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have it by one o’clock, I’m screwed.”
    Mendiola patted the breast pocket of his heavy wool shirt. “It’s in my pocket. I’ll be there by noon, no later.”
    The door to the detective section opened and a slender, dark-haired woman, maybe thirty, entered. Dillon came out of her office, briefly spoke to the woman and pointed her in his direction.
    He bid his nephew goodbye and hung up.
    The brunette strode confidently across the room, her backpack worn over her shoulder. In her tan khaki slacks and gray fleece jacket, she reminded him of an advertisement for a pricy outfitter. She wore no makeup, no earrings, nothing to take away from her pale brown, wide-apart eyes that made him feel naked. He didn’t want to like her looks. He didn’t want to like her or any woman right now. But he couldn’t help but feel drawn to her—just a tad.
    She stopped at his desk and held out her hand, a strong suntanned one with neat unpainted fingernails. Her firm handshake was brief, her fingers like ice.
    “Detective Mendiola?”
    He nodded. “And you’re Ms. Fehr.”
    “Detective Fehr.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” She seemed anxious, which he understood. But he also noted an edge of frustration and it seemed too soon for that.
    “Let me say right off, I’m sorry about your mother. Nothing’s happened since yesterday, so I can’t add anything new. We’re working it.”
    He cleared a stack of papers from the chair beside his desk and motioned for her to sit.
    # # #
    Meri Ann studied Mendiola, the man charged with finding her mother’s killer. His voice now had a face, a boxy face with a short, straight nose, and a deep chin. He was handsome in a boyish way. But his olive black eyes swam in bloodshot pools. His left eye was redder than his right, and his breath whispered whiskey.
    She eased down into the chair, counting the six desks in the room. “This the homicide unit?”
    “Nope this is it for CID, crimes against persons and property all in one. Boise’s Police Department’s got the lion’s share of funding. But we do just fine, covering the county.” He sounded defensive, and she let it drop.
    “Thanks for seeing me,” she said. “I realize it’s an imposition and I’ll try not to be a pain in the ass. I’m ready to help in any way, but first I want to see the crime scene.”
    “No problem,” he said. “If you want we can leave right now. Well, after you identify the bracelet.”
    “Sure.”
    He took a key from his center drawer and unlocked the bottom right. He removed a plastic bag with a gold bracelet and handed it to her.
    She stared at the Florentine etching, the five diamond chips. Her mother had worn the bracelet since the Christmas morning when Dad had taken it from a red velvet box and fastened it on her wrist. Meri Ann had to force herself to hand it back to him. “Yes, it’s hers. She wore matching gold hoops, too. Were they at the scene?”
    “No, ma’am, just the bracelet.” He tucked it into the bag and locked the drawer. He eased up from his desk.
    She noticed his pistol on a belt-clip, worn the same way she wore hers when on duty. He checked for it the same way she did, a touch to the leather flap before leaving. Funny how you get used to the weight, the security of your weapon.
    She rose from the chair. Even in fancy tooled cowboy boots, he wasn’t much taller than she. Probably five-ten or eleven, two inches shorter than her almost ex-husband, Ron.
    Mendiola grabbed a baseball cap and closed an open case file on his desk.
    She read upside-down and noted the file wasn’t her mother’s. Printed on a yellow Post-it note were the words “cow theft.”
    Meri Ann glanced sideways at Mendiola. She didn’t know what she expected, but not someone so casually dressed, so tired and so obviously hung-over.
    She hoped to hell he was smart.

Chapter Five  
    M eri Ann rode beside Mendiola in his almost new Chevy Blazer. They were heading up Shaw Mountain Road, the only road to Table Rock.
    He