“Not perfect, can you elaborate?”

The two looked at each other; Joe took the lead. “What you already know. He was a notorious hound dog and drank too much, but as far as I know, he was a straight-up businessman. Didn’t screw with his suppliers or clients. Paid his bills and was generally the life of the party.”

Carter spoke up again. “The newspaper said he was killed with a secateur. How… I mean, where-”

“We’re keeping that part out of the press for now. But I can tell you, it was a bloody, gruesome mess.” Reed threw that out there so he could judge their reactions.

They passed with flying colors. Joe looked sick. Carter went white and clasped his hands together.

Carter broke the uncomfortable silence first. “I read about that altar being found up off Castle Road.”

“Yes?”

“It’s got me spooked,” he said.

Reed frowned. “Why? The two aren’t related.”

“You don’t remember,” Joe said. “You were really young.” He stopped. “Never mind.”

“Bullshit, Bro. I was too young to remember what?”

“There was a whole rash of that crap,” Joe said. “Around the time Dylan disappeared.”

“Rash of what kind of crap?”

“Altars popping up around the countryside. Animals disappearing.”

“Animals?”

“A couple dogs. A lamb and goat. Chickens. Not all at once, but over the course of months.”

Carter jumped in. “I remember people talking. You know, wondering if…”

His voice trailed off. Reed looked from one man to the other. “If what?”

“If Dylan had been taken as a… human sacrifice.”

The words landed grotesquely between the three. Reed cleared his throat. “I’ve never heard any of this.”

“You were young. Remember, I was a teenager.” His brother’s voice shook. “I heard everything.”

“There’s more,” Carter stepped in. “Another murder, by secateur.”

“When?”

“Not too long after Dylan disappeared.”

“Who?”

“Some guy. A fieldworker. I don’t remember his name.”

“Why are you telling me all this, Joe?”

“What if history’s repeating itself? I have kids of my own. What if something happened to one of them? I couldn’t take it, Dan. It’d kill me, I know it would.”

“Joe, look”-he leaned forward-“Dylan was not the victim of some bizarre cult ritual. The Sheriff’s Department did a thorough investigation. So did the FBI. They determined he was kidnapped.”

“But no ransom-”

“Recent findings may explain why. Trust me on this, Joe. Dylan was kidnapped, but something went terribly wrong.”

“And the other murder?”

“Every Tom, Dick and Harry carries one of those Red Roosters around. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been called to a scene where one drunk field hand has pulled his secateur on the other. You remember this so clearly because it occurred so soon after Dylan’s disappearance. I’ll check it, though. Let you know if anything turns up.”

A short time later, Reed had a name: the Sommers’ groundskeeper, Alberto Alvarez. He had been considered a strong suspect in Dylan’s abduction-he had been seen on the property that night, then afterward failed to show up for work-until he turned up dead.

Murdered by secateur to the throat.

The murder had gone unsolved, swallowed up by the furor over Dylan.

Reed frowned and leaned back in his chair. It seemed obvious that Alvarez had either seen something and been murdered because of it, or had been part of the plot and murdered when it went south.

And yet, as he dug, he found no records of an active search for a link between the two crimes. A search for the man’s killer, yes. But no suspicion that his death had been linked to Dylan Sommer’s disappearance.

How had they missed this? It represented shoddy, irresponsible police work. Why hadn’t the FBI followed the lead?

Reed drummed his fingers on his desktop. Who, if anyone, was still on the force from back then? His captain was only an eighteen-year veteran of the force. He dug his department directory out and began scanning. Names of a few old-timers popped out, guys who’d been around thirty or so years.

“Why so serious?”

He looked up at Tanner. She stood in the doorway, a carton of yogurt in her hands. “Alberto Alvarez, ever hear that name before?”

“Nope.” She took a spoonful of the yogurt. “Why?”

“He was a groundskeeper for the Sommers. Took a secateur to the neck shortly after Dylan’s disappearance. Before his murder he was considered a strong suspect in the abduction.”

“Then he turned up dead.” She wandered across to his desk. “Who killed him?”

“Never solved.” He turned his computer monitor to face her.

She scanned the report, eyebrows drawing together. “How’d you find this?”

“My brother. This shouldn’t have flown under our radar.”

“It’s a twenty-five-year-old crime. What bothers me is the ignored no-brainer here.”

“The link between this murder and Dylan Sommer’s disappearance.”

“Exactly.”

“Here’s another weird fact, according to my brother and his buddy Carter Townsend. Around the time of Dylan’s abduction, there was a rash of reports of ritual sites and animal sacrifice. There was talk that Dylan had been taken by one of these groups.”

“You verified any of this?”

“Not yet.”

“Let’s do it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Monday, March 8

8:35 A.M.

A search of old reports had verified his brother’s facts. Reed and Tanner had decided to wait until the following morning to bring it to their superiors.

They met at eight thirty sharp. Tanner had brought him a Venti-sized dark roast. “Thanks,” he said, taking it.

Together they headed for Jon MacIntyre’s office. When they reached it, Reed tapped on the open door. “Morning, Mac. Have a few minutes?”

The sergeant waved them in. Jon MacIntyre had been on the force eighteen years, the last four as the VCI sergeant. His Teddy bear demeanor belied an iron will and fierce intellect.

Now, he fixed that sharp gaze on the two detectives. “What do you have?”

Tanner began with their progress so far. “Processed the scene. We’ve got a boatload of possible evidence to sift through. No viable prints on the weapon. Could’ve been wiped or the perp may have been wearing gloves.”

Reed took over. “Jill Schwann’s story checked out. So did the girlfriend’s. Cell phone numbers verify both witness accounts. We’re running the list of all calls made the twenty-four hours before and after his murder.”

“Good. Your report indicated Schwann had been robbed.”

Reed nodded. “Watch, wedding ring, contents of his wallet.”

“Autopsy?”

“Scheduled for tomorrow.”

Mac looked from one to the other of them. “Is that it?”

“Not quite. Ran across something interesting. Another Red Rooster murder. Unsolved.”

The sergeant frowned. “Where?”

“Here in Sonoma County. Twenty-five years ago.”

“You think it’s relevant?”

“Let’s just say I’m not ruling out its relevancy yet.” Reed handed Mac the file of printouts he’d prepared, then filled him in on the details. “What struck both of us were the lapses in the initial investigation.”

The sergeant scanned the reports. “Astounding lapses.”

“I’m thinking that between unearthing Baby Doe and seeing this, we should officially reopen the Dylan Sommer abduction case.”

He studied Reed a moment, then picked up his phone and dialed their lieutenant.

“He’s free now. Let’s take a walk.”

Moments later they sat in the lieutenant of detectives’ spacious, light-filled office. Lieutenant George Torres came from the school of hard knocks. The son of a vineyard worker and housekeeper, he had fought his way up to highest ranking Latino in the Sheriff’s Department. He often said that anybody who said racism didn’t exist in this country was either blind or a liar. He also said that anybody who used it as an excuse was a fool.