“You want to send her a telegram?” Swinney said. “Is that why you’re standing here?”

  “You’re really riding my ass today.” Hazard strode towards the woman, but not before Swinney got in a last whisper.

  “Your fly’s down.”

  Hazard groped, checked, and had to bite back a swear because Swinney was a lying bitch some days.

  “Who are you? Where’s my daughter?”

  “I’m Detective Hazard for the Wahredua Police Department. Can I ask who you are?”

  “Linda Mercaldi. I’m Peyton’s mother, and I’ve already given this information two times, and I’m about ready to get my lawyer on the phone and have your ass on the coals.”

  “Let’s see some ID.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Identification.”

  Mercaldi had coppery skin, and her flush darkened it further. From her back pocket, she produced a wallet and a driver license. “Can you read? Or do you want me to get the fucking picture book version?”

  The information was there: Linda Mercaldi, fifty-two, five-ten and a hundred and sixty pounds. Mostly muscle, Hazard guessed from the way she filled the leather and denim. Fifty-two. Damn. He hoped he looked that good at fifty-two. Somers definitely would, the pretty little fucker.

  Slanting the license against the light, Hazard checked the security features and then returned it.

  “Took you long enough. Now. My daughter?”

  “From what I understand, Ms. Mercaldi, your daughter is legally an adult. You’re welcome to wait—”

  “Like fucking hell I’m going to wait. That’s my girl in there, and if I have to kick down the door myself, I’ll do it.”

  Hazard moved to intercept her, but the door to the interview opened, and Mercaldi stopped. Peyton Laflamme emerged, and Hazard knew the moment that Peyton saw her mother: the girl froze so abruptly that her long, dark hair swished, as though some invisible current were stirring it. The two stared at each other, and then Peyton darted across the room, hiking up her dress, her thin legs carrying her like a gazelle. She barreled into the older woman, and Mercaldi stood rigidly, arms stiff and outstretched. Peyton pressed against her, crying, saying something over and over again. Mother, Hazard guessed. For a long moment, the only expression on Mercaldi’s face was shock. Then slowly, almost reflexively, her arms closed, and she clutched Peyton to her.

  Hazard hadn’t noticed Somers until the blond man spoke. “Touching.”

  With a roll of his shoulder, Hazard indicated Kolosik. The satellite installer was staring at the two women, his jaw slack, his eyes misty with emotion.

  “Let’s get you printed,” Somers said, helping Kolosik to his feet. “Unless you have an objection to that.”

  “What? Oh. No. I didn’t do anything.”

  “And we’ll want some photographs of your hands.”

  “I told you all about that,” Kolosik said as they led him away from the bullpen. “That’s her mom?”

  “One of them,” Hazard said.

  “I never met anybody with two moms before.”

  “You should tell Peyton. She’ll be happy to hear that.”

  “Ok,” Kolosik said, nodding. “I’ll tell her.

  “No,” Hazard said. “She won’t really be happy.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  Hazard sighed.

  “Just drop it,” Somers advised.

  Hazard did.

  From the edge of the bullpen, Hazard kept an eye on the newly reunited mother and daughter. After the initial embrace, Mercaldi had separated from the younger woman by a few feet and was now staring her up and down, as though trying to take in all the changes. Peyton, for her part, had her arms crossed, her chin down, and her shoulders curved inwards. The girl threw a glance at Hazard, flushed, and reached out to take her mother’s hands. Then Peyton said something, and Mercaldi’s eyes flashed up at Hazard.

  The two women came towards Hazard, and Mercaldi said, “I’m taking my daughter out of here.”

  Hazard glanced at Somers.

  “That’s all right,” Somers said. “I think we’re done for the day. But we’d like Peyton to stay around for a few more days. A member of her religious community was recently killed, and we may have some more questions to ask.”

  “Is my daughter under arrest?” Mercaldi said.

  “No.”

  “Then you can’t keep her here.”

  “Mom,” Peyton said. “They’re just—”

  “Be quiet. You can’t hold her unless you’re going to charge her with something. Is that what I’m hearing? Are you charging my daughter with murder?”

  “We’re not holding her,” Hazard said. “If you’d listen for a damn minute.”

  “What my partner means is that we’re asking for Peyton’s cooperation. That means staying around town for a few more days. Just until we’re sure we have everything wrapped up. I bet Mr. Kolosik would be more than happy to help show you around.”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Peyton, we could—”

  “In the meantime,” Somers continued, “we’d like to get Peyton’s prints. Just to clear her as a suspect.”

  “No,” Mercaldi said. Steering Peyton by the shoulder, she stalked towards the door. “You’ll be hearing from our lawyers.”

  And then they were gone.

  “You’re old shit,” Hazard said to Kolosik, and then, at the flicker of hurt in the boy’s eyes, he added, “Sorry.”

  “We’ll have one of the uniformed officers drive you home,” Somers said. “Same thing goes for you, Rex: don’t plan on heading out of town.”

  “I live here. I work here. Where would I go?”

  “That’s the attitude,” Somers said before dispatching him with Carmichael.

  Hazard dropped into the chair and stared at his monitor. Peyton wasn’t a suspect, not necessarily. But she was the closest thing they had to a lead so far in the case. She and Kolosik had helped to flesh out Walden’s morning movements in a critical way. She had even—perhaps a little too conveniently—supplied them with a potential killer: Britney Cowper, who had vanished.

  “Well?” Somers said, settling on the edge of Hazard’s desk.

  “If she did it, the two of them are in it together. Of course, he’s stupid enough that she might be leading him around by the nose.”

  “She’s definitely leading him around by the nose. What are the chances that Rex Kolosik ever cashes in on that million-dollar reward?”

  “He’ll have better luck playing scratchers.”

  “You want to look into the Laflamme family? I’ll look into Britney Cowper.”

  “What about Kolosik?”

  “We’ll flip a coin. Loser takes Kolosik.”

  “And the winner?”

  Somers’s smile could have melted steel. “Let’s figure that out tonight.”

  Hazard had to work at his collar for a minute. Not because of anything in particular; it was just so damn hot in the station.

  “You need a drink?” Somers asked.

  It was better, Hazard had learned, not to answer sometimes.

  Somers, the smug little prick, just laughed.

  Hazard’s first quick searches turned up valuable information. Marianne Laflamme was Peyton’s biological mother, and she had indeed been an actress. What Peyton had failed to mention—or, perhaps, had not known—was that Marianne Laflamme had been an acclaimed actress in pornographic films under the name Strawberry Summers. She had starred in dozens of the films, but the most prominent seemed to be a series centered on Laflamme’s character. The titles were characteristically groan-inducing. Strawberry Summers: Fresh Produce. Strawberry Summers: Fresh Produce 2. Strawberry and Whipped Cream. Strawberry Sunday: The Minister’s Wife. Strawberry Sunday 2: Convent Capers. On and on like that. And, to judge by a picture of Marianne Laflamme’s Laurel Canyon home outside Los Angeles, Laflamme had done quite well by funneling her income into investments and, eventually, her own production company. The promise of the million-dollar reward suddenly no longer sounded quite as unlikely.

  Perhaps even more important than Laflamme’s financial status, though, was the simple fact that she was dead. And recently, too. According to an obituary on the LA Times website, Laflamme had died in mid-March of complications resulting from surgery. She had been fifty-seven years old.

  After Hazard’s third brief search, he knew he had enough information that he wanted Somers’s opinion. He printed a page, grabbed it, and turned to his partner.

  “Take a walk?”

  “God, I thought you’d never ask.” Somers leaped to his feet, stretched dramatically, and together they left the station.

  There was a park across the street that they had used in a previous investigation when they weren’t sure it was safe to discuss their work inside the station. Today, by late afternoon, the air had warmed, and it smelled like fresh, green growth, like Somers’s hair, and, when the wind lifted, like the last chill of winter. White and pink budded on the trees, and the sky was a tapestry of blues and haze and contrails. They walked quietly together; the sunlight on Hazard’s face seemed to wake a part of him he hadn’t realized was asleep. And then a bird began to sing, and damn it if that wasn’t just the absolute limit. Hazard reached down and took his partner by the hand.

  “We’re in public.”

  Hazard ignored him.

  “You made a big deal out of that earlier. We’re professionals. We’re on duty.”

  “It’s a nice day.”

  A grin danced on Somers’s lips—not there, not quite, but almost. “Still, it’s a city park, and that means as public servants, we probably shouldn’t be flaunting the depths of our corruption—”

  The kiss was soft and sweet like honey.

  Color darkened the bones in Somers’s cheeks, and now the grin was out in full force. “You take an awful long time to get the right idea.”

  The next kiss was even sweeter.

  “But,” he said, and Hazard felt an electric thrill at the gasping breathiness in his voice, “at least you’re a quick learner.”

  “I’m very motivated,” Hazard said and kissed him again.

  “Do that again, and we’re not going to make it back to the station,” Somers said, his forehead resting against Hazard’s cheek, his breath hot on Hazard’s neck, his fingers twiddling with the shirt collar.

  Hazard didn’t have fancy words or a clever response. He was a man of reason. Facts. The feel of Somers against him. The ripple of muscle under Hazard’s touch. The feathering of Somers’s short, blond hair against Hazard’s cheek. The now-familiar lines of Somers’s hand knotted with Hazard’s. For a moment, with the sun shining on his back, Hazard felt translucent, transparent, crystalline, as though that sunlight shone through him and turned all the hard edges soft, turned all the dark spaces bright. He kissed Somers on the temple. This was light, or something very much like it. He kissed lower, on the cheekbone. And this, this was light. Lower again, his lips finding Somers’s, tasting the hamburger from lunch, tasting salt, tasting him, John-Henry Somerset. This was light too, shining through him, like Hazard was a magnifying glass, like wherever he turned he might set a fire.

  With a soft, pained laugh, Somers kissed him back and then pulled away. “This is it, right?”

  “What?”

  “Love. This is what it feels like.”

  “This is it.”

  Tears rushed into Somers’s eyes, not spilling, but trembling and luminous in the afternoon sun, like his eyes had turned into golden oceans. “I didn’t know. I had no idea.”

  Hazard’s thumb raked Somers’s lower eyelid, and tears spilled onto the pad, racing down the inside of his hand. He repeated the gesture to Somers’s other eye. “You know now.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s perfect.” Somers’s breath hitched, though, and he nuzzled into Hazard’s hand. “Just—just don’t let me fuck things up, all right? I always fuck things up, and if you let me, I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

  Hazard kissed him, and now all he tasted was tears.

  “Promise me. I want you to promise.”

  “I promise.”

  The last kiss was the best one, tangled with desire and frustrated need, with Somers rutting against him, and with something else, a franticness to it, an edge that made it even sweeter. Then, breaking the kiss, Somers sighed and pushed away. “You think I’m crazy.”

  “Sure.”

  Somers shot him a dirty look.

  Raising both hands, Hazard said, “I already thought that.”

  With a laugh, Somers shook his head. He dried his eyes, cleared his throat, and said, “Can we talk about the case now? Unless you’re determined to ravish me right here in public, God and decency be damned.”

  Hazard’s eyes narrowed.

  “I have my virtue to think of.”

  “Keep running your damn mouth and see where it gets you this time.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. All right, let’s walk. At least that way I have a better chance of throwing off this hard-on.” And with that, Somers slipped his hand into Hazard’s and pulled him along the trail. “What’d you find?”

  So Hazard told him some of it.

  “So the porn star mom dies after surgery. And the other mom comes rushing out here to find her estranged daughter and—what? Bring her home for the funeral? It seems a little late for that. Or maybe she just wants to reconcile. Family emergencies can do that. I felt that way when my father got shot. Now that a few months are past, he’s just as big a bastard as ever. Emergency solved.”

  “I thought maybe it was something like that,” Hazard said. “Until I dug a little deeper. It turns out Linda Mercaldi is a late addition to the family. She married Marianne Laflamme about ten years ago.”

  “She’s Peyton’s step-mother?”

  “Exactly.”

  “God. No wonder their reunion didn’t look very friendly at first.”

  “I couldn’t find any record of who Peyton’s birth father is, but there’s no sign in the articles I read that he ever lived with Marianne Laflamme. It looks like the family went from mother and daughter to mother, daughter, and step-mother.”

  “You think there’s bad blood.”

  “You saw the two of them. They weren’t exactly a Hallmark family. More than that, though, I think there’s a problem with money.”

  Somers’s hand was warm in Hazard’s, his grip the right degree of firm—not uncomfortable, but pleasantly possessive. For a moment he was silent, and then he said, “Hollywood is a business town. Show business. Porn business. But still business. Do you think fading porn stars marry for love?”

  “They might.”

  “Or they might not. They might marry for a million different reasons. But if they marry, and if they’re smart enough that they’ve actually held on to some of their money, they probably aren’t going to let it go easily.”

  “And Marianne Laflamme was very smart.”

  “So she probably had a pre-nup when she got married. And she definitely had a will.”

  “The will is the more important document. We need to get our hands on it.”

  Somers ran his thumb along the back of Hazard’s hand. “But you think Marianne Laflamme left most of her money to Peyton.”

  “Maybe even all of it.”

  “And now Linda Mercaldi realizes the well might run dry if she doesn’t patch things up with her daughter. We can assume that Mercaldi hired a private investigator to find Peyton.”

  “It might have been Marianne, or even both of them. But they definitely would have tried to find her. That story about the million-dollar reward is bullshit, by the way. I found one mention of it, from about five or six years ago, and it wasn’t for a million dollars. It was for ten thousand.”

  “Rex Kolosik won’t be happy.” Somers frowned. “Although, to be honest, I didn’t get the sense he cared about the money. It was Peyton who kept talking about it.”

  “That’s a big part of her identity. She goes from being a crazy cult follower to a multi-millionaire overnight.”

  “But she wouldn’t know that, not unless she found out about her mother’s death.”

  As they reached the top of the next hill, the wind shifted. It ruffled the newly-green grass, cupped the heavy heads of crocus and daffodil, and carried with it the smell of fresh mulch. Hazard paused on the gravel path. “I think today wasn’t the first time Linda Mercaldi spoke to Peyton. I think she must have found her at the Waldens’ place and told her about the mother’s death.”

  “That was enough motivation for Peyton to leave the Waldens. But why go through the elaborate escape with Britney and Rex? Why didn’t she just pack her bags and get in Linda’s car? Or, more likely, on her motorcycle?”

  Hazard shook his head.

  “She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who does anything without a reason. She’s got this look about her, the way she watches people like she’s always trying to deal from the bottom of the deck.” Somers puffed his cheeks and then blew out a breath. “She wanted the attention.”

  “What?”

  “Think about it: it’s one thing if Peyton Laflamme is rescued from a cult by her step-mother. Sure, maybe she gets some local news attention. But it’s another thing if Peyton Laflamme escapes from a cult with a handsome young man and makes her way home on her own, only to find that her mother died while she was gone. She’s suddenly famous. She’s got a book deal, a Lifetime original movie, speaking events.”

  “You think she planned this with Linda?”

  Somers frowned. “I don’t know about that. Linda genuinely seemed upset about how things went at the station.”

  “What do you think about this?” Hazard said, producing the page he had printed before they left the station. “It was posted with the reward.”

  It was the photograph of a young girl, prepubescent, no older than twelve at the outside. She had dark hair cut in a severe bob, and she still had some of the chubbiness of childhood in her face and arms. She was what an older woman might have called precious: her features hinted at the possibility of a stern, serious beauty, maybe even something stellar—a promise that hadn’t been borne out as the young woman matured.