Brandon recognized that Warden Edward Huffman was a conscientious man doing a difficult job, and it seemed likely that Huffman saw Diana and Brandon for what they were, too—­a pair of heartbroken parents who, having failed at the task of saving their offspring from himself, were now doing the best they could to see him through to the other side. Maybe Huffman also related to the irony of Brandon’s position—­that of a former sheriff who had been as helpless at raising his own son as any other father on the planet. For whatever reason, on Brandon and Diana’s weekly and finally daily visits, they had been granted a kind of latitude to come and go that most prison visitors were denied.

It had been years now since Quentin died, but Huffman’s name and phone numbers remained in Brandon’s contacts list. Still parked outside Amanda Wasser’s condo, Brandon located the record. Then, since it was Saturday, he dialed the warden’s cell phone first.

“Huffman,” the man answered.

“Brandon Walker here.

“Long time no see. What’s up?”

“I need a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“I understand John Lassiter has asked to see me, but I don’t want to drive all the way up there if I’m not on the approved visitor list.”

“Let me check. I’ll get back to you. Is this number all right?”

“It’ll work.”

While Brandon waited for a return call, he thumbed through his fraying spiral notebook. Yes, he had an iPad. Yes, he used it occasionally, but when he needed to remember something and take notes, he still gravitated toward pen and paper. Glancing at the pages from his interview with Amanda, he underlined the passage about the second homicide—­that of Kenneth Mangum/Myers.

Closing his eyes, he was just able to remember the guy, sitting on the witness stand and swearing that John Lassiter had loved Amos Warren like a father and would never have done anything to harm him. Of the witnesses who were called to testify, Mangum was the only one who had failed to be present during the knock-­down, drag-­out fight in El Barrio, for the very good reason that Ken had been in the county jail at the time doing a six-­month stretch on a third DUI conviction.

Mangum had made an impassioned defense for his friend, but the jury had considered the source and had most likely disregarded his testimony completely when it came time to render their verdict.

Brandon’s cell phone rang, with Huffman’s name showing on the caller ID screen. “I couldn’t do this for every inmate, but in all these years, Lassiter’s got no bad-conduct problems. I’ve put your name on the list. When are you coming?”

“Today, if that’s possible,” Brandon said. “And one more thing. I’d really appreciate it if I could use an interview room rather than the ordinary visitation room. I’ve got some materials I’d like John to go over, and it’ll be easier if we could pass them back and forth across a table.”

“Whatever you’re bringing in will have to go through security, and you’ll need to have someone from the prison sit in on the interview, but I don’t have a problem with your using a room. What time should we expect you?”

“I’m leaving right now. Should take me a little less than two hours.”

“I’ll be sure the room is ready when you get here.”

“Thanks,” Brandon said.

“You’re welcome,” Huffman replied, “and say hello to your lovely wife.”

When the call ended, Brandon turned back to his contact list, found Ralph Ames’s number, and dialed it.

“Hey, Brandon,” Ralph said when he answered. “What’s up?”

“A guy who’s in prison doing life without, a guy I arrested years ago, has contacted me asking for us to look into that case. Even though he’s served decades for the crime, he still claims he didn’t do it. A group named Justice for All has worked out a time-­served deal if he pleads guilty to second degree, but he turned that down. Says he won’t take a plea for something he didn’t do.”

“You’re the guy who arrested him in the first place, and now he’s asking for your help? That’s a little unusual.”

“It’s the first time it’s happened to me,” Brandon agreed, “and I have no idea how he knew of my connection to TLC. Still, I’d like to take a look at it. The thing is, I’ve just been informed that there’s another unsolved case—­at least I think it’s unsolved—­that may or may not be related to this one. One of the witnesses from this case, someone who testified on the defendant’s behalf, was murdered in Seattle sometime back in the eighties. Isn’t there someone you’ve been telling me about, a friend of yours from up there, that you’ve been trying to recruit for TLC?”

“Indeed there is,” Ralph replied. “His name’s J. P. Beaumont. He’s a good friend with way too much time on his hands at the moment. He worked for Seattle PD for years and was on a statewide Special Homicide Investigation Team for a number of years after that. Special Homicide was disbanded a ­couple of months ago. I’ve been trying to bring him on board, and I’ve been getting nowhere fast.”

“You say he was working for Seattle PD in the eighties?”

“Around then, but I’m not sure of the exact dates.”

“The eighties are about the right time frame. Would you mind giving him a call to see if he’d be willing to take a look at the case in question?”

“I have a better idea,” Ralph replied. “Beau and I are pals. He can tell me no six ways to Sunday and never blink an eye. I suspect he’ll have a lot tougher time saying no to a request for help from a complete stranger. Why don’t you call him directly?”

“You don’t think he’ll mind?”

“If he does, have him take it up with me. I’ll text you his contact card.”

Brandon’s message signal dinged thirty seconds later with Beaumont’s contact card. No work phone was listed, only a home number and a cell. Since it was the weekend, Brandon opted for the home number. The phone rang six times before the voice-­mail prompt came on.

“Beau here,” a male voice said. “You know the drill. At the sound of the tone, leave your name and number. I’ll get back to you.”

Brandon did as he was told, then he fired up the Escalade and headed for Florence and for what he knew would be an unwelcome trip down memory lane.

AT THE CRIME SCENE NEAR Rattlesnake Skull village, time slowed to a crawl. There was endless backing and forthing among the various officers about jurisdictional issues and equally endless milling around the crime scene before it was finally time for the FBI interviews.

Naturally Lani and Leo were separated for that process. Leo and Agent Armstrong sat in Leo’s pickup while Lani and Angelica Howell stayed in the agents’ Suburban. Agent Howell was dismissive and overbearing. Lani had no doubt that Agent Howell saw Lani as a “Native American” woman or maybe even as an “indigenous person” who was bone tired from lack of sleep and worry, who was grimy from sleeping out overnight, and who smelled of woodsmoke. Lani recognized the symptoms. She’d been on the receiving end of that kind of dismissive Anglo arrogance all her life.

“So you were asleep and awakened to the sound of what you believe was automatic gunfire?” Agent Howell asked, with an audible sneer underlining the word “believe.”

“It was automatic gunfire,” Lani replied. “Anyone who’s watched television in the last ten years recognizes automatic gunfire when they hear it.”

“And what time was that?”

“When I looked at my watch, it said 4:16,” Lani answered, “but that was later, after the second round of gunfire and when the vehicle left the charco and headed back toward the highway.”

“Where it turned left toward Sells rather than heading into town?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly were you doing out here on the mountain?” Agent Howell wanted to know.

“I was here with my godson, Gabe Ortiz. Leo, the man in the truck, is Gabe’s father. He came out this morning to pick me up. I asked him to stop at the charco on the way back to Sells. That’s when we found the bodies.”