Carstairs?â
âHow the hell do I know?â Nalchek said roughly. âHe didnât know anything about the case. He didnât even want to be here.â
âAnd how do you know this has anything to do with that little kid you dug up? Itâs not likely, John. Who would be hanging around eight years after a killing? The murderer would think he was safe and go on his way. You always have to ask yourself why in a homicide. You said that someone had gone through Ronâs pockets and stolen some petty cash and ID from his wallet. Why are you discounting theft?â
âIt looks like someone is trying to throw a red herring. Why risk killing a cop for that little cash? Everyone knows we donât make that much money.â
âThen maybe itâs just someone who doesnât like cops and saw Ron out here by himself and took advantage of an opportunity.â
John shook his head. âWeak, Dad. Very weak.â
âHe liked women. Maybe one of the girls he picked up in a bar got jealous and decided toââ
âNo.â
His father shrugged. âJust donât ignore other possibilities. Youâre the only one who thinks the discovery of that little girlâs body is of any lasting significance in the scheme of things.â He paused. âItâs been a rough night for you. Why donât you come home with me, and weâll have a drink.â
John shook his head. âIâve got to go to see Ronâs sister, Clara, and break the news.â
âLater?â
âMaybe.â He doubted if heâd do it. His father wouldnât be able to keep himself from sharing his own practical experience as sheriff, and usually John listened. But not this time. Practicality had nothing to do with what he was feeling right now, it was pure instinct. He looked away from him. âThanks for coming out here when you heard about Ron. I appreciate it, Dad.â
âWhatâs family for?â He turned toward his truck, parked near the road. âIf you need to talk, give me a call. Remember, the question is always why.â
John watched him walk away. Why? He thought he knew why Ron was dead, but he couldnât explain or give reasons. No one believed that an eight-year-old murder of a child would cause this attack. Not even his own father.
But if it had anything to do with that kid, why would anyone attack Ron? He wasnât working the case. He hadnât even gone with him to the grave site.
Heâd just have to think about it, and he couldnât do that now. He had to think how he was going to break the news to Clara that her brother was dead.
He opened the driverâs door and got into the car.
And that wasnât going to be easy. Clara didnât have any family except Ron, and they were close. He wouldnât beâ
He inhaled sharply.
Holy shit.
He went still as he looked down at the passenger seat and the documents placed with order and clarity on the dark leather. Every page had been unfolded and was by itself so that it was readily viewed and accessible. None of the dossiers were in the folder where Ron had so carelessly tossed them.
The dossiers he had told Ron to go over when he left him to go into the woods.
And on the first page, Eve Duncanâs photo stared up at him.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âEve?â Joe was standing at the front door. âOkay? I tried to phone you on the way home, and you didnât answer.â
âWhat?â She shook her head to clear it. âIâm fine. Something must be wrong with my phone.â She was having trouble fighting her way out of the intense concentration into which sheâd been drawn. âYouâre home early.â
âIâm two hours late.â He came toward her. âThatâs why I called you. I wanted to tell you I was stopping to pick up Chinese.â He picked up her phone on the worktable and checked it. âItâs turned