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  “If you want.” Holman slid into the interrogator’s chair opposite Terry. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. You would be forcing my hand, and that would just complicate matters.”

  Terry stared at Holman. He searched the sheriff’s face, looking for something to show him what the man was thinking. Holman had to be a good poker player. He wasn’t giving anything away. Terry knew Holman was playing with him. If he walked, Holman would say he was running because he had something to hide. If he stayed, Holman would badger him until he had something to pin on him. He didn’t have any options. Terry sat back down.

  “Good man,” Holman cooed. “I’m glad you decided to display some sense. Would you like to have a lawyer present?”

  Terry shook his head. “Innocent people don’t need lawyers.”

  “You know I’ve got you,” Holman said. “So why don’t you tell me why you killed Alicia Hyams?”

  “Sheriff, you haven’t got a thing and you know it.”

  Holman opened up the file he’d brought with him. He held up two evidence bags. One held Alicia Hyams’s wallet, the other her earrings. “I think these will do for starters. Physical evidence. You can’t ask for better.”

  “I’ve never seen them and I didn’t hide them.”

  “And I suppose you still believe in Santa Claus.”

  “Sheriff, can’t you see you’re being played?”

  “And you’re the one who’s doing the playing.”

  “Can I ask how I came to find you with a search warrant at my home?” Terry asked.

  “We had an anonymous tip.”

  “That was convenient.” Terry crossed his arms. “And I suppose this anonymous tip said you’d find personal effects belonging to Alicia Hyams under my floorboards.”

  “No.”

  Terry was puzzled. It wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. “So what was the warrant for?”

  “Our tip said you and your wife were wasting police time. Sarah was at the house all along and if we checked, we’d find her and the Subaru.”

  Terry thought of eagle-eye Osbourne, the Grand Pooh-Bah of the Sutter Drive Neighborhood Watch. But Osbourne wasn’t the secretive type. He would have wanted his identity known.

  “But you didn’t find Sarah, and you didn’t find her car. Instead, you just so happened to find damning evidence on an unsolved murder. Don’t you think that casts some doubt on your anonymous caller?”

  “Can you explain this?” Holman tossed another evidence bag at him.

  Terry picked up the bag. His breath froze in his chest. It was Sarah’s list.

  “Where did you find it?” Terry mumbled.

  “In the garage. Did you misplace it?”

  The garage, he thought. The killer must have dropped it on the way out. He couldn’t afford to blow this opportunity. He had to remember the names. He read and reread the names to himself, frantically trying to commit the names and locations to memory.

  Holman jerked the sheet of paper back.

  “Who are these women?”

  Terry recited silently to himself, “Hope Maclean, Delano, California. Judith Stein, Medford, Oregon. Myda Perez, Carson City, Nevada. Christy Richmond, Anaheim, California. And Alicia Hyams, Sacramento, California.”

  “Well?” Holman prompted.

  Terry looked up and Holman snatched the bag away from him.

  “What is Alicia Hyams’s name doing on that list?” Holman demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “And who are other women on the list?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Terry didn’t want to think about his answers to Holman. He was still committing the names to memory. He ran the names and places through his head again and again. They were sticking. He just hoped they stayed long enough for him to write them down.

  “Is this your writing?” Holman tapped urgently on the list.

  “No.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Sarah’s.”

  Holman picked up the list and examined it himself, as if Terry’s mention of Sarah’s name enabled the sheriff to recognize her writing. Holding the bag at the corner, he asked, “Why’d she make this list, and why’s Alicia Hyams’s name on it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you seen this list before?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “A couple of days ago. Her editor told me she kept her research hidden in a box. I found it.” “What was in the box?”

  “Notes. They didn’t mean much.”

  “Where are the notes now?”

  “Where you found the earrings and wallet.”

  “They’re gone? That’s convenient.”

  “Like your anonymous caller.”

  Holman leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on his stomach. “Is there something you want to say about the anonymous caller?”

  “He didn’t sound something like your son, Jake, did he?”

  Holman stiffened. “What?”

  “Your son, Jake. How long has he been on the payroll?”

  Holman’s jaw muscles tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your son introduced himself to me as one of Sarah’s researchers. He said he’d picked up one of my flyers after seeing me on television. How dumb do you think I am? Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Christ, you’ve got some balls, Sheriff.”

  Holman lost his cool. He leaped to his feet and leaned over his desk, his hands supporting his weight. “My son has nothing to do with my investigation.”

  “Oh, no?” Terry liked seeing the sheriff on his back foot. “I think it’s funny that Sarah’s private documents were stolen from my house and replaced with physical evidence. And all this has happened after your son tried to befriend me.”

  Holman’s hands curled into fists. “My son does not work for the Santa Rita County Sheriff’s Department.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Sheriff,” Deputy Pittman called through the windowpane.

  “Not now, Pittman,” Holman shouted.

  “Sheriff,” Deputy Pittman said again, opening the door.

  “Pittman, I’m in the middle of an interrogation.”

  “Sheriff, Mr. Sheffield’s lawyer’s here.”

  “My lawyer?” Terry said. “I don’t have a lawyer.”

  Holman glared.

  “You do now,” she said opening the door wide. “And he wants to talk to you.”

  Standing behind Deputy Pittman, next to Oscar, was a man Terry had never seen before.

  In the chill evening air outside the sheriff’s department, Terry and Oscar made their farewells to Jonathan Schreiber, the lawyer Oscar had hired. He’d been very efficient, citing an endless stream of legal mumbo jumbo to force Holman to release Terry. All told, it took less than half an hour to go from Holman’s overheated interview room to Edenville’s cold streets.

  But Terry wasn’t free. He hadn’t been charged, but there was a question mark over his head. Holman could and probably would come for him again when he’d built a case he could pin on him. Alicia Hyams’s possessions being in his house didn’t amount to much, but that would change if Holman found something more damning. Terry would have to prove he was innocent before someone else could prove him guilty.

  Schreiber waved good-bye from inside his Lexus and drove into the night. Terry waited until the lawyer was a pair of taillights in the distance before speaking.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I owe you big time.”

  “That you do.” Oscar smiled. “I expect a card on every one of my birthdays,” he said, wagging a scolding finger.

  Terry smiled back. “You’ll get one, have no fear. Christmas too.”

  “Dude, I’m Jewish.”

  “Chanukah, then.” Terry’s laces were still undone from kicking his shoes off in the interview room. He bent to tie them. “Is the lawyer expensive?”

  “Oh, yeah. Schreiber is good.”

  “I’ll pay you back.”
r />   “Don’t worry about it. I know you’re good for it.”

  Terry was humbled. Oscar’s kindness left him speechless. He had no idea how he was going to make it up to his American friend. “Oscar, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll put me in your will.”

  “Oscar, consider it done. You don’t know what this means to me.”

  “You getting misty on me again?”

  “Oh, shut up,” Terry said. “What now?”

  “When was the last time you played a round of minigolf?”

  Terry sucked in a breath. “Has to be days.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  Getting into Oscar’s 4Runner, a thought struck Terry. “Hey, how did you know I’d been arrested?”

  “Because you’re famous.”

  A chill seeped into his bones and it had nothing to do with the cold air. “What do you mean?”

  “Your face was all over the TV today.”

  “So how are you doing?” Oscar asked, taking his golf ball out of the cup.

  “All right, I suppose.” Terry shrugged. “You know.” He took his second shot, overhitting it, and the ball missed the hole by six feet.

  Oscar nodded.

  Terry took his third shot and missed. His fourth made the grade.

  They wandered over to the castle hole. Oscar teed off, his first stroke missing the doorway and falling into the gutter.

  “You know your head’s not out of the noose, don’t you?” Oscar said. “Holman isn’t going to be deterred.”

  Terry nodded and took his shot. His ball went straight through the doorway. “But I know I’m innocent.”

  “But do you know who isn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Then to prove you’re innocent, we have to find Alicia Hyams’s killer.”

  They walked down the steps to where the castle had spat out their golf balls. Because Terry’s ball had gone through the castle doorway, his was closer to the hole than Oscar’s. Oscar went to take his second shot. Terry stopped him.

  “Why are you helping me?”

  Oscar straightened and rested on his club. “Don’t you want me to?”

  “Of course I do. I’m damn lucky to have you, but why put yourself through all that trouble? You hardly know me. I could be lying through my teeth. For all you know, you might be my next victim.”

  Oscar examined Terry for a long moment.

  “Because you’re not a killer.” Oscar hunched over his ball and positioned his club.

  “Still doesn’t explain why you’re helping me.”

  Oscar straightened and smiled. “Are you trying to put me off my stroke?”

  “No,” Terry said, smiling back.

  “So you want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. I suppose I’m helping you as a penance.”

  “A penance?”

  “I didn’t help someone once. They needed me, and I wasn’t there for them.”

  “Would things have been different if you’d gotten involved?”

  Oscar inhaled deeply. “Hard to say. But that’s not the point. The point is I didn’t try.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Another time.” Sadness tinged Oscar’s smile. He tapped the ball and made the putt. “When this is over, maybe.”

  Terry let the matter drop. He could see it was personal, and painful. Oscar would tell him when the time was right. Terry took his shot and holed the putt, equaling Oscar’s feat.

  They wandered over to the next hole. The Gold Rush’s floodlights created multiple shadows. Squat dwarfs and skinny giants, black as night, clung to the soles of their shoes, changing shape with every step they took. Oscar lined up his shot but didn’t take it.

  “What did Holman have on you?”

  “Didn’t the news tell you?”

  “Holman made no comment other than they had a warrant and discovered physical evidence.” Oscar blasted his first shot through the metal corkscrew.

  “They found Alicia Hyams’s wallet and earrings.”

  “Where?”

  “Under the floor in my closet where Sarah’s files were hidden.”

  “Shit.” Oscar waited for Terry to take his first putt. “How did Holman come to look there?”

  “He says he got an anonymous phone call saying Sarah wasn’t missing, that she was at the house. He got a warrant and searched the place. He didn’t find Sarah, but he just so happened to find Alicia Hyams’s earrings and wallet.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  “Isn’t it just.”

  “The killer must be staying local.”

  “Maybe.”

  Oscar took his second shot. “What does that mean?”

  “How do we know Holman received an anonymous call?”

  “You think he made it up?”

  Terry shrugged and took his stroke.

  “That’s a big accusation, man.”

  “He sent his son to spy on me, didn’t he?”

  “Did he admit that?”

  Terry shook his head. “He says he didn’t, but he did. It stands to reason. I don’t believe in that kind of coincidence.”

  “Okay, I’ll grant you that Holman sent Jake on a fact-finding mission, but that doesn’t mean he planted evidence.”

  “Do you remember if Alicia Hyams was wearing earrings when we saw her?”

  Oscar frowned and shook his head. “It was the last thing I was looking at.”

  Terry sorely wished he could remember that simple fact. It would confirm or deny a lot of his suspicions.

  “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree with that one, pal. Holman’s been sheriff here longer than dirt. There’s never been a hint of him being anything but honest.”

  “It was just a thought. I’m just looking for something to explain this.”

  Oscar sank his putt. “You’re way off. I wouldn’t bandy that theory around. Holman is well liked. If he gets wind of that, I don’t think an army of Schreibers will be able to sweet-talk you out of jail. Anyway, there are other candidates.”

  Terry’s third shot went wild. There was too much emotion behind the stroke. The ball bounced over the concrete boundary and rolled into one of the Gold Rush’s man-made ponds. “Like who?”

  “Deep Throat, your mystery caller. He and Holman’s anonymous tipper could be one and the same.”

  Fishing his ball out of the shallow water and shaking it dry, Terry said, “He hasn’t called me in a while.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have to. He knows where you live. He knows who you are. What more does he need?”

  “Doesn’t mean anything.” Terry made a drop shot back onto the nylon-carpeted green. “Maybe the guy was just an obscene-phone-caller. Maybe he’s had his fun and moved on to greener pastures.”

  “Yeah, true, but what if Deep Throat is the Honda driver? He doesn’t have to call when he has access to your house.”

  “He will now. I’m changing the locks. And getting a new garage-door opener.”

  “But you’re locking the proverbial barn door after the horse has bolted. If he took Sarah’s lockbox, he probably got all the information he needed from the house. You won’t see him again.”

  “That still doesn’t explain who ‘him’ is.”

  “Who else has an ax to grind?” Oscar asked.

  Pamela Dawson and Frosty Frazer sprang to mind. “There’s my boss and her sidekick.”

  “Okay, what about them?”

  Terry recounted their weird behavior, Sarah’s bust up with Pamela, and Kyle Hemple’s gossip. “I’ve got to admit the general atmosphere is one of fear. Everyone seems frightened of their own shadow.”

  “Okay, we’ll add this pair to the mix, but they’re hardly leading candidates.”

  Terry knew Oscar was right. No one stuck out. He was trying to make the puzzle fit, regardless of whether he had to use a sledgehammer to do it. He made his putt and his ball joined Oscar’s in the hole.

  Leading off on the next g
reen, Oscar said, “Where do we go from here? We know you didn’t do it. How do we go about proving who did? Hot damn. Hole in one.”

  Terry tossed a scrap of paper at the celebrating Oscar.

  “What’s this?”

  “Our starting point. Sarah’s list of names.”

  “I thought you said it was stolen.”

  “Holman found it during his search. Whoever stole it must have dropped it.”

  “And you stole it from Holman?”

  Terry shook his head. The moment Schreiber had jumped in to bail him out, Terry had snatched a burglary prevention flyer and seized a pen from his lawyer to scribble the five names and locations Sarah had written before he could forget them. “It’s a copy.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Find out if these women are alive. See if they know each other. See if they know Sarah.”

  Oscar checked his watch. “This game is taking forever. Let’s go.”

  “Can you give me a ride home?”

  A troubled look crossed Oscar’s face. “You’d better crash at my house.”

  “TV people?”

  “They probably know you’re out and about.”

  “Okay. Can you give me a ride into work tomorrow?”

  “You gonna go in?”

  “Why not? It should be interesting.”

  From the receptionist to the CEO, their faces said it all. Their expressions shrieked, “How come a murderer is allowed to walk the streets?” Terry possessed the power of the grim reaper. No one made eye contact or acknowledged him. No one wanted to be his next victim. Terry carried on as normal, trying his best to ignore their stares. He wasn’t bothered. Their reaction was only to be expected. He did have a suspected murder rap hanging over his head. It was hardly a career-advancing qualification.

  Entering the lab, Terry realized why he was handling the situation so well. He was innocent. Proving his innocence was a different matter, but he was innocent and no one could shake that. Simply, he was prepared. Nothing could harm him. He got as far as sitting down before Pamela Dawson called him into her office.

  Here goes, he thought.

  “Yes, Pamela,” he said, entering her office.

  “Close the door, please.”

  Pamela’s office wasn’t a real office—it was a lot of Plexiglas and very little insulation. Any affairs that needed to be conducted privately couldn’t be. It was all on show. As he closed the door, he noticed his colleagues focusing on Pam and him and not their work. He smiled to show them he was aware of them.