We looked at each other. Now she was doing the waiting.

"There is another problem with your hypothetical," I said.

"What's that?"

"Four people go into the woods. One comes out alive. He keeps the fact that he's alive a secret. One would have to conclude, based on your hypothetical, that he killed the other three." Tapping the lip. "I can see where your mind might go in that direction."

"But?"

"He didn't."

"I just take your word for that?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it does."

"If my brother killed them, then this is over, isn't it? He's dead. You can't bring him back and try him."

"You have a point."

"Thank you."

"Did your brother kill my sister?"

"No, he didn't."

"Who did?"

Glenda Perez stood. "For a long time, I didn't know. In our hypothetical. I didn't know that my brother was alive."

"Did your parents?"

"I'm not here to talk about them."

"I need to know-"

"Who killed your sister. I get that."

"So?"

"So I'm going to tell you one more thing. And that’s it. I will tell you this under one condition." "What?" "That this always stays hypothetical. That you will stop telling the authorities that Manolo Santiago is my brother. That you promise to leave my parents alone."

"I can't promise that."

"Then I can't tell you what I know about your sister."

Silence. There it was. The impasse. Glenda Perez rose to leave.

"You're a lawyer," I said. "If I go after you, you'll be disbarred-"

"Enough threats, Mr. Copeland."

I stopped.

"I know something about what happened to your sister that night. If you want to know what it is, you'll make the deal."

"You'll just accept my word?"

"No. I drew up a legal document."

"You're kidding."

Glenda Perez reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the papers. She unfolded them. It was basically a nondisclosure agreement. It also made clear that I would say nothing and do nothing about Manolo Santiago's being Gil Perez and that her parents would be immune from any prosecution.

"You know this isn't enforceable," I said.

She shrugged. "It was the best I could come up with."

"I won't tell," I said, "unless I absolutely have to. I have no interest in harming you or your family. I'll also stop telling York or anyone else that I think Manolo Santiago is your brother. I will promise to do my best. But we both know that's all I can do."

Glenda Perez hesitated. Then she folded the papers, jammed them back into her pocket and headed to my door. She put her hand on the knob and turned toward me.

"Still hypothetically speaking?" she said.

"Yes."

"If my brother walked out of those woods, he didn't walk out alone."

My whole body went cold. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I tried to say something but nothing came out. I met Glenda Perez's eye. She met mine. She nodded and I could see her eyes were wet. She turned away and turned the knob.

"Don't play games with me, Glenda."

"I'm not, Paul. That's all I know. My brother survived that night. And so did your sister."

Chapter 33

Day was surrendering to the shadows when Loren Muse reached the old campsite.

The sign said Lake Charmaine Condominium Center. The land-mass was huge, she knew, stretching across the Delaware River, which separates New Jersey and Pennsylvania. The lake and condos were on the Pennsylvania side. Most of the woods were in New Jersey.

Muse hated the woods. She loved sports but hated the supposedly great outdoors. She hated bugs and fishing and wading and taking hikes and rare antique finds and dirt and general posts and lures and prize pigs and 4-H fairs and everything else she considered "rural."

She stopped at the little building that housed the rent-a-cop, flashed her ID, expected the gate to rise. It didn't. The rent-a-cop, one of those bloated weightlifter types, brought her ID inside and got on the phone.

"Hey, I'm in a hurry here."

"Don't get your panties in a bunch."

"My panties in a…?"

She fumed.

There were flashing lights up ahead. Bunch of parked police cars, she figured. Probably every cop within a fifty-mile radius wanted in on this one.

The rent-a-cop hung up the phone. He sat in his booth. He didn't come back to her car.

"Yo," Muse called out.

He didn't respond.

"Yo, buddy, I'm talking to you here."

He turned slowly toward her. Damn, she thought. The guy was young and male. That was a problem. If you have a rent-a-cop who is on the elderly side, well, it is usually some well-intentioned guy who's re tired and bored. A woman rental? Often a mother looking to pick up some extra money. But a man in his prime? Seven out often it was that most dangerous of muscle-heads, the cop wannabe. For some reason he didn't make it onto a real force. Not to knock her own profession, but if a guy sets his sights on being a cop and doesn't make it, there is often a reason, and it wasn't something you wanted to get anywhere near.

And what better way to atone for your own worthless life than to keep a chief investigator – a female chief investigator – waiting?

"Excuse me?" she tried, her voice an octave gentler.

"You can't enter yet," he said.

"Why not?"

"You have to wait."

"For?"

"Sheriff Lowell."

"Sheriff Lobo?"

"Lowell. And he said no one gets in without his okay."

The rent-a-cop actually hitched up his pants.

"I'm the chief investigator for Essex County," Muse said.

He sneered. "This look like Essex County to you?"

"Those are my people in there. I need to go in."

"Hey, don't get your panties in a bunch."

"Good one."

"What?"

"The panties-in-a-bunch line. You’ve used it twice now. It is very, very funny. Can I use it sometime, you know, when I really want to put someone down? I'll give you credit."

He picked up a newspaper, ignored her. She considered driving straight through and snapping the gate.

"Do you carry a gun?" Muse asked him.

He put down the paper. "What?"

"A gun. Do you carry one? You know, to make up for other shortcomings." "Shut the hell up." "I carry one, you know. Tell you what. You open the gate, I'll let you touch it." He said nothing. The heck with touching it. Maybe she'd just shoot him.

Rent-A-Cop glared at her. She scratched her cheek with her free hand, pointedly raising her pinkie in his direction. From the way he looked at her she could tell it was a gesture that hit painfully close to home.

"You being a wiseass with me?" "Hey," Muse said, putting her hands back on the wheel, "don't get your panties in a bunch."

This was stupid, Muse knew, but damn if it wasn't also fun. The adrenaline was kicking in now. She was anxious to know what Andrew Barrett had found. Judging by the amount of flashing lights, it had to be something big.

Like a body.

Two minutes passed. Muse was just about to take out her gun and force him to open the gate when a man in uniform sauntered toward her vehicle. He wore a big-brimmed hat and had a sheriffs badge. His name tag read Lowell.

"Can I help you, miss?"

"Miss? Did he tell you who I am?"

"Uh, no, sorry, he just said-"

"I'm Loren Muse, the chief investigator for Essex County." Muse pointed toward the guardhouse. "Small Balls in there has my ID." "Hey, what did you call me?" Sheriff Lowell sighed and wiped his nose with a handkerchief. His nose was bulbous and rather huge. So were all his features-long and droopy, as if someone had drawn a caricature of him and then let it melt in the sun. He waved the hand holding the tissue at Rent-A-Cop.

"Relax, Sandy." "Sandy," Muse repeated. She looked toward the guardhouse. "Isn't that a girls name?" Sheriff Lowell looked down the huge nose at her. Probably disapprovingly. She couldn't blame him.