I sigh, glancing again at my watch, then flip to the back of the sketchbook, producing the cell-phone photo enlargement. “They’re an artist’s representation of that.”

The photo is weightless, but he reacts like I’ve handed him an anvil, slumping back against the desktop, letting the image drag his arms down.

Cavallo bends down. “What’s wrong, Carter?”

“Where did this come from?” he whispers.

Suddenly, the clock doesn’t seem to matter anymore. I take the photo from him. “We believe this woman was killed during a shooting in southwest Houston. Her body was dumped in the Gulf.”

“What?” he croaks.

“Do you recognize her?”

He reaches for the picture again. “I think… I’m not sure. It looks like it could be Evey.”

Aguilar puts the coffee mugs down. “Who’s Evey?”

“Evangeline Dyer,” I say.

I slip the photo he gave me out of my notebook and make a comparison. Maybe he’s right. It’s hard to tell, given the quality of the cell-phone snap, and the way Evey Dyer’s hair hides her face in the candid picture.

I’ve broken men down in the interview room before, had them crying like babies for their mamas, and at moments like that there’s a satisfaction you get, a sense of psychological power. But Carter Robb isn’t broken by any power of mine, and when he hunches over the chair, one knee on the seat, his body across the back cushion like a seasick man leaning over water, I can’t help but pity him. Aguilar backs off, baffled by what’s happening, and Cavallo puts her hand on Robb’s back, stroking methodically.

“I’ve got to make a call,” I say.

It takes the rest of my ten minutes to get Gene Fontenot on the line, and as I enlist yet another colleague to obtain yet another dna swab from yet another mother, Cavallo shakes her head, either at the irony or just the weight of the moment. There’s no way Robb could have made a positive identification from that photo, not objectively, but I know in my bones he’s right.

Fontenot bucks a little. “You want me to get a swab from this lady? And what am I supposed to tell her, that you’ve got a body in the Houston morgue you want to check it against?”

“I don’t have a body, Gene. Just some blood on a sheet.”

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

I put the phone down, head spinning, the raid all but forgotten.

Cavallo gazes at me, eyes shining. “You were right.”

“About?”

“The two cases,” she says. “They really are connected.”

It’s true. If the woman on the bed – just a girl, really – was Evange-line Dyer, then that means the Morales shooting and Hannah Mayhew’s disappearance are truly tethered, just as I’d suspected at the beginning. Only I still can’t fathom how.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Robb says.

He struggles to his feet, shrugging off Cavallo’s touch, and starts loping toward the exit, his shoulders hunched, like Atlas in a T-shirt and jeans. She tries to follow, but I motion her back.

“Let him go. He needs to lick his wounds.”

As Robb passes through the door, Wilcox squeezes in, wearing a Kevlar vest over his shirt and tie and a blue hpd jacket over the vest. He bounds over, drawing a lot of attention from the detectives in the squad room, most of them former colleagues, though his move to IAD dampens any impulse they might otherwise have to welcome him.

“Are you coming or what?” he asks.

“I’m coming.”

Cavallo grabs her jacket. “Me, too.”

Wilcox turns on her, none too pleased. “Do we know each other? Because I don’t remember issuing an open invitation.”

“The cases are connected,” she tells me, ignoring Wilcox entirely. “This is my case, too. Don’t even think about leaving me behind.”

“What does she mean, the cases are connected?” Wilcox asks. “What cases?”

“Come on.” I take each one by the arm and start for the door. “I’ll explain everything in the car. Let’s not keep our man waiting.”

CHAPTER 26

The tenants in Keller’s apartment building, a vintage tower on Memorial Drive that was updated a few years back, converted into swanky mid-century pads, react to our shotguns and drawn side arms with a surprising sangfroid, as if they’re accustomed to armed police raids. More likely, the scenario is too foreign for immediate processing, the stuff of television rather than real life, more a product of stunned excitement than alarm.

We stack up in the hallway outside his door, first Wilcox, then me, with Cavallo on my elbow clutching a shiny-looking Beretta, barrel down. Her vest doubles her width, like she’s wearing a life jacket. Behind her, a couple of iad detectives, one with a pump shotgun and the other with a portable battering ram, and the surveillance boys we picked up out on the curb, who reported that Keller went in and still hasn’t come out and his car’s parked in his reserved space.

Still no sign, they said, of Salazar.

Advancing to the edge of the door, Wilcox rings the bell. He waits a moment, then knocks.

“Houston Police Department,” he growls.

Nothing. He waves the ram forward and a thrill goes through me. No matter what anyone says, taking a door down is exhilarating work, a pure adrenaline rush, the law enforcement equivalent of an extreme sport. Anything could be on the opposite side of that door. Keller could be sitting in his underwear in front of the tv, or deafened by the roar of the shower. Or he could be hunkered down behind a makeshift barricade with an illegally converted automatic rifle leveled at the entrance.

The detective rears back, then lets the ram do its work. The metal cylinder coasts forward, seeming to move too slowly to do any real damage. But when it connects, the door crunches open, splintering at the dead bolt. He lets go and the ram thuds to the ground.

We rush the entrance with a frenzy of shouting, advancing into the apartment, making sure no corner goes unswept by the barrel of a gun. My feet thunder through the hardwood entry, breaking right into a wide-open living space with floor to ceiling windows at the far end, and a balcony that overlooks Memorial. Cavallo fans out beside me, circling a white leather sectional. The bedroom is at the far side. I’m the first one there, my gun sights resting just below my plane of vision, ready to snap off a round if necessary.

Over my shoulder I hear the others calling out.

“Clear!”

“It’s clear.”

“Everything clear.”

A low platform bed with bookcases rising on either side. Another window, its light baffled by shades. No sign of him. The bathroom door is open, the light on, casting a golden glow into the room. I step toward it, hugging the wall for cover, canting my barrel into space. Getting closer, I use the mirror to scan the room. The glassed-in shower is empty. No sound of running taps or movement of any kind. Taking a deep breath, I push through.

“Clear,” I say.

The team regroups in the living room, where the surveillance guys exchange a shrug.

“Maybe he went down to do some laundry?” one of them says.

“Or walked across the street to the Starbucks?”

I go to the balcony, pulling the sliding door open. Glancing down to the parking lot, I see the reserved spot is now empty.

“His car’s gone.”

There’s nothing more ridiculous than a roomful of drawn weapons and no one to point them at. A spate of dejected re-holstering ensues, then we have a look around the place. The desk in the living room corner has a faint dust line where a laptop computer used to sit – the power cable is still plugged into the wall. A chunk of clothes seems to be missing from the closet, exposing a recessed safe, its door ajar.

“We didn’t just miss him,” Wilcox says. “He skedaddled.”

He gets on the phone, putting the word out to patrol to keep an eye out for Keller’s car. It isn’t much, certainly not enough to soften the collective adrenaline crash.