Even this many years later, Amos remained grateful that they had arrived late enough that Danielle’s sons were already in bed before they delivered the awful news. Nonetheless, he knew that their visit that night had forever changed the Reardon family’s approach to celebrating Halloween.

  Naturally Amos and Russ had put Luke Reardon under an investigatory microscope, but eventually they had cleared him. He and the boys had still been out trick-or-treating at the time of Danielle’s shooting, and several neighbors had time-stamped phone camera footage that verified his alibi. Detectives had also looked at current and former romantic partners of women who were clients and residents of Dahlke House, but they had never identified any viable suspects. Eventually the case went cold.

  “Hey, Cap,” Sergeant Toomey was saying. “Are you there?”

  Amos’s quiet moment of introspection had lasted long enough for the desk sergeant to think the call had been disconnected.

  “I’m still here,” Amos said quickly. “Sorry. Please text me the number. I’m outside clearing the sidewalk. I’ll make the call when I’m back inside.”

  Off the phone, Amos stuffed it back into his pocket and donned his gloves once more. Then he forced himself to finish the job—blowing the sidewalk from fence line to fence line before returning the blower to its pride-of-place storage spot in the garage. After that he methodically sprayed a layer of deicer on all three of the cleared surfaces. But the whole time he worked, he was wondering, Is this a real lead, or is it some kind of joke?

  He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but still.

  In the house Amos retreated to his den, where he closed the door before placing the call. He and Bonnie were expecting company for dinner that night. If this was something that would entail Amos’s going into the office on a Saturday, there’d be hell to pay. Still, he was relieved that when he finally did dial the number, a woman answered after only one ring.

  “Is this Ali Reynolds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Amos Anderson here with the St. Paul Police Department,” he said. “I understand you wanted to speak to me.”

  “I did, and I do. Thanks for calling back.”

  “I believe this concerns the murder of Danielle Lomax-Reardon? May I ask about your connection to the case? Do you happen to be a friend or relative?”

  As he asked the questions, Amos had pen and paper in hand and was ready to take notes.

  “No,” Ali replied, “I’m no friend or relation of any kind, but I may have a lead on her killer. Were you aware that Danielle was involved as a witness in a homicide that occurred in Pasadena, California, in 1997?”

  “Yes, I was,” Amos answered, surprising even himself at how many details of Danielle’s case he could recall off the top of his head. “I believe the homicide was a domestic, and Danielle was good friends with the victim. I’ve always assumed that the death of her friend had something to do with her ending up working with victims of domestic violence. That’s what she was doing here in St. Paul at the time of her death—running a shelter.”

  “I think her choosing to work with battered women had more to do with her own personal history than it did with what happened to Alysha Morgan,” Ali Reynolds asserted.

  That brought Amos up short. “Danielle a victim?” Amos objected. “We never found anything to corroborate those kinds of issues between Danielle and her husband.”

  “I wasn’t referring to Luke Reardon,” Ali said. “Does the name Frank Muñoz mean anything to you?”

  “Not that I remember,” Amos said. “I’m calling from home, so I don’t have access to any of my files, but that’s not a name I recognize. Who’s he? And how do you have access to all this information?”

  “Earlier this week my husband was on his way to Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix, Arizona, riding in a limo driven by a retired Pasadena police officer named Hal Holden. Someone deliberately veered into their vehicle and forced them off Interstate 17 north of Phoenix.”

  “Is your husband all right?” Amos asked quickly. “And how’s the driver?”

  “They were both seriously injured,” Ali answered. “My husband should be released later today. Hal remains on a ventilator. However, the two young men believed to be responsible for the wreck, Dante Cox and Tyrone Jackson, were later found shot to death in the desert outside Blythe, California. Those two homicides are being investigated by Detective Juanita Ochoa of the Riverside County Sheriff’s Office.”

  Amos continued to jot down notes, but he still had no idea where this was going.

  “The man in charge of the I-17 investigation, Captain Warren Biba of the Arizona Highway Patrol, has decided that my husband was the intended target, and he has focused his entire investigation on the idea that I’m the one responsible.”

  “Are you?” Amos asked. The question came out involuntarily, and he was surprised that Ali’s answer was preceded by a hint of laughter.

  “No, I’m not,” she said, “but if you’ll pardon my going all O. J. Simpson on you, I thought someone should go in search of the real killer by taking a look at Hal as the intended victim, and that’s what we’ve done.”

  Amos wanted to ask who she meant by using the word “we,” but the woman was still talking, and he didn’t want to interrupt.

  “By searching through online sources, we’ve discovered that Hal and his partner, Jack Littleton, were the lead investigators on the murder of a young woman named Alysha Morgan. Danielle, one of Alysha’s friends, was also an eyewitness to the shooting. She testified for the prosecution at the trial that sent Alysha’s killer, Zeke Woodward, to prison.”

  Amos felt his eyes beginning to glaze over. “This is all very interesting, Ms. Reynolds,” he said, “but I don’t see…”

  “Hold on,” she said. “I’m getting there. By searching through media sources involving those three names, we’ve learned that subsequent to that trial, an FBI investigation shut down the nightclub where both Danielle and Alysha had once been employed, and that’s where we encountered Frank Muñoz.

  “At the time of Alysha’s murder, he was an eleven-year veteran of Pasadena PD and a regular customer at the nightclub. He was later swept up in the FBI operation and arrested on charges of police corruption, money laundering, and obstruction of justice, among others. Hal Holden, Jack Littleton, and Danielle Lomax all testified against him during grand jury proceedings. They were scheduled to testify against him at trial, but he pled guilty and went to prison. However, during her grand jury testimony, Danielle admitted to having carried on a long-term relationship with the defendant.

  “Since the car wreck on Wednesday,” Ali continued, “here’s what we’ve learned. A couple of months ago Jack Littleton died of a single gunshot wound to the head in his home in Pasadena. Word on the street is that he committed suicide, but the ME ruled his manner of death as undetermined. As you know, Danielle Lomax-Reardon is also deceased. Hal Holden is on a ventilator, and, as of yesterday morning, the house belonging to Frank Muñoz’s ex-wife, Sylvia Rogers, burned to the ground in the aftermath of a fire bombing in Beaverton, Oregon. The ex-wife wasn’t injured by the bomb, but she was hospitalized with a heart attack.”

  Amos started to ask a question, but Ali plunged on.

  “A little while ago, I spoke with a man named Zeke Woodward.”

  “That would be Alysha’s convicted killer,” Amos supplied.

  “Correct,” Ali responded. “He’s out of prison now on compassionate release due to a case of terminal lung cancer. He told us that when Danielle was involved with Muñoz, she was also a victim of domestic violence.”

  At long last, finished with her recitation, Ali fell silent. It was several seconds before Amos said anything more. “Where exactly is this Frank Muñoz right now?” he asked.

  “After serving sixteen of a twenty-five-year-to-life sentence in the Lompoc Federal Correctional Complex, he’s now out on parole and living in Las Vegas, Nevada.”

  “When did he get out?”

  “November of last year.”

  “Danielle died close to three years ago,” Amos objected. “Since he was still in prison back then, how could he be responsible for that?”

  “We believe he may have obtained the services of a murder-for-hire operation.”

  “Wouldn’t that require substantial amounts of money,” Amos asked. “How could a recently released ex-con afford it?”

  “I don’t know,” Ali answered. “My researchers and I have only been able to examine public documents. We don’t have a way to examine his financials.”

  “Do you happen to know the name of the person handling the bombing investigation?”

  “No, but I can get it.”

  “And who was assigned to the Jack Littleton case?”

  “I’ll get that name for you, too.”

  “Text the information to this number, along with the name of the guy from the Arizona Highway Patrol who has you in his crosshairs.”

  “I will,” Ali said. Then, after a slight hesitation, she added, “You probably shouldn’t mention to Warren Biba that you’ve spoken to me.”

  “Do you think?” he asked. “Not my first rodeo, you know. And while you’re at it, feel free to send along anything else that turns up on your end.”

  “I will,” Ali said, “but there is one more thing. We’ve heard a rumor that Muñoz may be planning to leave the country sometime in the near future.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” Amos declared. “I always say, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it probably is a duck. You’ve made a pretty good case here that this Muñoz character is a dangerous individual. He may or may not be a serial killer, but I can sure as hell make sure he doesn’t leave the country until we’re certain about that.”

  Amos hung up the phone, then he folded the paper containing his notes and stuffed it in his pants pocket. He was on fire. Every instinct in his body was screaming that Ali Reynolds was onto something. This wasn’t just a lead. Frank Muñoz was potentially prime-suspect material, but in order to verify any of this, he needed to be at the office making official inquiries from an official phone.

  With that, he lunged out of his chair and went looking for Bonnie. She was in the kitchen, already working on dessert for the night’s dinner.

  “We’ve caught a case,” he said. He didn’t tell her it was an old one.

  “Dinner is at six,” she warned him. “If you’re not home on time tonight, St. Paul PD’s Homicide Unit will have another case to work. Got it?”

  “Got it,” he said. “I hear you loud and clear.”

  CHAPTER 42

  SEDONA, ARIZONA

  Saturday, January 4, 2020, 10:00 a.m. (MST)

  When Ali got off the phone with Amos Anderson, she didn’t do a happy dance, but it was a near thing. With the exception of the so-called rumor about Muñoz possibly making a run for it, she believed she’d said nothing that could lead back to Frigg. And it sounded as though she’d gotten through to the man—as though he was determined to do something about all this. From the way he’d instantly recalled the details of Danielle’s investigation, that unsolved homicide was something that had stayed with him.

  Ali didn’t have the phone numbers Amos had requested readily at hand, so she called Frigg, got the needed numbers, and texted them to him. Then she finally finished getting dressed. B. called while she was still in the bathroom.

  “Release is supposed to be sometime around noon,” he informed her.

  “I’m almost on my way,” she told him. “I’m just putting on makeup.”

  “Drive safe,” he said.

  She was slipping on her shoes when the doorbell rang and Bella began to bark. Since Alonzo was there, she didn’t bother to answer it, but then he appeared in the bedroom doorway a moment later.

  “Two cops are at the door,” he said. “Two detectives, Julie Morris and Steven Flack. They want to speak to you.”

  “Time for Warren Biba’s engraved invitation,” she muttered under her breath as she followed Alonzo back to the front door. Bella was still barking, and Alonzo collected the dog on his way past.

  “May I help you?” Ali asked the two people standing there. It was cold on the front porch, but this wasn’t a social call, and she didn’t invite them in.

  “We’d like to ask you to come down to headquarters in Prescott for an interview.”

  “A voluntary interview?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Detective Morris said.

  “Then I’m choosing not to come,” Ali replied. “My husband is being released from the hospital today, and I need to go pick him up. Furthermore, I have no intention of speaking to anyone without my attorney present. We’ll need to set up an appointment in advance in order to make that happen.”

  “But…” Detective Flack began.

  “No buts,” Ali said. “I’ve told you I want my attorney in attendance, so unless you’re placing me under arrest, we’re done here.”

  With that, she closed the door and left them standing there.

  Since Warren Biba obviously believed Ali to be a murderous bitch, she might just as well act like one.

  CHAPTER 43

  ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA

  Saturday, January 4, 2020, 12:00 p.m. (CST)

  On his way to the department, Amos called Detective Thomas. “Don’t tell me I’ve caught a case,” Russ said. “It’s Saturday. I’m supposed to be off this weekend.”

  “We have caught a case and you won’t believe which one. We have a brand-new suspect in the Danielle Lomax-Reardon homicide.”

  “No shit!”

  “No shit. Get your ass into the office. We’ve got work to do.”

  “My kid’s playing hockey right now, but I’ll call my wife to come get him. I’ll be there in twenty.”

  The roads had been plowed, and there wasn’t much traffic. People were staying home. During the drive, Amos prioritized how to handle all the cases. Naturally homicides—Danielle’s and the maybe/maybe not homocide of Jack Littleton—went to the top. Third would be the bombing in Oregon. The vehicular homicide attempt would come in last, and Amos would talk to Warren Biba when he was damned good and ready.

  Having decided on how they’d organize the cases, Amos sorted out how he and Russ would share the wealth when it came to making phone calls, but before making any calls, Amos needed to learn everything he could about Frank Muñoz, starting with his current location and the name and phone numbers of his parole officer. If Muñoz was planning on leaving town, his PO either knew about that or didn’t. Amos needed to know which was which.

  As a high school kid enchanted with all things Star Wars, Amos Anderson had dreamed of becoming the next George Lucas. With that in mind, he had persuaded his folks to cough up enough money to send him to a two-week-long fine arts summer camp in Green Bay, Wisconsin. The short film he and his team members had produced had been dreadful, and Amos had learned that making movies was far harder than it looked. As a result, by the time he enrolled in college, Hollywood and moviemaking no longer beckoned. Entering his junior year, Amos declared himself a criminal justice major and began the journey of becoming a cop.

  But one part of that long-ago fine arts experience remained. Amos’s screenwriting coach had been a true believer in storyboards. As a detective, Amos had gone through an endless supply of three-by-five cards to get the job done. Whenever he was deeply involved in an investigation, he’d lay cards out on the dining room table in order to visualize how people and events were somehow connected.

  Now, as captain, cards on tabletops were blessedly a thing of the past. Against one wall in his office, where his predecessor had kept a display of his awards and honors, Amos kept a movable bulletin board that he used for casual announcements and reminders, along with an ever-changing gallery of cartoons culled from local newspapers. On the other side, the private side, was a whiteboard. He used that in the dark of night when he drew diagrams to help guys in his unit sort their way through knotty cases.

  Even before Russell Thomas arrived that morning, Amos had already deployed the whiteboard. Across the top in bold all-caps he had written the name FRANK MUÑOZ. On the next line down were the names of all the people presumed to be Muñoz’s likely targets and potential victims: Danielle Lomax-Reardon, Jack Littleton, Hal Holden, and Sylvia Rogers. Under three of those were the names and phone numbers of the applicable investigators. Someone in Records had tracked down a copy of Jack Littleton’s autopsy. Under his name were two separate listings—Ray Hollingsworth, the Pasadena PD detective assigned to the case, and Dr. Loren Sanderson, the current head of the Los Angeles County Department of Medical Examiner-Coroner. Off in the lower right-hand corner of the board were the names Dante Cox and Tyrone Jackson. Amos was sure they were part of all this. As of yet, however, there was no way to tell how or why.

  When Russell showed up, Amos was on the line with someone inside the federal penal system who was able to give him the name and phone number for Frank Muñoz’s parole officer—Miriam Baxter. Amos dialed her number as soon as he had it, but his call went straight to voice mail: “This is Miriam Baxter. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial nine-one-one. In the meantime, I am out of the office on personal business until Monday, January sixth. You’re welcome to leave a message, but I won’t be able to return your call until I’m back in the office.”

  Amos left a message anyway. “My name is Amos Anderson, captain of the homicide unit at St. Paul PD in St. Paul, Minnesota. One of your parolees, Frank Muñoz, has surfaced as a possible person of interest in one of our cold cases. Please give me a call at your earliest convenience.”

  “Who’s Frank Muñoz?” Russ asked.

  “Turns out he was Danielle’s abusive boyfriend back when she was living in California and long before she came to St. Paul and married Luke Reardon.”