lifted its head when he saw us approaching, and struggled to its feet. It wobbled sideways before it steadied itself. Lewis stared at the dog as if it were homeless.
"I don't know what in hell we're gonna do now."
He stared at me, then started blinking again.
"Payne read the Bible all the time. He would read it sitting here in the station. He had these statues of Jesus. He went to Mass, I dunno, three times a week, and now he gets shot to death down in L.A. I'm not a religious man, but it doesn't seem right."
Lewis walked away, and the dog gimped along after him. I climbed back into my car, but I didn't leave right away. I thought about Frederick Conrad. Payne Keller's house was close, and the sheriff was supposed to be there. I had Conrad's address, and could have gone to his home, but I decided to see the sheriff first. Like failing to return to my office, it was exactly the wrong decision.
55
Lewis warned me to look for a dying sycamore, and that's where I found it-an overgrown private lane little more than a break between the trees without even a mailbox to draw passing attention. It looked more like a trail than a road, with nasty potholes and cuts that would discourage the idly curious with a broken axle. It was a good place to be an invisible man and live an invisible life.
I worked my way over the potholes and through the trees. Reinnike's house was a rustic cabin built of clapboard and river stones, with a covered porch in front. I had expected to see the sheriff's vehicle, but Kelly Diaz's Passat was parked alongside the porch. No other vehicles were present. I pulled up behind her, and shut off my car. The front door was open.
Diaz would have heard me drive up, but she did not come to the door. I got out, and went to the porch.
"Diaz?"
I crossed the porch, and stepped inside.
"Diaz, it's Cole."
Furniture was upended, magazines were scattered over the floor, and books had been swept clean from a bookcase that was twisted away from the wall. Statues and portraits of Jesus were everywhere; watching from the walls and the television and the tables. More little statues were strewn over the floor.
"Diaz, you in here?"
Reinnike's house had been searched, but not by Diaz. Cops know you can't find something by throwing things in the air. Someone with a disordered mind had searched this house. An image of a collie with a garden stake through its chest flickered in my head. I was frightened of what I would find.
"David?"
I moved to the kitchen. Drawers had been emptied; the cupboards were open, and Tupperware raked to the floor. I didn't want to go into the back of the house. I wondered if Diaz had been here when David Reinnike came to call.
I backed out of the kitchen, and turned toward the living room. Kelly Diaz was waiting in the mouth of the hall, holding her pistol loose down along her leg. She could have killed me; she could have shot me down from behind, but she didn't. Her face was strained as if she had caught up in time with her mother, and carried her mother's lost years, but she gave me a wicked bright smile.
"Damn, Cole, you really are the World's Greatest Detective. You found the sonofabitch-Payne-fucking-Keller."
"I found a suspect in his murder, too."
Her shirt was taut over the swell of a bullet-resistant vest. Detectives never wore vests, but Diaz had come up here to do business. She waggled her gun at the room.
"He's here, Cole. The sick freak is shitting his pants. We can get him."
"Pardy knows. He's talking it over with O'Loughlin right now. They're going to issue a warrant."
"Pardy doesn't know his ass."
"He found the gun and put it with one of your cases. You had access. He has a witness who saw a woman matching your description with Reinnike the night of the murder. I found the murder book in your house-"
She waggled the gun again, but a sheen of sweat slicked her face and her eyes were bright.
"We'll see with the jury."
"Your footprints are all over this, Kelly. You're wearing your mother's necklace, forchrissake."
The tough smile wavered, but strengthened with anger.
"Well, so fucking what? I made my choice, and I'm good with it. This bastard murdered my family. I am officially mentally ill. I snapped under the strain of being confronted by the man