She charges down the aisle, heading for the crowd near the interview room. I climb off the chair, brush my pant leg off, and follow.

CHAPTER 29

Days have passed, Coleman’s list of haunts is long exhausted, and the hunt for Frank Rios continues. His face is plastered all over the news. The tip lines are flooded with dead-end sighting reports, pinpointing him all over Houston, in Mexico, and as far away as California. Patrol drags in a young illegal who more or less fits the description, then another, but it’s all for nothing. Rios is in the wind.

At first, Bascombe lets me slide. This isn’t homicide work, after all. He ignores my riding out with the surveillance teams, knocking the same doors I knocked yesterday and the day before. He doesn’t raise an eyebrow at Cavallo, who’s still camped in my cubicle even though our case is technically down.

Then he appears at my desk, coffee mug in hand, and says, “All good things come to an end.”

We troop down to the captain’s office, where chairs are already set out, and I’m congratulated again for the good work. Hedges gives Cavallo a sideways glance, like he wants to check her out without seeming to. She’s busy tracing her fingertip along her pant leg, following the course of a pinstripe. Not looking up, just waiting for the inevitable heave-ho.

“I think Wanda wants her detective back,” Hedges says. “And I’m feeling the same way about you.”

I clear my throat. “Finding Rios is a top priority. The chief said so himself on the news.”

“Which is why there’s a full-court press out there. But let’s face it, your talents can be put to better use. It’s time. Right, Lieutenant?”

Bascombe’s grunt is open to interpretation, but the captain takes no notice. Later, outside the office, he puts a big hand on my shoulder, shaking his head in commiseration but not saying a word.

Cavallo perches on the edge of my desk, arms crossed, blowing a stray hair out of her eyes. She blinks a lot, then tries to smile.

“Oh well.”

“I’ll talk to Wanda,” I say.

“And tell her what?”

“She’s closer to this thing. She’ll understand.”

“No,” she says with a resigned sigh. “Hedges is right. We’ve done all we can do for now. When Rios comes up for air, they’ll grab him, and then we’ll take this thing to trial. In the meantime – ”

“We’ll keep working it, you and me. After hours. They can’t dictate what we do on our free time.”

But Cavallo’s not buying it. She gets up, twists her purse over her shoulder, and gives me what’s meant as a reassuring smile.

“You should transfer out of there,” I say. “Come to Homicide. You could hack it up here, Theresa.”

“You think I don’t know that?” She heads for the door. “I’ll be honest. I think I’d rather be hunting for the victims, not the killers. It’s better for the soul.”

Aguilar sees her going and stands. Lorenz does, too. By the time she makes it out, the whole squad is on its feet, even Bascombe leans through his open door.

“I’ll miss that one,” the lieutenant says.

Aguilar nods. “She’s a good one.”

But I don’t have time for sentiment. I grab the phone, start dialing the number, slumping in my chair as it rings and rings.

“Hello?”

“You’re a patient kind of man,” I say, “the kind who likes to sit and watch a place for hours on end. Isn’t that right?”

After a pause, Carter Robb answers in the affirmative. He’s already proven himself, staking out James Fontaine like he did.

“You said you wanted to do something this time.”

“I do,” he says.

He knows Rios, has seen him up close. He won’t mistake someone else for him, the way a uniform working from a photo and a physical description might. “Well I have something, assuming you’re still interested.”

“I am.”

“We aren’t giving up,” I tell him. “That’s the main thing.”

And just like that, I set Robb loose on the street, another set of eyes. I give him the list from Coleman, give him my home number, and tell him that in the unlikely event he catches sight of Rios, he should call me right away.

“It’s a wild goose chase, I realize that. But it’s better than nothing.”

“I’m on it,” he says, then hangs up.

When I put the phone down, there’s a warmth running through me. I like this kid. I haven’t misjudged him. Just like that, he’s taking up the task. What I’ve just done, it’s wrong. It’s outside the bounds. But I don’t regret it, not even a little.

Charlotte returns from Dallas looking tan and rested, with a canvas tote full of new clothes and a determination to see the last of our tenant. While he’s out in the suburbs winging his way through one of the many community college classes he teaches for extra money, she and Ann pack up the sleeping bag and dirty clothes and men’s magazines he’s littered around the living room in her absence, boxing everything neatly, then climb the stairs and do the same thing in the garage apartment. Thanks to the neighbor’s chain saw, the roof is free of tree limbs, so they work in the heat beneath the rustling blue tarp, so focused they barely speak. My offers of help are uniformly rejected. Clearly the sisters cooked up a strategy on the drive home.

“I’m not sure this is entirely kosher,” I say. “Tommy has rights here as a tenant.”

Charlotte hardly glances up. “Don’t worry.”

She’s gotten tired of waiting for me and has taken matters into her own hands.

Just as they finish carrying all the boxes down to the driveway, leaving nothing upstairs but the furniture, a moving van pulls up to the front curb. Ann gives instructions while Charlotte watches, a contented smile on her lips.

“It wouldn’t be right,” she says, “to expect a tenant to live in conditions like this, and there’s no telling when the insurance will pay up. Finding him another place is the decent thing to do, Roland. Anything else would be irresponsible.”

“Shouldn’t he get a say, though?”

“His dad pays the rent, and I’ve already talked to him.”

“You have? When?”

Her smile widens. She has been busy, very busy during her absence. The thought of Tommy’s reaction worries me a bit, but it’s a relief to have the old Charlotte back, in control of her life once more, the refractive, toxic influence of the anniversary finally in abeyance. I put my arm around her bare shoulders, squeezing her tight, as the movers head up the stairs to do the heavy lifting.

“Go up and change,” she says, brushing her hand on my suit jacket. “We’re all going out to dinner when Tommy gets home.”

“Dinner? All right then.”

In the bedroom I peel off my work clothes, changing into jeans and a short-sleeved pullover, leaving it untucked over my backup gun, a slim Kahr K40. My mobile phone rings, a number I don’t recognize.

“Mr. March? It’s Gina Robb. I’m sorry to bother you, but – ”

“What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering… have you seen my husband? It’s just, he’s been out looking, you know, and he didn’t come home last night – ”

“Out looking for what?” I ask, pretending I don’t know.

“That man. The one who killed Hannah.”

“He’s up to his old tricks,” I say, trying to make light of the situation. “I told him when he staked out James Fontaine’s house to leave it alone. I figured he’d learn his lesson.”

“Well, he hasn’t. He thinks he has to do something. No matter how many times I tell him it’s not his fault, no matter how much he’s already done – and he’s done a lot. No offense, but I don’t think anyone’s done more than him. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing he does can bring her back – either of them, Hannah or Evey.”

“And he’s not answering your calls?”

“I’m afraid. Either something’s happened to him or… he’s done something.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll get in touch.”

“If you hear from him – ”

“I’ll make sure he calls you.”