She wiped down everything, polishing away fingerprints from every conceivable surface—­light switches, cabinets, appliances, furniture, silverware, dishes, canned goods in the cabinets, and frozen food in the fridge. From the lack of fingerprints, the cops would be able to tell at once that Jane Dobson had been a crook. What they wouldn’t be able to tell was that Jane Dobson and Ava Richland were one and the same.

And once the house was clean, all Ava had to do was wait.

WHEN I LEFT THE GROVERS’ condo, I could hardly wait to get back down to my car. I found I had a signal on the top floor of the parking garage, and I called Brandon Walker back immediately.

“Tell me about Amos Warren. Refresh me on the timeline.”

“In the spring of 1970, he went out on one of his prospecting/scavenging jaunts in the desert. Weeks later, his vehicle turns up at Tucson International Airport. Ten years after that, his remains are found in the desert twenty miles from the airport.”

“That means that the killer must have had an accomplice,” I said. “Assuming the victim’s vehicle was at the crime scene originally, someone had to help transport it to the spot where it was found.”

“We always assumed there was an accomplice,” Brandon said, “but we could never get any traction when it came to finding out who it was.”

“I think I may know,” I told him. “The dead guy up here.”

“Ken Mangum?”

“I just talked to Kenneth’s old girlfriend, Calliope Horn. Shortly before he disappeared, he told her he was going to take a trip to Arizona and that he expected to come back with an armload of money. Then, the very day he disappeared, Ken was seen in the company of a well-­dressed woman—­a stranger no one up here had ever seen before. Calliope thought it might be an old girlfriend, and maybe that’s true. But what if it’s more than that? What if Ken was somehow involved in Amos Warren’s death? Or maybe the woman was the one who committed the murder, and Kenneth Mangum/Myers either knew about it or figured it out. What if that windfall he was expecting had something to do with blackmail?”

“That would make sense,” Brandon said. “When I talked to Lassiter earlier today, his first suggestion was Ava Martin Hanover Richland. Lassiter’s daughter, Amanda, said the same thing. She tried to point the JFA folks in Ava’s direction, but they weren’t interested.”

“Would blackmail have worked on Ava?” I asked. “Would she have been a likely target?”

“Absolutely. By the time Amos Warren’s remains surfaced, Ava Martin had reinvented herself and moved up in the world. She would have had a lot to lose, especially when Lassiter’s second trial was about to get under way and even more so now.”

Excitement bubbled in Brandon Walker’s voice and in mine as well. We were a pair of old hounds who had just caught a scent. It was a very faint scent and one that might not pan out, but it was still there, and we were on it.

“Is there any way to discover if the lady in question was in the Seattle area in the early part of May of 1983?” Walker asked.

“Doesn’t seem likely,” I answered.

“Maybe I should go pay her a call. Ava and her most recent husband have a house somewhere here in Tucson. The problem is, I don’t have an address.”

“Let’s see what Todd Hatcher can do in that regard. Is it all right if I give him your number?”

“Sure,” Brandon said. “Whatever works.”

IT WAS LANI’S WEEKEND OFF, but after her meeting with Lorraine José, she didn’t go back home. Instead she retreated into her office at the hospital and closed the door. Before leaving the house to go meet with the FBI agents at the café, she had opened her medicine basket and dropped her divining crystals into the pocket of her lab coat. She put the list containing the José brothers’ phone numbers face up on her desk, then she brought out the crystals. She went down the list, one at a time, studying the blurry numbers through the crystals, but that told her nothing. No wavering images appeared in her mind’s eye. She had attempted to explain to Gabe how viewing things through the crystals often helped her see things in another light. This time that didn’t happen.

Lani’s sense of hopelessness and despair deepened. Tim José was most likely lost, she realized. That meant there was a good chance Gabe was lost, too. And there was nothing—­not one thing—­she could do about it.

Sitting at her desk, Lani stared down at the crystals with her chin propped in her hands. That was when her lack of sleep from the night before finally caught up with her. She dozed off only to be awakened later by a light tap on the door. Jarred awake, Lani looked up to see Dan poke his head inside.

“There you are,” he said. “I saw your car on the way past.”

“On the way past,” Lani echoed. “Where are you going and where are the kids?”

“I called Mrs. Hendricks to come look after them. The FBI got a hit on Tim’s cell. The last time it pinged was somewhere out near the airport. Law and Order is calling for volunteers to come search. Hulk and I are on our way there now.”

Lani breathed a sigh of relief. The FBI had done its job after all. She scrambled to her feet. “I’ll come with you,” she said, reaching for her purse.

Dan gave her an appraising look. “Are you sure? You look beat. Shouldn’t you have a lie-­down?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll come, too. Has anyone told Lorraine José what’s going on?”

“I’m not sure, but I doubt it.”

“I’ll go tell her, then I’ll come help.”

“Suit yourself.”

Lani hurried into the convalescent wing just in time to see Lorraine José answer a call on her cell phone. Lorraine listened briefly, then, as her face went pale with shock, she dropped the phone, letting it crash onto the tiled floor.

“What is it?” Lani asked, hurrying toward the distraught woman. “What’s wrong? Did they find Tim?”

Anguish flooded Lorraine’s face. “It’s Max,” she whispered. “That was Father O’Reilly calling from Florence. There was a riot in the prison a little while ago. Max is dead.”

“Dead?” Lani repeated. “How can that be?”

Lorraine shook her head hopelessly. “I don’t know. How is it possible that I’ve lost all my boys, even Tim, on the same day?”

“­People are still looking for Tim,” Lani said, hoping she sounded more reassuring than she felt. “With any kind of luck, they’ll find him.”

“Would you ask I’itoi for me?” Lorraine asked. “Please?”

It wasn’t a request Lani could ignore. She had slipped her divining crystals back into the pocket of her lab coat as she left her office. Now, sitting on the chair next to Lorraine José’s bed, Lani took out the stones, gripped them tightly in her hand, and began to sing. As the song filled the room, Lani was no longer Dr. Pardee. She was Medicine Woman, filled with the spirit of Mualig Siakam, Forever Spinning. Together they were singing for power and singing for all of them—­for Tim José and Gabe Ortiz, for Delia and Leo Ortiz, for Lorraine José, and for the whole community. As Lani sang, she hoped in her heart of hearts that Elder Brother was listening.

AMANDA WASSER LISTENED IN SUBDUED silence when Brandon Walker delivered his news about the prison riot.

“This is all my fault,” she said when he finished.

“Your fault,” Brandon echoed. “How so?”

“You went to see my father at my instigation. A few hours later someone comes after him, killing two ­people and wounding another? This can’t be a coincidence.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that,” Brandon agreed. “There’s bound to be a connection. That can only mean that reopening your father’s case constitutes a threat to someone.”

“Who?”

“Who indeed? There’s no statute of limitations on homicide, Amanda. If John Lassiter didn’t kill Amos Warren, someone else did, and that killer has gotten away with murder all this time. Whoever did it may be worried that their luck is about to run out.”