to relax.Thewindowrolleddown.Manson looked at me

through bloodshot eyes.“Whaddyu want?” hedemandedasablastofboozybreath spilled out of the car,leaving its stink in the cool,crispairaroundus.I reasoned that if Manson

was going to shoot first andaskquestions later, hewouldhavedonesoalready.Luckilyforme,thebuswasstillthereand still acting as adeterrentbecause it meant there wereall kinds of possiblewitnesses on the scene.Evendrunk as a skunk, Mansonknew better than to gunsomeonedown in coldbloodin front of a spellbound

audience.“Gotalight?”Irepeated.“I

must have blown a fuse ortwo inmyMercedes.Neitherofmy lighterswork,and I’mdyingforasmoke.”Manson gave an

exaggerated sigh, then hereachedoverandpunchedthelighter button on hisdashboard. With his righthand. Amen! That probably

meanthewasright-handed.Italso meant that a handholding a lit lighterwouldn’tbeholdingagun.Couldn’tbeholding a gun. I studied himwhile we waited for thelighter to heat up. Mansonwasinhismidfifties,worehishair in a graying crew cut,and was reasonably fit. Hecould have been me a fewyearsago,uptoandincluding

thebooze-fueledbreath.I waited until he held out

the lighter, then I pounced. Idropped the cigarette,grabbed his wrist with bothhands, and twisted for all Iwas worth. Then I bodilydraggedhisresistingbodyoutthroughtheopenwindow.“What thehell?” heyelled,

fighting to free himself. “Letgo.I’llkillyou,youasshole.”

Manson’sbigproblemrightthen was that he was stilldrunk, and I wasn’t. Idroppedhimonto thegroundfrom window height andheard the air swoosh out ofhislungs.Oncehewasontheground gasping for breath, Iwas there, too, twisting hisarm into an impossiblepretzel behind his back in awaythatwasonlyahalfinch

short of pulling his shoulderoutofitssocket.“You bastard,” he howled

when he could speak again“Whoeveryouare, youare adeadman.”“No, I’m not, Manson,” I

told him cheerfully, “butyou’redone.Standdown!”Outofthecornerofmyeye,

Isawthebusdriversprintingtoward us from across the

parking lot. “Thought youcould use these,” he said,arriving out of breath andgasping but holding up ahandfulofindustrialsizedtie-wraps. “You’d be surprisedhow often they come inhandy on the bus. And Icalled the cops just like yousaid.They’reontheirway.”Momentslater,withbothof

Manson’s hands properly

cuffed behind his back, Istood up, more grateful thanever for Dr. Auld, theorthopedic surgeon over atSwedish Hospital who hadreplaced my original out-of-warrantykneeswithproperlyworking new ones. Mansonwas still on the ground,grumbling and railing.Meanwhile, I slipped theGlock out of my jacket

pocket and back into itsholster. No shots had beenfired.Therewasnoreasontohave a weapon on displaywhenthecavalryshowedup.That’saboutthetimeIfirst

heardafiercethumpingnoisecomingfrominsidethetrunk.Melwasalive!Tearsofreliefsprang from my eyes as Isearched the interior of theMalibu for the trunk release.

Asecondlater,thebusdriverand I stood in front of theopen trunk, staring down atmy wife. She was alive buthelpless, duct-taped fromhead to foot. A long strip oftape covered her mouth. Ithurtmetopullthestickygagaswell as a layerof skinoffher face, but it didn’t botherher. In fact, Idon’t thinksheevennoticed.

“Where’s Manson?” shedemandedfuriously,onceshewasfreeofthegag.“Justwaituntil I get my hands on thatbastard!”“Manson is handled,” I

assured her. “He’s not incustody just yet, but he’shandled. What about you?Are you all right? Are youhurt?”Still focused on Manson,

she didn’t answer, but as Ihelped her sit up, I saw astreakofdriedblood that ranfrom her right temple all theway toherchin.Most likely,Manson had used somethingheavy to clock her over theheadandknockherout.While I loosened the

restraints on Mel’s legs,peelingoffstripsofshreddedpanty hose along with every

piece of duct tape, the busdriver worked at freeing herhands. Once Mel was freefrom the tape, we attemptedto stand her upright, but sheimmediately toppled over.Luckily,wecaughtherbeforeshe landed on her face. Herlowerlimbsweresonumb,itwas impossible for her tostandonherown.“Who’s this?” she asked,

nodding toward the driver,who was gripping her otherelbow.“Name’s Sam,” he told her

with a grin. “That’s my busover there. I’m the busdriver.”“TodayIthinkSamisshort

for Good Samaritan,” Meldeclared.Wealllaugheduproariously

atthat,asthoughshehadjust

cracked the best joke ever,andmaybeshehad.Then,assuddenly as our outburst oflaughter had erupted, itended.Limpwith relief,Melfell weeping against myshoulder.“Mansonwasgoingto kill me,” she sobbedbrokenly. “He said if hecouldn’t have the job, I sureas hell wouldn’t have it,either.”

“I know,” I murmuredcomfortingly into her ear. “Iknow.”I tried to pretend I was

holdinghertightlyagainstmein order to keep her fromfalling, but that wasn’t theonly reason—not by a longshot.Ididn’twanttoletgoofhereveragain.After a time, she pried

herself loose frommy grasp.

“Where are we?” she asked,frowning.“Larrabee Park on

ChuckanutDrive,afewmilessouthofFairhaven.”“How did you find me?”

she wanted to know. “Howdidyouknowtocomehere?”I didn’t answer the

question, but she figured itout anyway. “Todd?” sheaskedamomentlater.

Inodded.“And he located Manson’s

cell phone without having awarrant?”Inoddedagain.“Well,” she said, “we can’t

justthrowhimunderthebus,canwe?”When Sam objected to her

use of that particularterminology, Mel quicklycorrectedherself.“Imean,we

can’t tell the cops about anyof this. If they find outwhatTodd can do, they’ll be alloverhim.Hemightevenendupinjail.”“You’re right,” I agreed.

“It’s probably for best if wedon’t make any mention ofhimorhisparticipation.”“What then?” Mel asked.

She fell silent, but soon shebrightened. “Wait a minute,”

she said. “I know how tohandlethis.”Reaching into the jacket

pocket of her very rumpleduniform, she pulled out aspare set of keys. MelSoames is notorious forlosing track of keys—carkeys, house keys, you nameit. As a consequence, shenevergoesanywherewithouttwo complete sets—one in

her purse and one in herpocket.Sheheldthekeyringup, in the air jingling ittriumphantly in front of myface. “We’ll tell them youusedthis.”Months earlier, for

Christmas, I had given her acollectionofsmallsquaresofplastic tiles, containinglocator chips. With thedevices attached to her key

rings, no matter where shemisplaced one of them, wecoulduseouriPhonestofindit.“Those are designed to

work inside houses orapartments,” I objected. “Itwouldnevercover thismuchdistance.”“Technology is

mysterious,” Mel declared.“Nobody else knows that for

sure, and what they don’tknowwon’thurtthem.”Samsawthatasasignal to

take his leave. “I’d better gocheck on my passengers andlet them know everything’sall right,” he said, backingawayfromus.It was a good thing we’d

already made arrangementsabout handling the locatorbeaconbecause,atthatpoint,

a string of cop cars withlights flashing and sirensblaring came streaming intothe parking lot. Someonegrabbed up Austin Mansonand hustled him away, firstinto the back of a patrol carandlaterintoanewlyarrivedambulance.Iexpectedthatinvestigators

would immediately separateMel and me while someone

else went to talk to Sam.That’s what cops usually do—theyseparatewitnessesandsuspects in an effort to keepthem from comparing notesand collaborating as far astheir various stories areconcerned.IwasgratefulthatMelandIhadmanagedtogetourstoriesstraightbeforethenewarrivalsgotthere.But before we could be

separated and interviewed,something unexpectedhappened. A white Buicksedan nosed its way into thecrush of cop cars, and awoman I later learned wasMayor Kirkpatrick boundedout of the car and startedthrowing around herconsiderable weight. I haveno idea how she learnedabout what was going on as

fast as she did. Maybe shewas monitoring policescanners. Maybe someonecalled her directly to let herknow.Shehustledup toDetective

Walsh, the officer in charge.“Is it true?” she demanded.“IsAustinMansonbehindallthis?”Walsh was a cop with a

dutytoprotecttheintegrityof

both the crime scene and theinvestigation. Even so, hecouldn’t help butacknowledge the woman’sauthority. Rather than doinghis job and ordering heraway, he simply nodded.TherewassomuchdeferenceinthegesturethatImorethanhalf wondered if the old bathad been his Sunday schoolteacheronceuponatime.

“Austin’smother,Mona, isa good friend of mine,”MayorKirkpatrickcontinued.“He’s been staying with hereversincehislastdivorceandbecoming more despondentevery day. She called meearlier this morning, worriedthathehadstormedoutofthehouse in such a state that hemight do something to harmhimselforothers.”

“Nice of you to let usknow,” Mel muttered underherbreath.Another vehicle pulled into

the lot—a media van. Aspeople sprang out, expectingto set up their equipment,Mayor Kirkpatrickimmediately shooed themaway. “No cameras and nomicrophones,”sheannouncedfirmly before any of the

media folk could unpack.“We’re dealing with amental-health issue, andwe’re required by law torespect the patient’s privacy.Isn’t that right, DetectiveWalsh?”To my amazement, the

reporter scurried back to thevanwithout a singlewordofobjection. When it came towielding influence, Adelina

Kirkpatrick was a marvel.Within moments, the entirepress corps beat a hastyretreat.I looked back at the

detective.Hewasclearlytorn—torn between doing theright thing as a professionalcop and knowingwhich sidehis bread was buttered on;between the old guard, themayor, and the new guard,

Mel;betweenManson,aguyhe’d come up with throughthe ranks, and Mel, his newchief. The old guard wonhandsdown.“Yes,ma’am,”Walshsaid.Mel was offended. “A

mental-health issue?” shestormed. “Are you kiddingme?Isthathowyouexpecttohandle all of this? AustinManson attacked me,

kidnappedme,andthreatenedtokillme,andyouexpectmetoforgetaboutallthatandletyousweepitundertherugbysayinghesufferedsomekindof psychotic breakdown?You’reengaginginanillegalcover-upandexpectingmetogoalongwithit?”“AsIsaid,Austin’smother

andIarebestfriends,”MayorKirkpatrickexplained.“Mona

willseetoitthathersongetsthe best possible treatment.Sending him to jail certainlywon’t fix it. And in this dayand age, when policedepartmentsoperateunder somuch suspicion, lettingwordgetout thatoneofourswornofficers has gone on apotentially murderousrampage isn’t going to doyour department any favors,

and it won’t do myadministration any goodeither.”“But . . .” Mel began, but

Mayor Kirkpatrick talkedright over her, speaking loudenough now for all theofficerswithinearshottohearwhatshewassaying.“Chief Soames has just

informed me that AssistantChief Manson was

threatening suicide earliertoday.She,withtheaidofherhusband...”Shestoppedandlooked at me, pleading forassistance.“Beaumont,” I said

helpfully. “J. P. Beaumont.Melwanted to keep her ownname,yousee.”Mel jabbed me in the rib

with her elbow whileMayorKirkpatrick continued on her

merryway.“She and Mr. Beaumont

here have just nowmanagedto subdue him. AssistantChiefManson is about to betransportedtoafacilitywherehe’ll be given the kind oftreatment he requires. In themeantime, let’s give ChiefSoames andMr.Beaumont aroundofapplause!”Enthusiastic clapping

echoed through the parkinglotaroundus.Foronceinherlife, Mel was caught flat-footed and dumbstruckbesides. She had beencompletely outmaneuveredby a politician who hadsomehow succeeded inturning Mel Soames into areluctant ally. With Mansongone,maybetheundercurrentof objection to Mel’s tenure

as chief would be gone aswell.By the time the applause

ended, Detective Walsh wasnowhere to be seen. Theincident had been publiclydeclaredover anddonewith.Mel was furious, but I, forone,wasgrateful.Yes,lettingit go that way amounted tocrappypolicework,butIwasglad the mayor had stopped

the process before theinterviews started and beforeMelandIhadbeenforcedtoperjure ourselves. Besides,thewholeshebanghadturnedinto a nonevent. No one haddied in the incident. Noweapons had beendischarged.Noonewasgoingtojail.Itwasadonedeal.The tour bus left shortly

aftertheambulancedeparted.

Before thebusdroveaway, IjotteddownSam’snameandaddress so I could send himhis promised carton ofcigarettes.Ididn’tmentiontoMel I had been forced tosmokeacigaretteinmyeffortto save her life. Since sheherselfwasarelativelyrecentex-smoker, she most likelywould have thought Ivolunteered.

Halfanhour later,MelandI left the now-empty parkinglotwhere,asfarastherestofthe world was concerned,nothing at all had happened.WewentbacktothehouseonBayside. We stopped byMel’s car long enough tocollect her missing purse,phone, and shoe. The otherblackpumphad turnedup inthe trunk of Manson’s

Malibu, as well as Mel’sbackupweapon.With Mel properly shod

again,wewentaround to thefront of the house, strippedoff the crime-scene tape, andwent inside. Mel tookadvantage of the relativeprivacy of our expansivewallboard-freelivingroomtopeel off her tattered pantyhose.Whenweleftthehouse

again, after closing andlocking the front door, Meltossed the remains of herpantyhoseontopofapileofconstruction debris in theDumpster parked next to herPorsche.Then, driving two cars, we

headed intoFairhaven, foundparking places on the maindrag, and were shown to aquiet corner table in Dirty

Dan Harris’s, a small bistrothat has the reputation ofbeing the best restaurant intown.Weplacedourorder for an

early dinner and sat thereholding hands across thewhite-linen tablecloth. Weboth knew how close we’dcometolosingitallthatday,andwewereverygrateful.“This isn’t over,”Mel said

determinedly. “I should haveWalsh’searsforthis.”“It’ll be better for you if

you don’t,” I advised. “Withthe mayor all over him, theman was caught between arock and hard place. Heknows he was in the wrong.Intermsofhavingthetrustofyourrankandfile,aswellashaving his long-term loyalty,resolvingitwithoutturningit

intoapublicoutcryisabetterbet.Withoutthattrust,you’regoingtoendupbeingashort-timer.”Mel thought about that.

“Maybe you’re right,” shesaid.Ourfoodcamethen,andwe

tore into it. We had bothmissed lunch, and we werestarving. It wasn’t until wewere sharing a dessert of

bread pudding that thingsturnedseriousagain.“Where do we go from

here?”Melasked.“Well,” I said, “I assume

that tomorrow morning,you’llgobacktobeingChiefof Police although, for mymoney, I’d just as soon yourefrained from being lockedinanothercaranytimesoon.”“What about you?” Mel

asked.“What do you mean what

about me? I’m not exactlysitting around letting thegrass grow under my steel-belted radials. I’m finishingupHarry’sprojectandwillbestartingonoursassoonashisis out of theway. I can onlyhandleonehousingcrisisatatime. I’m sure JimHuntwillbe dragging me hither and

yon looking at plumbingfixtures, slab samples, andlightingoptions.”“Thatmaybewhatweneed

you to be doing right now,”Melallowed,“butIdon’tseemuch of a future in it. Youdon’t plan on spending therest of your life supervisingconstruction projects, doyou?”“No,” I admitted. “It’s

somethingIcandoinapinchif Ihave to,butyou’re right.It’snotreallyme.”“There you go,” Mel said,

nodding, leaning back in herchair and giving me one ofthose questioning, raised-eyebrow, Mr.-Spock looksthat I find so endearing. “Sowhatareyougoingtodowiththerestofyourlife?”Itwas a serious question—

one I had been dodging formonths—so I didmy best tolaugh it off. “Bowling,maybe?” I asked. “Or whataboutgolf?Golf seems tobeworking just fine for RalphAmes.”Ralph came into my life

about the time my secondwife, Anne Corley, shotthrough my world like aspeeding comet and

transformed my existence.RalphwasAnne’sattorneytobeginwith and becamemineintheaftermathofherdeath.We’ve had a client/friendrelationship for decades, onethat continues even now thathe’s semiretired. Mel leanedforward in her seat and gavemeoneofhermostbeguilingsmiles.IknewatoncethatI’dsteppedintoatrapalthoughit

hadn’tyetsprungshut.“I’m so glad to hear you

mention Ralph,” Mel said.“WhataboutTLC?”TLC,akaTheLastChance,

is Ralph’s baby, the sameway S.H.I.T. once belongedto Ross Connors. It startedyears ago when one ofRalph’s already well-heeledclients, a woman namedHedda Brinker, hit a huge

Powerball jackpot. Hedda’sdaughter, Ursula had beenmurderedyearsearlier,andatthetimethecrimewasasyetunsolved. Hedda wanted touse her jackpot winnings tostart a privately operatedcold-case organization.Hedda’s original vision wasthat Ralph, operating in thecapacity of her attorney,would set things in motion

and then step away. Instead,hehadremainedatthehelm.After the shuttering of

SpecialHomicide,Ralphhadsuggested that I shouldmaybethinkaboutjoiningupwith TLC. Every time hementioned it, I had turnedhimdown.Unfortunately,mylast cold-case experience hadbeen an ill-fated effort thathad resulted in the death of

Seattle Homicide DetectiveDelilah Ainsworth. I knewtoowellhowotherwisegoodintentions could have fatalconsequences. Only threepeople knew how muchDelilah’s death had rockedmy world— Mel; my AAsponsor and formerstepgrandfather, Lars Jensen;andRalphAmes.AsfarasIwasconcerned,I

was out of the homicidebusiness, especially when itcametocoldcases.“Beingahomicidecopisin

your blood,” Mel insisted.“Just look at what you didtoday.Youwerebackinyourelement out there and savedmylifeintheprocess.You’rea savvy guy, mister. Youknow what you’re about,you’ve still got the moves,

and I know TLC would beluckytohaveyou.”“What are you saying

then?” I asked. “No bowlingandnogolf?”Webothlaughedatthevery

idea. Laughter came easilythat evening, and it’s nowonder.“Yes,” she agreed, “no to

both,soareyougoingtocallRalph about this, or should

I?”Itwas the old FullerBrush

assumed-close routine allover again—How do youwant to pay for this, cash orcheck?“Let me think about it,” I

said.“Giveitalittletime.Letme get this housing stuffunder control, then I’ll giveRalphacall.”“Promise?”Melasked.

“Ipromise,”Isaid.And just like that, IknewI

was toast. I also knew thatTLC was definitely in myfuturebecauseMelwasright.Over-the-hill or not, being acopisn’tonlywhatIdo.Likeitorlumpit,it’swhoIam.

Yearsago,AmosWarren,a

prospector,wasgunneddownoutinthedesert,andSheriffBrandonWalkermadethe

arrestinthecase.Now,theretiredWalkeriscalledinwhenthealleged

killer,JohnLassiter,refusestoacceptapleadealthatwouldreleasehimfromprisonwithtimeserved.Lassiter

wantsBrandonandTheLastChancetofindAmos’s“real”killerandclearhis

name.Sixteenhundred

milestothenorthinSeattle,J.P.

Beaumontisatloose

endsaftertheSpecialHomicide

InvestigationTeam,affectionatelyknownasS.H.I.T.,hasbeenunexpectedlyand

completelydisbanded.WhenBrandondiscoversthattherearelinks

betweenLassiter’scaseandanunsolvedcaseinSeattle,hecomestoBeaufor

help.Thosetwocases

suddenlybecomehotwhentwoyoungboysfromthereservation,

oneofthemwithclosetiestothe

Walkerfamily,gomissing.Cantwoseasonedcops,

workingtogether,decipherthemissingpiecesintimetokeep

themalive?

KeepreadingforanexcitingsneakpeekatJ.A.Jance’supcoming

novel

DanceoftheBones

ABeaumontandWalkerNovel

Comingsoonin

hardcoverfromWilliamMorrow

AMOSWARREN WALKED withhisshouldersstoopedandhiseyesandmindfocusedontheuneven ground beneath hisfeet. The winter rains hadbeenmorethangenerousthisyear, and this part of theSonorandesert,SozaCanyon

onthefareasternedgeoftheRinconMountains,was alivewith flowers. Scrawny,suntanned, and weathered,Amoswasmorethanmiddle-aged and still remarkably fit.Even so, the sixtyor seventypounds he carried in thesturdy pack on his shouldersweighed him down and hadhim feeling his sixty-plusyears.

He had started the day bypicking up several top-notcharrowheads. He slippedseveral of them into thepockets of his jeans ratherthan risk damaging them astheloadinthepackincreasedover the course of the day.The one he considered to bethe best of the lot, he hidaway inside his wallet,congratulatinghimselfon the

fact that his day was off tosuch a great start. In thecourse of the morning, helocated several geodes. Thebest of thosewas a bowling-ball-sized treasure thatwouldfetch a pretty penny once itjoined thegrowingcollectionofgoodsthatheandhisfosterson, John Lassiter, wouldoffer for sale at the nextavailable gem and mineral

show.Assuming, of course, that

Johneverspoketohimagain,Amos thought ruefully. Theknock-down, drag-out fightthe two men had gotten intothe night before had been adoozy, and recalling it hadcastapalloverAmos’sentireday. He had known JohnLassiter fordecades, and thiswasthefirsttimehehadever

raised a hand to the youngerman. The fact that they haddukeditoutoveragirl,ofallthings,onlyaddedtoAmos’schagrin.AvaMartin,Amos thought,

whataconnivinglittlewhore!She was good-looking andknew it. She was a tiny-blond-bombshell type withjust the right curves wherethey counted. Amos didn’t

trust the bitch any furtherthanhecouldthrowher.His next thought was all

aboutJohn.Thepoorguywascrazy about Ava—absolutelycrazy. As far as John wasconcerned, Ava was thegreatest thing since slicedbread. In fact, he was eventalking about buying anengagement ring, for God’ssake!

As for Amos? He knewexactly who Ava was andwhat she was all about. Shewasn’t anything close todecent marriagematerial. Hehad noticed the wicked littletwo-timer batting her eyesand flirting with John’s bestfriend, Ken—all behindJohn’s back, of course. Andtwodaysago,whenJohnhadbeenoutof town,she’dgone

sofarastocomebyhishouse—forty-five minutes fromtown—where she had triedputtingthemovesonAmos.That was the last straw.

AmoswasdecadesolderthanAva. He had no illusionsabout his actually beingphysically attractive to her.No,shewasn’tlookingtogetlaid; Avawas after themainchance.

She knew John and Amoswere partners who spliteverything fifty-fifty. Sheprobably understood that, forthemost part,Amoswas thebrainsoftheoutfitwhileJohnwasthebrawn.Amoswastheone who knew where to gosearchingandfindthehiddentreasures the unyieldingdesert would reveal to onlythemostpatientofsearchers.

He knew what was worthtakinghomeandwhatwasn’t.Johnwas the packhorse whocarriedthestuffandloadeditintothebackofthetruckandcarrieditintothestorageunit.When it came to selling

their finds, Amos had years’worth of contacts at hisdisposal, allof them listed inhis little black book. He hadcollected a whole catalogue

of gem and mineral dealersand artifact dealers, someaboveboardandothersnotsomuch. He also knew whichitems might interestindividualdealers.Hedidthebehind-the-scenes sellingwhile John handled directsalesatbooths in thevariousvenues. John was a good-lookingyounghunk,andthatwas always a good thing

when it came to face-to-facesales.Amos suspected that John

had gotten into his cups andtalked too much about whatthey did and how muchmoney they brought in—somethingAmos regarded asnobody’s business but theirown. He was convinced thatwas what Ava Martin wasreally after—the shortest

route to the money. Amoshad sent the little witchpacking, and he’d had nointentionoftellingJohnaboutit, but Ava had gotten thedrop on him. She had toldJohnall about their little set-to. The problem was, inAva’s version of the story,Amos had been the oneputtingthemakeonher.Withpredictableresults.

The previous evening,Amoshadgone toElBarrio,arun-downbaronSpeedwayjust east of I-10.When he’dlived in town, El Barrio hadbeenwithinwalking distanceof the house. Whendevelopers came throughandbought up the whole blockwhere his house was, Amoshad taken his wad of moneyand paid cash for a five-acre

place up in Golder Canyon,on the far back side ofCatalina. The house was atin-roofed affair that hadstartedoutlongagoasastagestop.Intown,JohnandAmoshad been roommates. The“cabin,”asAmoslikedtocallit, was strictly a one-manshow, so John had chosen tostayonintown—closertotheaction—and had rented a

place in the oldneighborhood.When Amos went to El

Barriothatnight,hehaddoneso deliberately, knowing itwas most likely still John’sfavorite hangout. Andknowing, too, that he wascoming there to have it outwithJohnbecauseAmoshadmadeuphismind.EitherAvawent or John did.He’d been

sitting at the bar, tucked inamongtheothertwentyorsoHappy Hour regulars andsipping his way through thatevening’s boilermaker, whenJohn had stormed in throughthefrontdoor.“Youbastard!” theyounger

man muttered under hisbreath as he slid uninvitedonto an empty stool next toAmos.

Amos knew that John washot-tempered, and he wasclearly spoiling for a fight—somethingAmospreferred toavoid. He had come herehoping to talk things outratherthandukingthemout.Hetookacarefulsipofhis

drink. “Good afternoon toyou, too,” he respondedcalmly.“Careforabeer?”“I don’t want a beer from

you.Oranythingelse, either.You keep telling me thatAva’s bad news, telling meshe’s not good enough forme,butthefirsttimemybackis turned, you try getting herintothesack!”“ThatwhatAva told you?”

Amosasked.“It’s not just what she told

me,”Johndeclared,hisvoicerising.“It’swhathappened.”

“WhatifItoldyouAvawasaliar?”“Inthatcase,howaboutwe

stepoutsidesoIcanbeat thecrapoutofyou?”Looking in the mirror

behindthebar,Amossawthereflection of John as he wasnow—a beefy man fourinches taller than Amos,thirty pounds heavier, andthreedecadesyoungerwitha

well-deserved reputation as abrawler and an equally welldeserved moniker, Big BadJohn. Amos’s problem wasthat,at thesametimehesawthat image, he wasremembering another one aswell—oneofamuchyoungerkid, freckle-faced andmissing his two front teeth.Thatwas how John—Johnnyback then—had lookedwhen

Amos had first laid eyes onhim.Amos knew that in a fair

fight between them, outsidethe bar, he wouldn’t stand achance; he’d be dog meat.The younger man might nothave been tougher, but hewas younger and taller. Bythe time a fight was over,mostlikelythecopswouldbecalled. One or the other of

them, or maybe both, wouldbe hauled off to jail andcharged with assault. Amoshadalreadydonetime,andhedidn’twantanythinglikethatto happen to John. That in anutshell took the fair-fightoption off the table. WhatAmos needed was a one-,two-punch effort that put astoptothewholeaffairbeforeithadachancetogetstarted.

As the quarrel escalated,tension crept like a thick fogthroughout the room,and therest of the bar went deadquiet.“I don’t want to fight you,

kid,” Amos said in aconciliatory tone whilecalmly pushing his stoolaway from the bar. No onenoticed how he carefullyslippedhisrighthandintothe

hippocketofhisworn jeans,and no one saw the samehand ease back out into theopen again with somethingclenched in his fist. “Comeon, son” he added. “Take aloadoff,sitdown,andhaveabeer.”“I am not your son!” John

growledashestartedtogettohis feet. “I never was, andI’m not having a beer with

you, either, you son of abitch.We’redone,Amos.It’sover. Get some other poorstoogetobeyourpartner.”BigBadJohnLassiternever

saw the punch coming.Amos’s powerful right hookcaught him unawares andunprepared. His blow brokeJohn’s cheekbone and senthim reeling backward,dropping like a rock on the

sawdust-covered floor. BigJohnlanded,bloodiedfaceupand knocked cold. In theshocked silence thatfollowed, with all eyesfocused on John, no one intheroomnoticedwhenAmosWarren slipped the brassknucklesbackintohispocket.No,ithadn’tbeenafairfight,but at least it was overwithout any danger of its

turning into a full-scalebrawl.As John started coming to

and tried to sit up, severalpeople hurried to help him.Amos turned back to thebartender. “No need to callthe cops,” Amos said. “Nextround’sonme.”Asfaras thebartenderwas

concerned, that was goodnews. He didn’t want any

trouble, either. “Right,” hesaid, nodding in agreement.“Comingrightup.”Ittookseveralpeopletoget

John back on his feet andwork-wise. Someone handedhimabarnapkintohelpstemthe flow of blood that wasstill pouring from the cut onhis cheek, but the wad ofpaper didn’t do much good.The damage was done. His

shirt was already a bloodymess.“See you tomorrow then?”

Amos called after John,watchinghiminthemirrorashe staggered unsteadilytowardthedoor.“Go piss up a rope, Amos

Warren,” John muttered inreply. “I’ll see you in hellfirst.”ThatwasthelastthingJohn

hadsaidtohim—I’llseeyouin hell. They’d quarreledbefore over the years, mostrecently several times aboutAva, but this was the firsttime they’d ever come toblows. In past instances, afewdaysafterthedustup,oneor the other of them wouldget around to apologizing,and thatwouldbe theendofit. Amos hoped the same

thingwouldhappen this timearound although, with Avastanding on the sidelinesfanning the flames, it mightnot be that easy to patchthingsup.Lost in thought, Amos had

been walking generallywestward, following thecourseofthedrycreekbedatthe bottom of the canyon,some of it sandy and some

litteredwithboulders.Duringmonsoonseason, flashfloodscarryingboulders,treetrunks,and all kinds of other debriswould roar downstream. Asthewater level subsided, andthesandsettledout,therewasno tellingwhatwouldbe leftbehind. In the course of theday,Amoshadseenplentyofevidence—spoor, hoofprintsand paw prints that indicated

the presence of wildlife—deer, javelina,andevenwhatAmos assumed to be a blackbear. But there was noindication of any humanincursions.At a point where the walls

of canyon narrowedprecipitously, Amos wasforced off the bank and intothecreekbed itself.And thatwaswhenhesawit—asmall

hunk of reddish-brownpotterystickingupoutof thesand. Dropping his heavybackwithathud,heremovedthe prospector’s pick hecarried on his belt and kneltonthesand.It took several minutes of

carefuldiggingtounearththetreasure. Much to hisamazement,itwasstillinonepiece. How it could have

been washed down thestreambedanddepositedonasandy strand of high groundwithoutbeingsmashedtobitswasoneofthewondersoftheuniverse. Amos suspectedthatthesand-infusedwaterofaflashfloodhadbuoyeditupbefore the water had drainedout of the sand, leaving thepotonsolidground.Once it was free of the

sand, Amos pulled out hisreadingglassesandthenheldthe piece close enough toexamine it. He realized atoncethat itwasfar toosmalltobeacookingpot.Thenhenoticedthatafadeddesignofsome kind had been etchedinto the red clay before thepot was fired. A moredetailedexaminationrevealedtheimageofwhatappearedto

beanowlperchedontopofatortoise. The presence of thedecorativeetchingonthepot,alongwithitssize,meantthatthe piece was most likelyceremonialinnature.Still holding the tiny but

perfect pot in his hands,Amos leaned back on hisheelsandconsideredthepot’spossible origins. He wasn’tsomeonewhohadadegreein

anthropology, but he hadspent a lifetime finding andselling Native Americanartifacts from all over vaststretchesofArizonadeserts.Years of experience told

him the pot was most likelyPapago in origin. Sometimesknown as the TohonoO’Odham, the Papagos hadlived for thousands of yearsin the vast deserts

surrounding what was nowTucson. This particular spot,onthefarsoutheasternflanksof the Rincon Mountains,overlooked the San PedroValley. It was on theeasternmost edge of thePapagos’ traditional territoryand deep into the part of theworld once controlled anddominated by the Apache.Had a stray band of Tohono

O’odhamcomehere tocampor hunt and left this treasurebehind? Amos wondered.More likely, the tiny artifacthad been a trophy of somekind,spoilsofwarcarriedoffby a marauding band ofApache.Since the pot had clearly

been washed downstream,therewas a possibility that arelatively undisturbed site

was sitting undiscoveredfarther up the canyon. TherewereseveralprofessorsattheUofAwhowouldpayAmosgoodmoneyasafinder’sfee,so they couldgo in anddo aproperly documentedexcavation. As to the potitself?Regardlessofwhere itwasfrom,Amosknewhehadfoundaremarkablepiece,onethat was inherently valuable.

The curators at the HeardMuseum would jump athaving a whole undamagedpot like that for theirSouthwestern collection.Amos knew thatmost of thepots on display in themuseum had been piecedback together, and there wasareasonforthat.The Tohono O’odham

believed that thepotmaker’s

spiritremainedtrappedinsidethe pots. As a consequence,when the pot maker died,tradition demanded that allher pots be smashed topieces. So why was this onestill whole? That made theideaofitsbeingstolengoodsmuch more likely. TheApachewouldhavenoreasonto follow Tohono O’odhamcustoms. Why free a dead

enemy’s spirit. What goodwouldthatdoforyou?Wanting to protect his

treasure, Amos put the potdownand then toreastripofmaterial from the tail of hisragged, flannel work shirt.Thematerialwasoldandthinenough that it gave waywithout a struggle. Hewrappedthepotinthestripofmaterial. Then, stowing the

protected pot as the topmostiteminhisbag,heshoulderedhis load and headed back tothe truck. It was earlyafternoon, but he wanted tobe back overRedington Passearly enough that the settingsun wouldn’t be directly inhiseyes.Makinghiswaybackdown

thestreambed,hekeptaclosewatch on his footing,

avoiding loose rockswherever possible. With theheavily laden pack on hisback,evena small fallmightresult in a twisted ankle or abrokenbone,andoneofthosecould be serious businesswhen hewas out here all byhimselfwithnowayoflettinganyone know exactly wherehe was and no way ofsummoning help. And rocks

weren’ttheonlydanger.On this late-spring

afternoon, rattlesnakesemerging from hibernationwere out in force. In fact,halfway back to his truck, adiamondback, almostinvisible on the sandysurroundings, slithered pasthim when he stopped longenough to wipe away thesweat that was running into

hiseyes.Thatpausehadbeena stroke of luck for bothAmos and the snake. If leftundisturbed, snakes didn’tbotherhim.Mostofthetime,they went their way whileAmos went his. But if he’dstepped on the creatureunawares,allbetswouldhavebeen off. One way or theother, the snake would havebeen dead and even, in spite

of his heavy hiking boots,Amos might well have beenbadlybittenintheprocess.Amos’s lifetime search for

gemstones, minerals, fossils,and artifacts had put him inmountains like this fordecades.Watching the snakeslide silently and safely offinto the sparse underbrushserved as a reminder thatsnakes, javelinas, bobcats,

deer,andevenblackbearhadbeen the original inhabitantsof this still-untamed place.Humans, including both theTohono O’odham and theApache who had roamedthesearidlandsforthousandsof years, were relative, andprobably somewhatunwelcome, intruders. Whitemen, including Amoshimself, were definitely

Johnny-come-latelies in thissolitaryplace.Reshouldering his pack,

Amosallowedashowhewasmissing John’s presenceabout then. These days, hewas finding it harder to goback downhill than it was toclimb up. And with theweight in the pack?Well, hewould have appreciatedhavingsomeone tocarryhalf

the load. John might havesaid they were quits, but asfar as Amos was concerned,they were still partners, andthey would split everythingfifty-fifty.And there he was doing it

again—thinking about John.An hour or so after thealtercation, when Amos hadleft the bar, he might havelookedas thoughhehadn’ta

care in theworld,buthedid.His heart was heavy. Hemight have won the battle,but he was worried he hadlostthewar.Despite the fact that they

weren’t blood relations, theywere peas in a pod. Hot-tempered? Check. Too fastwith the fists?Check.Didn’tcare to listen to reason?Check. Thirty years earlier,

Amos had hooked up with agirlnamedHattieSmith,whohad been the same kind ofbadnewsforhimasAvawasfor John. A barroom fightover Hattie the evening ofAmos’s twenty-first birthdayhadresultedinaninvoluntarymanslaughter charge thathadsentAmostotheslammerforfive to ten. He recognizedthattherewasalotoftheold

pot-and-kettleroutinehere.Yes, Amos had gotten his

head screwed on straight inthecourseof those sixyears.Hehad readhisway througha tattered copy of theEncyclopedia Britannica thathefoundintheprisonlibrary,giving himself an educationthat would have comparedfavorably to any number ofcollege degrees. Even so, he

didn’t want John to gothrough the same school ofhard knocks. He wanted toprotecttheyoungermanfromall thatbecauseJohnLassiterwastheclosestthingtoasonAmos Warren would everhave.John had grown up next

doortoAmos’sfamilyhome.They had lived in a pair ofdilapidated but matching

houses on a dirt street onTucson’sfarwestside.Amoslived there because he hadinherited the house from hismother. Once out of prison,hehadneither themeansnortheambitiontogolookingforsomething better. John’sfamily rented the place nextdoor because it was cheap,and cheap was the best theycoulddo.

ToAmos’swayofthinking,John’sparentshadbeen littlemore than pond scum. Hisfather was a drunk. Hismother was a whore whoregularly locked thepoorkidoutside in the afternoonswhile she entertained hervariousgentlemancallers.Ononeespecially rainy,winter’sday,Amoshadbeenoutragedto see John, sitting on the

front porch, shivering in thecold. He’d been shovedoutside inhisbare feetandaraggedpairofpajamas.Amos had ventured out in

theyardandstoodon the farsideofthelowrockwallthatseparatedthem.“What’reyoudoing?”Amoshadasked.“Waiting,” came the

disconsolate answer. “Mymom’sbusy.”

Formonths,Amoshadseenthecarscomingandgoing intheafternoonswhileoldmanLassiter wasn’t at home.Amoshadunderstood all toowell what was really goingon.Healsoknewwhatitwaslike to be locked out of thehouse. Back when he was akid, the same thing hadhappened to him time andagain.Inhiscase,ithadbeen

so Amos’s father could beatthe crap out of Amos’smother in relative peace andquiet.What was going on inthe Lassiter householdmighthavebeenaslightlydifferenttakeonthematter,butitwascloseenough.Without aword,Amoshad

gone back inside. When hereappeared, he came back tothefencearmedwithapeanut

butterandjellysandwich.“Hungry?”heasked.Without further prompting,

the boy had scamperedbarefoot across the muddyyard.Grabbing thesandwich,hegobbleditdown.“Myname’sAmos.What’s

yours?”“John,” the boy mumbled

throughamouthfulofpeanutbutter.

“Have you ever playedChinesecheckers?”John shook his head.

“What’sChinesecheckers?”“Come on,” Amos said.

“I’llteachyou.”He had hefted the kid up

over the wall, shifted himontohiship, andcarriedhimto his own house. That hadbeen their beginning. HadAmos Warren been some

kindofpervert, itcouldhavebeen the beginning ofsomething very bad, but itwasn’t. Throughout John’schaotic childhood, AmosWarren had been the onlyfixed point in the poor kid’slife, his only constant. JohnLassiter,Sr.,diedinadrunk-drivingone-carrolloverwhenhis son was in fourth grade.BythetimeJohnwasinhigh

school, his mother, Sandra,had been through threemorehusbands, each one being astep worse than the onepreceding.Despite John’s mother’s

singular lack of motheringand because he ate moremeals at Amos’s house thanhe did at home, John hadgrown like crazy.More thansix feet tall by the time he

was in seventh grade, Johnwould have been a welcomeadditiontoanyjunior-highorhigh-school athletic program,but Sandra had insisted thatshe didn’t believe in “teamsports.” What she reallydidn’tbelieveinwasgoingtothe trouble of getting himsigned up, paying forphysicals or uniforms, orgoing to and from games or

practices. Amos suspectedthat she didn’t want Johninvolved in anything thatmight have interfered withherbarflysociallifeandlate-afternoonassignations,whichwere now conductedsomewhereawayfromhome,leavingJohnonhisownnightafternight.Amos knew that the good

kidswere theoneswhowere

involved in constructiveactivities after school. Thebad kids were left to theirown devices. It came as nosurprise to Amos that Johnendedupsocializingwiththebaddies. By the time he hithighschool,hehadtoomuchtime on his hands and abunchofbadassfriends.Asakid,Amoshadearned

moneyforSaturdayafternoon

matinees in downtownTucson by scouring theroadsides and local teenagerparty spots fordiscardedpopbottles, which he had turnedovertoMr.Yee,theoldmanwhoranthetinygrocerystoreon the corner. When Amoshappened to come acrosssomepiecesofbrokenIndianpottery, Mr. Yee had beenhappy to take those off his

hands, too, along withAmos’s first-ever arrowhead.From then on, the oldChinamanhadbeenwillingtobuywhateverelseAmoswasabletoscroungeup.Once Amos got out of

prison, he discovered thereweren’t many employmentoptions available for paroledfelons. As a result, he hadreturnedtohisonetimehobby

of scouring his surroundingsfor treasures. He knew thedesert flatlands like he knewthe backs of his own hands,andheknewthemountainsaswell, the rugged ranges thatmarched across the lowerlandscape like so manytowering chess piecesscattered across the desertfloor—the Rincons and theCatalinas, the Tortolitas and

theHuachucas,thePellonciosand the Chiricahuas. Now,though, with the benefit ofAmos’s store of prison-gainedknowledge,hewasfarmoreeducatedaboutwhathefound.Hewas able to locateplenty of takers for thoseitems without the need forsomeone likeMr.Yee to actasamiddleman.Heearnedadecent if modest living and

was content with his solitarylife. Then John Lassiter gotsenttojuvie.Amos,claimingto be the kid’s most recentstepfather, was the one whohad bailed him out and tookhim home. From then on,that’swhereJohnhadlived—in the extra room at Amos’shouse rather than next doorwithhismother.By then, Amos could see

that the die was cast. Johnwasn’tgoingtogotocollege.If he was ever going toamount to anything, Amoswouldhavetoshowhimhowto make that happen. Fromthen on, Amos set out toteach John what he knew.Every weekend and duringthe long, broiling summers,John went along with Amoson those long desert

scavenger hunts.Most of thetime, John made himselfuseful by carrying whateverAmosfound.Nevertheless,hewas an apt pupil. Over time,hebecamealmost asgoodatfinding stuff as Amos was,and between them, theirunofficialpartnershipmadeareasonablygoodliving.Not wanting to attract

attentiontoanyofhisspecial

hunting grounds, Amosusuallyparkedhisjeepamileat least from any intendedtarget. This time, he had leftthevehiclehidden inagroveof mesquite well outside themouth of the canyon.Approaching the spot wherehe’d left the truck, Amoscaught a tiny whiff ofcigarette smoke floating intheair.

Johnwasachainsmoker—something else the two ofthemarguedaboutconstantly,bickering likeanoldmarriedcouple. This time, however,Amos’s spirits lifted slightlyassoonashisnostrilscaughtwindof the smoke.Thisout-of-the-way spot was a placehe and John visited often.Maybe the kid had come tohis senses after all and

followed him here.Maybe itwastimetoapologizeandletbygones be bygones, and ifJohn wanted Ava Martin inhislife,sobeit.Once inside the grove,

AmoslookedaroundandsawnosignofJohnorhisvehicle,either. That was hardlysurprising. Maybe he hadchosen some other place topark. There was always a

chance John had gone out todo some scavenging of hisown.Amosturnedhisattentionto

the pack, unshouldering itcarefully and settling it intothebedofthetruck.Reachinginside the pack, his fingerslocated the wadded-up shirt.Feelingthroughthefabric,hewas relieved to find that thepotwasstillinonepiece.

A new puff of smokewafted past him. That waswhen he sensed somethingelse, something incongruousunderlying the smell ofburning cigarette—a hint ofperfume. He turned and wasdismayedtoseeAvastandinga mere five feet away. Shewas holding a weapon thatAmos reckoned to be a .22revolver, probably the very

onehehadgivenJohnforhisbirthday several monthsearlier.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”

he demanded. “Where’sJohn?”“Don’tmove,” shewarned.

“I know how to use thisthing.”“Where’s John?” Amos

repeated.“He’snothere?”

“Why are you? How didyouknowtocomehere?”“JohnandIhavebeenhere

together several times. Youknow, for picnics and such.He told me this was whereyou’dbetoday.”Outrage boiled in Amos’s

heart. John had brought herhere? He’d shown her thisvery special hunting ground,oneAmoshadsharedwithno

oneelsebutJohn?The depth of her betrayal

wasbreathtaking.Amos tooka step forward. “Why, youlittlebitch.. .”hebegan.Henever had a chance to finishhisthreat.Avahad toldhim the truth.

She really did know how touse the weapon in her hand.Her first bullet caught himclean in the heart. Amos

Warren was dead before hehit the ground. The secondand third bullets—theunnecessary ones?Those shefiredjustforgoodmeasure—simply because she could.And those were what theprosecutor would later labelasoverkillandasignofragewhenitcametimetotryJohnLassiter for first-degreemurder.

AbouttheAuthor

J. A. JANCE is the New YorkTimes bestselling author oftheJ.P.Beaumontseries,theJoanna Brady series, the AliReynolds series, and fourinterrelatedthrillersabouttheWalker Family as well as avolume of poetry. Born in

SouthDakotaandbroughtupin Bisbee, Arizona, Jancelives with her husband inSeattle, Washington, andTucson,Arizona.

Discover great authors,exclusiveoffers, andmore athc.com.

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CopyrightThis is a work of fiction. Names,characters, places, and incidents areproductsof theauthor’s imaginationorare used fictitiously and are not to beconstrued as real. Any resemblance toactualevents, locales,organizations,orpersons, living or dead, is entirelycoincidental.Excerpt from Dance of the Bonescopyright©2015byJ.A.Jance.STANDDOWN.Copyright©2015by

J. A. Jance. All rights reserved underInternational and Pan-AmericanCopyrightConventions.Bypaymentofthe required fees, you have beengranted the nonexclusive,nontransferablerighttoaccessandreadthe text of this e-book on screen. Nopart of this text may be reproduced,transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introducedinto any information storage andretrievalsystem,inanyformorbyanymeans, whether electronic ormechanical, now known or hereafterinvented, without the express writtenpermissionofHarperCollinse-books.EPub Edition MAY 2015 ISBN:

9780062418487PrintEditionISBN:978006241849410987654321

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