Lines of Defense

ONE

In La Graciosa, ten miles from the sea, the most luminous summer evening can still suggest winter’s chill. The central plaza’s park benches, its bear statue, the winding creek, even the asistencia itself can abruptly vanish behind a low, thick wall of fog. Cars crawl then, blinking futile headlights. Pedestrians step with care, searching for familiar landmarks. Muffled voices blend with the smell of kelp. Invisible feet crunch on gravel.

Goddamn, Jimmy, you know where we’re going? Douglas Bard, Chumash County sheriff’s detective, peered into the mist.

Of course I do, promised Jimmy O’Brien, editor of La Graciosa’s News-Times. I can find my way to JB’s blindfolded.

Just what I’d expect of a journalist. No doubt you’ve memorized each step from the newspaper to the tavern?

That would require far too much concentration. I’m just following the smell of whiskey.

All I smell is seawater.

Jesus, Doug, how can you be a detective if you can’t find your way to JB’s?

In truth, Doug Bard could find his way anywhere, for he held in his mind an intricate image of Chumash County. When all else failed, this mental map guided him through the densest fog. He savored La Graciosa’s misty insulation. To him, it felt like the protective embrace of home.

That’s why I need you, Jimmy. You’re better than a guide dog. Without you I couldn’t—

A burst of static from Bard’s two-way radio interrupted him. At first he heard only a crackly electronic hiss. Then a distant voice. Jake Baum, the sheriff ’s dispatcher.

Trouble at Ollie Merta’s house . . . not sure what’s up . . . urgent open call . . . Whoever’s listening, get on out there . . . need all the help we can get tonight . . . Repeat, this is urgent . . .

Ollie Merta? Jimmy frowned. He knew Merta as a kindly if peculiar old man. Not someone to have trouble at his house. What’s that about?

I don’t want to know, Doug said. I’m off duty.

As are all your colleagues.

Jimmy had a point. It was early Sunday evening, so there were only two deputies working. Likely, one would be trying to resolve another of the Clackhorns’ sorry domestic disputes, while the other would be in bed with the Foghorn’s barmaid, his radio turned off. Bard gazed in the direction of JB’s, then turned and started for his car. Okay, Jimmy, you win. Hold a stool for me at JB’s, I’ll be there just as soon as I can.

What do you mean, hold a stool? I’m coming with you.

Why bother? Bard asked. Haven’t you already closed tomorrow’s paper?

I can reopen it if I want. That’s the awesome power of a small-town newspaper editor.

Ollie Merta’s home, ten miles from La Graciosa’s central plaza, sat by itself in a tranquil, oak-thick dell framed by the eastern foothills of Chumash County. Bard kept his foot heavy on the accelerator despite the fog. Heading down a twisting country lane, he and Jimmy could see a pink glow in the distance. Black smoke began to fill the sky as they closed on the house. Rolling around a final bend, they found three county fire trucks and four sheriff’s patrol cars, their blinking red lights piercing the mist. A dozen men milled about while radios screeched.

The fire was out. Merta’s house, drenched now and smashed apart, had burned half to the ground.

Christ, Bard said, sitting motionless behind his steering wheel.

Next to him, peering through the windshield, Jimmy counted the officers. Nearly everyone with a badge or siren seems to have shown up.

Even the honorable sheriff himself.

Doug climbed out of his car and walked over to Sheriff Howie Dixon. He studied his boss, holding back, waiting. Dixon had a bristly crew cut, a barrel chest, and hands like catcher’s mitts. He didn’t get out in the field much anymore. He preferred the comfort of his office, where he could swivel about in his high-backed leather chair and work the battery of phones that kept him linked to everyone who mattered in Chumash County. At the moment he looked indisposed, as if suffering from indigestion or an aversion to the smoky night air.

Goddamn it, Doug, Dixon said. What’s that reporter doing in your car?

"As you know, Howie, Jimmy isn’t a reporter anymore. He’s the editor of the News-Times."

Reporter, editor, what the hell. He’s the press.

It’s obvious you can and will print anything you see fit. That was Dixon’s standard response whenever Jimmy O’Brien sought his comments about a controversial investigation. When out-of-town reporters left phone messages, he offered even less. You do whatever you wish, he’d write to them, but I have no intention of spending county money on a long-distance phone call to you.

Bard watched Dixon seethe as Jimmy climbed out of the car. O’Brien was with me when the call came in, Doug explained. So I let him hitchhike. He’d have made it out here by himself anyway.

Maybe so, Dixon snapped, but he’ll have to stay back. This is a restricted zone right now.

Bard looked toward O’Brien. Hear that, Jimmy?

Hear what? the newspaper editor called out. You know my ears aren’t so good.

Dixon turned away and gazed at the smoldering house. There’s a body inside, he said, talking softly now. I assume it’s Ollie. Been so hot, we haven’t pulled him out yet.

Bard stared at the sheriff. He’s still in there?

Dixon nodded and shifted on his feet.

Still too hot? Bard asked.

The fire crew just went in for him.

Bard stepped toward the ruined home. He steeled himself for whatever he’d find. Fire victims, burned a blackish brown, grimy and blistered, were among the worst corpses to look at. Sometimes there was no face left at all, no ears, no hands or feet. You were supposed to deal with death in a clinical manner, not project a personality on the body. But looking at such victims, Bard always thought, That’s someone’s husband or mother or child.

Squinting, handkerchief to his mouth, he entered what was once Ollie’s living room. Smoke filled his throat and made his eyes water. He moved slowly, feeling his way with his hands. He sank to his knees when he reached Merta’s body. Ollie lay curled on the floor in the shell of a bathroom, watched over by two silent, ash-covered firemen. Recognizing Gergin and Turloff through their grime, Bard murmured a greeting. With relief, he saw that they’d quenched the fire before it had entirely consumed Merta. He still had a face. You could tell it was him. His shaggy brows and thick gray mustache were burned off, but those were Ollie’s big funny ears, that was Ollie’s round gnomish body. A lifelong bachelor, he’d lived alone, in his own way. Watching him ride his small mule along the Graciosa Creek horse trail, it was easy to consider him eccentric. Merta wasn’t the least bit disagreeable, though. Not to Bard, at least.

He rose and continued stepping through the wreckage. Charred shelves, blistered cans, mounds of ashes—slowly he worked through the residue of Ollie Merta’s life. A pile of toasted books, a stack of old melted record albums, a scorched computer . . . Bard stopped. In a corner of the kitchen, a crumpled form half-hidden under charred beams caught his eye. He walked over, sank again to his knees. For an instant, he felt dizzy. Another body. This one much smaller, under five feet. The burned ribbon in her hair looked pale blue. A little girl. No more than ten or eleven. Just about the age of Bard’s daughter.

Two bodies, he called out. Not one.

Sheriff Dixon was suddenly at his side, bending over. Shock spread across his broad wrinkled face.

A little girl, Bard said. Any idea who she is?

Who says it’s a little girl?

Bard looked up at Dixon. I do.

Another figure suddenly appeared beside Dixon. In the gloom, Bard squinted, trying to see who had joined them. Keen dark eyes set in a pale oval face stared back. Usually, Chumash County District Attorney Angela Stark wore her long raven-black hair pulled across her scalp, but now it fell loosely to her shoulders. Instead of her customary business suit, she was wearing a black-matte jersey dress and three-inch heels. The dress clung to her body. Fresh from another high-powered dinner party, Bard figured. His eyes moved slowly down her legs.

Stark said, What are you looking at, Bard?

Bard nodded at the small form. A second body. Ollie Merta wasn’t alone. As I was telling the sheriff, it’s a little girl.

A tremor played across Stark’s face, or so it seemed to Bard. In the gloom, he couldn’t be sure. Studying her now, he saw only her customary steel, a steel that usually came tempered with a good deal of impatience. The DA rarely responded to a dispatcher’s call. She wasn’t one for fieldwork, preferring to contemplate the big picture, which—she made plain—she felt Chumash County sorely lacked. She spent considerable time at legal conferences, plotting possible runs for statewide office. She liked her action fast paced. Being under pressure galvanized her, as did the promise of any intense experience.

It’s a privilege to have the DA herself on the scene, Bard said. On a Sunday night, no less.

Stark ignored him. Her eyes rested on the little girl’s charred body. Merta volunteers at the elementary school, she said. Teaches music or something. Maybe she’s a student.

With that, Stark turned slowly, surveying the ruined house. What a horrible accident, she muttered, as much to herself as the others. What could have happened? Maybe Merta left the stove top on. Maybe Merta was smoking a cigarette. Maybe Merta fell asleep.

You’ve just got to think it through, she liked to say. The Ricco drug case was a prime example. Two people in a Ford Bronco, the driver in front, a passenger in back. The cops saw a bag of cocaine sail out a window. The driver’s defense attorney insisted it was the rear-seat passenger who did the throwing. On a hunch, just before trial, Stark decided to call up Ford. It turned out that with this model Bronco, the back windows didn’t roll down. The DA didn’t even have to fly out an expert. As soon as she informed the defense, the driver pled guilty.

Stark moved step-by-step through the smoldering room. Look here, she said, pointing. I’m willing to bet the fire began there on that couch. Here’s a cigarette butt. You can see where it started, where it spread.

Bard tried to hold his tongue. Even though Angela was a crackerjack prosecutor, she had a taste for closing cases quickly. For a mix of reasons—impatience, civic boosterism, and political calculation chief among them—she either went for a swift conviction or didn’t wade in at all. In this, she fit well with the spirit of Chumash County, which liked to cast itself as a crime-free oasis on the Central Coast. Bad things weren’t supposed to happen around La Graciosa. When they did, they were often painted as something else. When that didn’t suffice, they were addressed and moved along with dispatch.

Bard understood and usually tried to cooperate. Everyone benefited, after all, if their county prospered. He’d lived around La Graciosa all his life. So had his father and grandfather, both honored veterans of the sheriff’s department. His dad, Oscar, had made it all the way to deputy chief. Bard, his fellow cops—they all owned property here. They all had kids in the county schools. They all had pensions and medical plans. They all had a stake in this place.

Sometimes, though, Angela Stark got on Bard’s nerves.

Why are you assuming it’s an accident? he asked.

Stark pointed a warning finger. Watch yourself, Bard. Don’t be a cowboy. I believe you’ve heard that advice before.

She could look striking sometimes. Raven hair against that pale skin, eyes bright as candles. Men often offered her their business cards when she spoke at conferences, telling her they admired her wit. She invariably tossed them out, muttering that she hadn’t been all that funny.

Yes, Bard allowed. That’s true.

She walked toward him, her manner softening. Look, Doug, I’m the prosecutor here. Howie’s the sheriff. We’re the ones paid to make the decisions.

That’s also true.

Stark offered a faint smile. I’m no angel of mercy, God knows. I like putting people in jail. But I don’t like wasting our time and energy. We have limited resources. We have to deploy ourselves wisely. We have to make choices.

That we do, Bard agreed.

This cigarette burn in the couch. I’m surprised you didn’t notice it.

You’re too quick for me.

Stark’s eyes ran once more around Ollie Merta’s ruined house. Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm this old man? Or anything of his you’d want to steal?

Not a thing.

Well then. She strode off, finished with him. Bard looked toward Sheriff Dixon. Who called this in? he asked.

Neighbor farther up the canyon saw the flames. Notified the dispatcher.

They put out an open call to all available hands?

Yes.

Bard glanced around at the others now stepping through the wreckage. He spotted two of his colleagues on the force, Bruce Spraker and Josh Ericson. He waved them over. What do you think? he asked.

Spraker resembled a Chumash State grad student, with his steel-rimmed glasses and watchful brown eyes. Ericson had a white mustache and a face webbed by age. They both stole looks at the sheriff, vainly trying to get a reading before responding. Eric had a career in front of him, Josh a pension to protect.

Not sure, Spraker said. Arson team is still on its way.

They’re rather late to the party, Bard pointed out.

We couldn’t track them down on a Sunday night, the sheriff explained.

They heard the coroner’s van roll up on the gravel driveway. A moment later, a two-man team entered the house, pushing a pair of gurneys. As Bard and Dixon walked outside, Jimmy O’Brien rushed up. What you got? he asked.

I’ve got a journalist who’s violated a restricted zone, Dixon said. That’s what I’ve got.

Just tell me if—

Dixon put a meaty hand on Jimmy’s arm. O’Brien, I’ll handcuff you to Doug’s car unless you go back there on your own.

Come on—

Bard stepped between the sheriff and Jimmy. He’d bailed his buddy out of jail twice in his life, and didn’t want to go for three. Jimmy, he said, giving him a look. Back to the car.

Sensing in Doug the promise of a later briefing, Jimmy retreated. Bard turned to Dixon.

Who called the DA? he asked.

Dixon ran a hand through his crew cut. Lord knows, not me. I suppose she heard the dispatcher, just like all of us.

Looks like she was at another big-time dinner party.

So maybe that sort prefers to listen to police chatter over their chardonnay instead of Frank Sinatra. Hell, does it matter?

It doesn’t. I’m just wondering. Bard studied the facade of Merta’s home. He walked to the charred front door, knelt, and pulled a flashlight from his back pocket. It looks like this was kicked in, he said. Doorjamb’s splintered. And this looks like a boot mark.

Dixon leaned over Bard’s shoulder. Doug’s flashlight guided his eyes. Yeah, we saw that. It’s obvious a fireman did that. We just haven’t figured out which one yet.

No doubt you will, soon enough.

Bard rose and began circling the house. Ollie Merta lived a modest life. His home was no more than a bungalow, really— wood frame, rolled composition roof, small porch, two cramped bedrooms. Merta had used one as an office, Bard surmised. He’d seen a blackened computer in there. A fax and a printer, too. What was it that Merta did, exactly? How did he live? What mattered to him? Bard didn’t know. Mainly as a hobby, Ollie kept a few sheep out back of his house, on the steep pasture that climbed into the foothills. He wasn’t a farmer, though, or even a gardener. That much was clear. There was little cultivation here: no flowers, no fruit trees, no vegetables.

Bard stopped amid the brush at the south side of the house. Something had glinted as he’d waved his flashlight. He leaned over, yanked at the chaparral. He went to his knees and yanked some more. His hand brushed against something metallic. An empty beer can. The local Graciosa Brew.

Funny, Bard called out, showing Dixon what he’d found. Merta didn’t drink.

Dixon shrugged. So he had visitors.

Bard blinked in the gloom. It was hard to believe this was a summer night. Hard also to describe its appeal. You had to have a feel for the Central Coast. For that matter, he said, Merta didn’t smoke.

Once more, Angela Stark was at their side. Bard wasn’t sure when she’d joined them. How do you know? she asked.

Bard brushed back the lank black hair hanging over his forehead. He had a rugged face, crooked nose, and engaged, clear blue eyes, which taken together some women at JB’s found attractive. He was clad, as usual, in faded jeans, scuffed boots, and a leather jacket. He carried no gun. Guns, he liked to say, didn’t look good on a plainclothes cop; the bulge of an unholstered revolver in a pants pocket just wasn’t his style.

Bard examined Stark now. He offered the lopsided grin that so confounded his bosses when they tried to rein him in. To be a detective, he said, you’ve got to know your people.

A gray sedan rolled up to the house. Out of it spilled a man and woman, coats askew, hands clutching the air. What’s happened here? the woman called out. Oh my God . . . Oh my God . . . Where’s our daughter . . . ?

Harvey and Cynthia Cooper. She was a yoga instructor, he the proud proprietor of a small winery located some dozen miles beyond Ollie Merta’s cabin. Angela Stark knew them well. She stepped forward. Harvey, Cynthia. Don’t tell me. Was Marilee with Ollie? Was Marilee in Ollie’s house?

Cynthia Cooper stared wild-eyed at the burned hulk. A piano lesson, she was taking a piano lesson . . . We couldn’t get her right after, so Ollie was baby-sitting . . . Where . . . Where’s Marilee? She started toward the house, but Sheriff Dixon stopped her.

Don’t go in there, Mrs. Cooper. You don’t want to see. There’s been a terrible accident.

At that moment the coroner’s team emerged from the ruined home, pushing the two gurneys, each bearing a blanket-wrapped body. The Coopers wailed and lunged but again Dixon held them back. Doug Bard, unnoticed, approached the bodies, his back to the others. He held up a hand to stop the coroner’s men.

The fog had lifted now, leaving a dark hazy sky. Bard raised the blanket on one gurney, then the other, studying the blackened yet still recognizable faces of Ollie Merta and Marilee Cooper. Both of them were curled into the fire victim’s usual pugilistic position, arms bent and fists clenched as if ready to fight. This, he knew, didn’t mean they’d been alive at the time of the blaze; all bodies react similarly in a fire, the muscles contracting in response to furious heat. Bard couldn’t keep his eyes off Marilee. Yes, she must have been eleven, same as Molly.

Didn’t Molly have a school chum named Marilee? He ought to know, Bard thought. He didn’t, though. Not for sure.

He shouldn’t touch the bodies, he understood that, but he couldn’t stop himself. He cupped the little girl’s face in his hands. He moved his fingers along her cheeks, down her neck. Then he sensed something.

Marilee’s throat felt odd around the larynx, as if the cartilage and muscle there had been compressed. He bent closer over her. Now he spotted what looked to be three slivers etched on the side of her throat, each the size of a fingernail mark. He lifted her eyelids and examined the mucous membrane lining the inner surface. He saw there a cluster of small red dots. He pulled back and looked at Marilee’s entire face. There were no smoke stains around the nostrils or in the nose, no blistering or marginal reddening of her skin.

Our firefighters extinguished the fire too soon, Bard called out. They left some evidence.

TWO

They were still asleep when Doug Bard knocked. Sasha, hearing him, rose and eased the front door open. There she stood, blinking through clouded eyes. For pajamas, she was wearing a man’s powder-blue dress shirt, half-buttoned. Over her shoulder, on the side table in the living room, Bard could see an empty wine bottle and two glasses.

It’s so early, Sasha murmured.

He liked her drowsy like this. He tried to see her now as he once had. For a moment at least, he was not an ex-husband, but an admirer. The haunting gray eyes, the air of dramatic languor, the arch expression that at once beckoned and spurned. By the time she’d come along, he’d grown weary of jabbering girls who spilled their needy emotions all over the dinner table. Sasha never did that. She never lost command of herself. The first time they met, at a party they both thought tedious, she looked at him with shared, amused intimacy. He’d been helpless, and in truth, unwilling to protect himself. He’d learned how. It was Sasha who first grew weary and restless. It was Bard who walked, though, when he realized he’d lost her.

I need to ask something, Doug said.

Sasha glanced over her shoulder into the house. He wondered whether the second wineglass stayed the night.

Molly’s still sleeping, she said.

I’ll talk quietly.

She looked at her watch, ran a hand through her tangle of dark brown hair, then moved aside.

He went first to Molly’s room, stepping lightly, holding his breath. From the doorway, he gazed at her. She lay curled in a half circle, one arm hugging a pillow, the other flung out across the mattress. Straight dark blonde hair half covered her face. He wanted to pull the hair back; he wanted to see her eyes and nose and ears. He could feel Sasha’s hand on his elbow, pulling him from the room. Reluctantly, he turned and walked out.

They settled in the living room. The wine bottle and glasses were gone now. Bard stared at the fireplace.

Sasha had her fans, there was no arguing. In business as with friends, she defended her turf, yet always with a preternatural calm. People read whatever they wanted into her strong blank mystery. One mesmerized guest, sitting with her on the floor at a friend’s New Year’s Eve party, likened her to a Zen master. Bard thought of her more as a wistful, land-locked soul. Once in a while, though, at least in their early years, she managed to kick up her heels.

I can’t believe what we’ve become. That’s what she told him the night he left. We’ve been playing against each other for too long now. I don’t know how we ended up on opposing teams.

Marilee Cooper, he said. Do you know that name?

Sasha tossed her head, trying to shake herself awake. Marilee . . . Marilee. Yes, of course. Molly’s friend from school. They’re in the same class. They have play dates together, and a girl-power club. Molly adores her.

Bard nodded, saying nothing.

Sasha waited him out. The Sphinx, he used to call her. She reached for a pack of Marlboros and cracked it against her forearm. Still a smoker, a pack a day. The nicotine didn’t help. If you touched her shoulders, you felt the rigid muscles.

What about her? Sasha inquired, restless now with the silence. Why do you ask?

She’s dead. A fire out at Ollie Merta’s house. She was there for a piano lesson.

Sasha drew on her cigarette. A hand rose to the collar of her shirt. And Ollie Merta? What happened to him?

Bard studied her. What an odd first response. He’s dead, too.

Sasha’s eyes half closed. My God. How?

They think it’s an accident. Merta smoking on the sofa, falling asleep.

Ollie Merta smoking?

You knew him?

Sasha waited a beat. A little. He taught music at Molly’s school. He taught Molly the piano. Molly knows him far better than—

Knows who? Dressed in pale blue flannel pajamas, Molly stood at the entrance to the living room, rubbing her eyes. Who do I know?

She’s grown another half inch at least, Bard thought. She doesn’t stop. It had been only ten days since he’d seen her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, but he held back, waiting to see which mood she was in this morning. Daddy’s little girl or precocious prepubescent with lots of attitude—he never knew.

Hey, Molly girl, he said.

She came to him and curled into his lap. At eleven, she had to bend her legs to fit, but she made it. Love you, Daddy, she said, sounding distracted.

He pulled her hair back now, as he’d wanted to in her bedroom. Her face was round, her nose and ears delicate, her eyes an uncommon blue-green. He cupped her cheeks in his hand, and kissed her forehead. She endured that for a moment, then said, So tell me, who do I know?

Bard glanced at Sasha. Molly, he said. Something bad has happened. It’s about one of your friends.

She sat up and looked toward her mother. Who?

Sasha gripped the arms of her chair, unable to speak. Bard sympathized. For so long, he’d wanted to insulate Molly from the world. If he had his way, he’d have kept her in a bubble. He didn’t have his way, though.

Marilee Cooper, Bard said.

Molly climbed to her feet. What about her?

Bard took Molly’s hand. There’s been a terrible accident, sweetheart. A house fire. She got caught in it. She’s dead.

Molly pulled her hand away. Children are more resilient than you think, he reminded himself. Also, not so protected as they seem. Especially Molly. Her shy and winsome style could easily fool.

Who else? she asked. ‘Molly knows him far better’ . . . That’s what Mommy was saying when I came in.

Ollie Merta, the piano teacher.

Molly’s face drained of color. Ollie taught us music. He was my friend.

Molly— Bard began.

Marilee and Ollie, she continued, as if memorizing the answer to a test. She was trying to act grown-up, he knew that. Yet her chin trembled now. She collapsed back into his lap, her arms around his neck. He could feel her tears on the side of his face. Marilee and Ollie, she whispered again. Marilee and Ollie.

Bard held her, trying not to move. The moment recalled another one for him. They were up in the foothills, at a friend’s ranch. Molly was four, a sickly four. She came back from a hike drawn and hot with fever. He scooped her up, and instantly she fell asleep in his arms. He didn’t want to disturb her, so he just sat there all through the afternoon. Four hours later, she awoke, the fever gone.

How did it happen, Daddy? Molly still clung to him.

Well, they say—

It was an accident, honey, Sasha interrupted. They think Ollie Merta fell asleep smoking a cigarette on the sofa.

Molly kept talking to her father. Were you there? Did you see?

Yes.

Tell me what they looked like.

That was so like Molly. She had to stop at every car accident or flashing ambulance light. She needed details, a chronology, a history. Normally, he obliged. Not now, though.

It wasn’t pretty, he said.

Tell me, Molly urged.

Sasha held up two hands, like a crossing guard at Molly’s school. Actually, don’t. Spare us the details.

A notion seized Molly. Why were you there, Daddy? You only investigate murders and stuff like that, don’t you?

Yes, that’s right. But this was a big deal for a Sunday night. They weren’t staffed. They put out a general call—

Are you going to investigate it? Molly asked. Are you going to make sure they know what really happened?

Bard wondered how to answer. Before leaving Ollie Merta’s house, he’d tried his best to get on the case, but Sheriff Dixon had refused. There’s no damn crime here, Dixon fumed. I can’t waste you on a house fire. Doug had already pushed his boss hard twice this month, so he didn’t this time. He’d forced himself to back off.

I want to investigate it, he told Molly. But the sheriff needs me on other cases. More important cases.

Molly pulled away from him and stood up. Her eyes clouded; her mouth gathered into a pout. He’d been getting this type of angry disappointment increasingly from his daughter. You have more important cases? she asked.

Molly—

Bard couldn’t finish. Molly was flouncing off. I’m going to be late for school, Daddy. Gotta go.

No, wait a sec, I’m just—

Over her shoulder, Molly called out, Daddy, you’re so down the drain.

He looked at Sasha, who offered only blank eyes. He asked, Is that her newest line?

The high beep of Bard’s pager stopped them all. He pulled it from his belt and stared at the flashing number. He couldn’t place it. Excuse me, he said. I need to borrow your phone.

A soft, tentative voice answered on the first ring. Bard recognized Agnes Dellon, one of the sheriff’s department booking clerks. More than once, Agnes had favored him with sympathetic looks when he was getting chewed out by Dixon. I’m calling from home, and you don’t know where you heard this, she said. But I figured you’d want to know that they’re about to do the autopsies on Ollie and Marilee. Bit of a rush job. They woke Virgil up.

Virgil Wilcox is going to do the autopsies? Bard asked.

Well, he is our county coroner.

When is he starting?

An hour from now.

Bard hugged Molly as he rushed for the front door, ignoring the distant look in her eyes. Love you, he called out. Gotta go.

With little notice, change had come to La Graciosa, storefront by storefront, day by day. It was still little more than a ranching, farming, and fishing outpost, cupped in an insulated canyon, bypassed by both the railroad and the interstate highway. The Santa Lucia Range, as always, rose to the northeast, a lesser row of volcanic peaks seaward. The small brick central plaza remained, as did a handful of cafés and bars with patios backing onto the meandering Graciosa Creek. The familiar adobe and tile was mixed with split timber, reflecting the town’s roots in both the Spanish mission era and frontier ranching days. Yet to Doug Bard, La Graciosa had started