Page 33 of Dodge

“That stretch along the preserve. Near Osceola Trail.”

“So, no cameras.”

“Not a one.”

“Anybody see anything?”

“Not so far.”

Braddock asked, “When’d it happen?”

“Pete thinks an hour ago, two maybe.”

“I’ll be there when I’m finished up.”

“All right.”

He turned to Marlowe, looked down at her eyes, ten inches below his. “You heard?”

Hard not to, with that volume.

She nodded.

“I’ll be blunt with you, Agent Marlowe. Where were you the last two hours?”

“Don’t recall, other than trying to find him.” A nod toward Offenbach, who happened to be staring at her with a look that radiated not a shred of emotion. Dead eyes, she thought. Dead eyes.

Hands on hips, Braddock surveyed the shack and the tangle of brush and vines behind it. The growth reminded her of the land bordering her own property, which was halfway between Chicago and the Wisconsin state line. The house was a bungalow, many years old. As for theyard itself, front and back, she’d had the grass removed and replaced with gravel, atop plastic sheets to stifle weeds.

“If I was to check firearms records, would I find that you’ve ever bought a twenty-five-caliber handgun?”

“Never have. No stopping power. Only three-eighty, nine and forty-five ACP.”

“Ah ...” Braddock’s eyes took in a hawk making leisurely circles overhead. “Shooter was smart. Probably stayed inside his vehicle. All the ejected brass ended up there, so he didn’t have to worry about wasting time picking them up off the ground.”

“Makes sense,” she said. Many a killer had been caught because of fingerprints left on the cartridges ejected from their semiauto weapons. They wipe the gun but don’t think to clean the brass.

Braddock said in a low voice, “I’m going to take your statement about what happened here, Agent Marlowe. And then I think I’d like you to get out of Harbinger County.”

She shrugged. “No reason for me to stay.”

“You’re a good shot,” Constant Marlowe said to Jessica Lombardi as the woman handed over the green rifle case containing the Winchester 70. “You placed them right where they needed to be.”

The woman said, “We take deer for food. Tony has a ragout recipe that—I was going to say it’s to die for. Bad choice of words.”

The two women were standing in the parking lot outside the hospital, near the cascade that was truly lovely, even if it was a lesser one.

The water, clear as polished window glass, fell and fell, shattered and regrouped and changed into rainbows whenever the sun was freed by gaps in the staunch clouds.

Marlowe put the rifle and ammo box into her trunk and closed the lid.

After she’d learned from Tony about Offenbach’s prior connection to Harbinger County, and about the Cotter house, she’d come up with her plan.

She knew from Jessica that Wexler had people inside county offices. They’d know to call him if anybody came in inquiring about Offenbach and any property he or his family might have owned. Or at the least if an out-of-towner started asking odd questions.

Marlowe supposed it was True Crime Girl, which was a disappointment. But she’d learned long ago what you see isn’t always what truly is.

Wexler would have called Offenbach to report Marlowe had made the Cotter house.

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