because they didn’t have sufficient information to arrest him on any abuse charges. If only Ashley had been well enough to talk. All they did have was guesses. Normally, having him come down to the station tomorrow would be fine. They would arrest him then if he confessed, but with those little girls in the house . . . if something happened to them tonight after leaving Rodriguez there with them . . . Gil couldn’t finish that thought.

Legally they didn’t have reasonable grounds, but ethically . . .

“Actually, I think it’s best if you come with us,” Gil said. His tone must have been too tough, because Rodriguez puffed up his chest.

“You can’t arrest me,” Rodriguez said defiantly, swaying a bit from the alcohol.

Gil started to grab his handcuffs from their holder on his belt. Joe, noticing the movement, said quickly, “You aren’t under arrest. It’s called protective custody. It’s just a way for us to take care of you right now, at this difficult time.” His voice was all concern and caring.

“I don’t know . . .”

“Look, Rudy,” Joe said, putting his arm around the man. “You told me that you feel really sad right now. Why don’t you just come with us until you’re feeling better? Then you can come back home and be at your best around your family.”

Joe coaxed Rodriguez into the backseat as his sister came out of the house.

“What’s going on?” Anna Maria asked.

“Ma’am, we’re sorry,” Joe said. “We feel like your brother is really broken up over the news about Brianna, and that, combined with the drinking, we just think it would be better for him to come with us tonight.”

“He’s not under arrest?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” Joe said. “Under the Detoxification Reform Act all that happens is that he comes with us and he stays in a special cell until he’s more himself. He never gets charged or arrested.”

Gil said nothing as he got into the driver’s seat. He drove back out to the highway and took the bypass around the city, glad to be leaving the family safely behind them.

CHAPTER TEN

Friday Night

The night at work was beginning to slow down for Lucy. She had edited Tommy’s skull story, which was mostly right on the mark except for a lengthy lead she had to edit down. In the fifth graph, Tommy deftly mentioned the possibility that the skull was Brianna’s—along with the “no comment” answer from police about the likelihood of that. She had hit a few keys on her computer and sent it on its merry way along the editing chain.

Now she just needed an okay from copydesk that the story was good. She also wanted to check the front page proofs, which wasn’t necessary, but she decided to let her OCD perfectionism guide her tonight. Because this story was important. The article would definitely be run up by all state news agencies and the Associated Press, which would send it out to newspapers across the country. More than likely it would get picked up by CNN and the other cable news shows, meaning that for a few bright moments tomorrow, tiny Santa Fe, New Mexico, would be on the map—and here she was, the final check, before it was read by millions. Tommy was still there for the same reason, making sure there were no questions.

She was mindlessly reading over wire copy when Tommy came over.

“Wanna hear something weird?” he asked.

“Always,” she said.

“So I was checking out the road closures downtown today, and one guy I talked to said he’d heard that someone had put some bones in front of Our Lady of Guadalupe Church.”

“Human bones?”

“That’s what he said.”

“There is no way that’s true,” Lucy said dismissively. “That’s like Florida or Texas level weird. New Mexico’s level of weird is some dude who blames his cat for downloading child porn. We do stupid weird.”

“He said it was this whole display thing with art and dolls’ heads and stuff,” Tommy said, smiling broadly. A cat-eating-canary smile. He knew a great news story when he heard one. “And he said he heard there were more of them around town.”

“Seriously?” she said, wondering how the story could get any more creepy. The amount of creepy in a story was directly proportional to the rate of newspaper sales. “Where are we at with it? I can call people in to help.”

“The problem is his information is thirdhand at best.”

“Nobody else will confirm it?” she asked, her excitement quickly deflating.

“No, and I can’t even