Sherwood sat at his desk, cradling the phone. He looked at the number he had scribbled on his pad, conflicted. It was the number of an out-of-state detective someone in the sheriff’s department had known. He leaned back and looked at the mountain outside his window, hesitating before he dialed.
He glanced at the photograph of his wife on the credenza.
Dorrie, you’d probably say I was crazy for doing this, wouldn’t you?
No. Sherwood chuckled to himself. She would not.
What she would say was, God’s given you a second chance, Don, so why not use it, right?
He had this job courtesy of a friend in the sheriff’s department. Mostly in recognition of what he’d put in for the past twenty-five years. And he was good at it. Usually, no one was down his back. He didn’t have to solve murders anymore, just figure out if they warranted solving. And pass it along. He didn’t have to beat the leather all around town—chase suspects, appear in court, buck up against the state authorities. Or put himself at risk . . .
The press didn’t get on his back, making life miserable.
It was a nice, stress-free existence, a way to end his career. And he was lucky it came his way. After he’d gotten sick, the position had opened up. Perokis, his lieutenant, always gave him a lot of space. He’d earned a certain respect. He did his work; cases got disposed of; the files went down. And like clockwork, others always came.
Then this one. He didn’t have to get deeper involved.
It was just that this nagging voice had been needling him over the past week—telling him that maybe he hadn’t done all he could. Maybe there was something there, these threads of doubt knitting together. Now the voice had turned into a jabbing presence in his mind.
Dorrie’s voice.
And what had happened to the doctor last night only intensified the voices even more.
He stared at the mountain.
What if Erlich was right? What if Zorn’s murder was connected? What if he had known something he was trying to share? Warn them. What if the “eyes” did mean something? What if Susan Pollack was the woman the street vendor had seen?
He rubbed his jaw—the joint felt like someone was sticking a needle in it. It was telling him to back off. He had already turned this case over. Let the solved cases be.
No, he knew, it wasn’t saying that at all.
He glanced at Dorrie. God gave me a second chance, huh?
It was saying, Use it.
He chuckled, cradling the phone against his shoulder, and punched in the number. So how come it feels like my last?
After a few seconds, someone picked up on the other end.
“Meachem,” the voice said. “Las Vegas Homicide.”
“Detective Meachem, my name is Don Sherwood. I’m a detective with the coroner’s office of San Luis Obispo County. In California.”
“San Luis Obispo? I’ve got a sister up there. She works at the college. What can I do for you, detective?”
“I need a favor, if you can. You had a floater a while back. Name of Greenway, Thomas. He was found facedown in his pool. Ruled a suicide. It does go back a ways.”
“Greenway?” Meachem seemed to be writing down the name. “How long?”
“Eighty-eight,” Sherwood said.
“I didn’t say how old. I meant how long ago.”
“Nineteen eighty-eight,” Sherwood said again, awaiting the response.
“You must be kidding,” the Las Vegas detective said after a long pause.
“No, I’m not kidding,” Sherwood said, turning away from his wife’s gaze. “I know it’s been a while, but I need to take a look at that file.”