Say Goodbye (Sacramento Series, The Book 3)

Liza put her phone on Irina’s kitchen table and picked up her fork, avoiding the older woman’s eyes as she focused on the plate of eggs and bacon in front of her. Irina had seen the look on her face when she’d knocked on the front door that morning and insisted that she eat.

“Well,” Irina said, “that explains the boxes in your car. You’re moving out of Tom’s place?”

“I’m moving out of the side of the duplex that I’ve been renting from Tom,” she corrected, grateful that it was only the two of them in the homey quiet of Irina’s kitchen. She couldn’t have handled all of the Sokolovs that morning.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really. Unless you know someone who’s looking to rent in a family-oriented neighborhood. Plenty of room for kids to run in the backyard.”

Not that she’d dreamed about kids of her own.

Of course she had. God, I was so stupid. Tom had lost his child with Tory, and Liza had dreamed of giving him the family he’d always wanted. But he didn’t think of her like that.

You didn’t feel the same way.

No. I didn’t.

“No, but you can post it on a realty site and we can put out some feelers.”

“I appreciate it. I’m also looking for a job. Just until school starts in July.”

Irina’s brows lifted. “I thought you were going to take a holiday.”

“Not now,” Liza murmured. “My job at the veterans’ home was only as a fill-in for a woman on maternity leave, so going back there isn’t an option. I checked the want ads last night but didn’t find anything.”

She’d done a lot of things last night, because sleep had eluded her. She’d scoured the want ads, updated her résumé, gathered her letters of recommendation, and packed up her belongings.

“I know some people I can ask,” Irina said. “There’s always a demand for nursing assistants. Can you send me your résumé?”

“I have it with me.” Liza retrieved her résumé and letters of recommendation from her handbag and slid them across the table so that Irina could examine them.

“Impressive. Coupled with your military service, you’ll have no trouble getting work.”

“That’s what my nursing school advisor said. She was also army, back in the day, and helped me with financial aid for school and helped me find a job in the interim. She also helped me get my CNA license, all before my discharge was effective.”

“Have you called her yet?”

“I plan to, later today.” She’d be able to call on the drive to her tattoo appointment. The sketch was also in her handbag, carefully folded, just in case Sergio Iglesias was a nice guy and didn’t throw her out after she asked him about the Eden tattoo.

She’d already texted Daisy to ask the woman to accompany her and gotten a “Hell, yeah” reply. Which presented another problem.

“Can I store my boxes in your garage? Just for today. I need to go somewhere with Daisy and she won’t fit in my car right now.”

Irina nodded. “Where will you go?”

“With Daisy?”

“No. Well, yes, but I meant where will you live now that you’ve moved out?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find a hotel for a few days while I look for a place. Just temporarily,” she added hastily when Irina opened her mouth to speak. “I may be able to get a place in the dorm for the upcoming semester.”

“You will stay here,” Irina declared, her mouth set stubbornly.

“I will not stay here,” Liza replied, calmly sipping her tea.

“With Sasha, then.” Sasha was Irina’s second-youngest daughter and lived in the house that Rafe had converted into apartments. Amos and Abigail lived on the top floor, Sasha on the middle, and Rafe and Mercy on the ground floor.

“Nope,” Liza said with a smile to soften the refusal. “She and Erin are in the gooey and sweet phase at the moment and I won’t impose. Right now, I need my own space.”

Irina nodded, resigned. “I understand. If you won’t live here or with Sasha, will you let me find you a place in a safe neighborhood until your school begins?”

Liza’s smile felt wobbly. “Yes. Thank you. I can’t be picky right now, but if the rent is affordable, I’d be grateful. That would be one thing I wouldn’t have to worry about.”

Irina released her hand but didn’t move away, instead resting her chin on her fist, creating an air of companionable commiseration. “What else do you worry about?”

Liza was literally saved by the bell when the front door opened, making an alarm beep. That was new. “You have a new alarm?”

“No. I just set it to beep when anyone enters or leaves the house. I didn’t ground Zoya for driving to San Francisco with Jeff yesterday morning, because her heart was in the right place and she is a safe driver. But I don’t like the idea of her being able to sneak out, either.”

“My mom would have loved you,” Liza said with a genuine smile, and then she turned to embrace the child flying into her arms. “Miss Abigail! Good morning!”

“Morning, Liza! Morning, Miss Irina,” Abigail added, her smile sunny. “Is there breakfast?”

“Abigail,” Amos chided. He’d followed Abigail at a more sedate pace. “Don’t be rude.”

Abigail sighed. “Sorry, Papa.”

“It is okay, lubimaya,” Irina said. “You want some eggs? Or pancakes?”

Abigail looked undecided. “Both?”

Irina chuckled. “Wash your hands and set the table for you and your papa.”

“Karl and Zoya, too?” Abigail asked.

“No, they’re already gone.” Irina turned to Amos. “Is Mercy coming?”

He shook his head. “No. She’s staying with Rafe today. She said she’d do Abigail’s science lesson with her this afternoon back at our house.”

Abigail sobered. “It’s because of Brother DJ. Rafe is afraid she’ll be hurt. Mercy said that she’d stay to keep Rafe happy. And to bake me some cookies.” She sidled up to Liza. “I brought my book. See?” She produced a copy of Who Was Sally Ride? from her book bag.

“And we will read it after breakfast,” Liza promised, hugging her. “You have your orders, Private,” she barked, pretending to be a commanding officer. “Wash hands. Set table. Go.”

Abigail saluted, giggling when she accidentally poked her eye. “Yes, sir!”

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 9:45 A.M.

DJ slowly drove up and down the streets of the Sokolovs’ neighborhood, searching for the best surveillance angle. He wasn’t going to park here like he’d done the morning before.

This seemed like exactly the kind of place that would have an intrusive neighborhood watch program that might notice his truck parked for hours a second time. He’d already killed Mrs. Ellis for spying on him. He didn’t want to kill anyone else.

Not that he minded killing people. He’d gotten very good at it. But a trail of dead bodies would be like a neon sign indicating his movements. Cops had forensics, and those were the guys who made him nervous. They already had his prints and his face. He wasn’t going to telegraph his plans by leaving a bunch of dead bodies.

After breakfast with Coleen, DJ had taken her to the rehab center, where they’d gotten the welcome spiel, including the level of care Pastor would be receiving and all the security features the place provided. The facility and its grounds were surrounded by a wrought iron fence. The gate was activated by key card and every staff member was vetted. Families were offered wigs and other disguises so that they could visit undetected. Security cameras were placed everywhere. Halls and common areas were monitored twenty-four-seven. Cameras in the patients’ rooms were only monitored by request or if there was a disturbance.

Which had made DJ think of Kowalski and all the cameras the bastard had installed in both his house and Mrs. Ellis’s. And had prompted his early-morning visit to Walmart.

He’d taken a calculated risk going into the big store. He figured that the cops might have his face from a surveillance tape of his botched roof job the morning before, but nothing had shown up online. So maybe the office building hadn’t had a security camera and he’d worried for nothing. Even if they had one, they hadn’t posted footage in the media, so it was unlikely that anyone inside would recognize him.

If they had, his handgun was holstered under his jacket. Luckily no one had and he’d been left alone to shop. There were more eyes watching the electronics aisle, so he’d chosen the baby supply aisle instead. Baby monitors came with cameras, and cameras were what he needed. He’d bought one that had a video recording feature, paid cash, and walked out without a single raised eyebrow.

Now he needed to find the proper place to set up the camera. There was no rain in the forecast, so even though the unit wasn’t waterproof, it would be okay for a few days.

He stopped the truck in front of the house he’d deemed to have the best view. It wasn’t across the street from the Sokolovs, unfortunately. Ephraim had tried that, a fact included in the media coverage DJ had read while waiting for Pastor’s surgery to be over. He’d also read that the homeowner had been saved by his daughter, who’d declared that she’d had extra security installed, so sitting too close to the Sokolovs’ house was not an option.

Some assholes spoil it for the rest of us.

The house DJ had chosen was behind and to the right of the Sokolovs’. There was a gap in the trees, through which the street just beyond the Sokolovs’ house was visible. A camera wouldn’t capture the activities of individuals, but it would capture vehicles and license plates.

Getting out of his truck, he double-checked the magnetic sign he’d applied to the driver’s door. Today he was posing as a contractor for PG&E.

Nobody questioned the presence of the utility company.

He crossed the homeowner’s back lawn, along the man’s eight-foot privacy fence, looking for the best spot for the baby monitor camera. It was light pink and would show up if he mounted it to the fence itself. But if he mounted it to one of the trees, he might be able to camouflage it with leaves.

He chose the tree and went down on one knee, laying out his tools, cursing his left arm, which still hung in the sling. Even though he’d developed the dexterity of his right hand, it was still his less dominant and clumsier. This injury made everything take longer.

“Hey! You there!”

DJ stilled. Fucking hell. Slowly he rose, tugging on the brim of his ball cap to hide his face. A man in his sixties stood near the fence, scowling. He’d either come from the house or just been walking down the street, paying attention to things not his business.

Damn neighborhood watchers.

“Good morning, sir,” DJ said pleasantly.

The man’s scowl slipped a little. “What are you doing?”

“I work for PG&E. We’re monitoring the moisture level of the soil. Dry spots are tinder for wildfires.” Kowalski had taught him that spiel as well.

“Okay.” The man took a step forward, then stopped. “But that looks like a camera to me.”

“It monitors temperature and moisture content,” DJ explained, calm on the outside, but inside he was starting to worry.

“So you say. Looks like a camera to me. Maybe I should call your manager.” The man’s chin lifted slightly. “Or even the police.”

For fuck’s sake. Really? It appeared he might have to kill the man after all.

“Whoa, whoa.” DJ took a step closer. “No need for that. I’ll give you my number and you can call my boss.” Of course the number was a fake and the man would probably end up talking to a contractor in L.A. who’d tell him he had the wrong number. But by then, DJ would be gone.

“No. I’m going to call the police.” The man took out his cell phone and stared into the screen, unlocking it.

Sighing, DJ took out his gun. Of course it wouldn’t be simple.

The man took a step back, wide-eyed. “What the hell?”

DJ approached the man slowly. “Drop the phone.”

“I knew it,” he hissed. “I called the cops already. They’re on their way.”

But he was clearly lying. The color had drained from his face and he was twitchy.

“Drop the phone,” DJ repeated.

The man dropped the phone. Slipping his left arm from the sling, DJ managed to grab the phone while holding his gun on the trembling man. The phone was still unlocked and he confirmed that no outgoing calls had been made.

“I wish you’d just accepted that I was from PG&E. Give me your wallet.”

Shaking, the man tossed his wallet to the ground. DJ fumbled with it, dropping his gaze only long enough to see the man’s name and address. Sure enough, the man lived in the house behind the fence.

“Let’s go home, Mr. Smythe,” he said, gesturing with his gun. “Don’t make a scene and you’ll live to see another day. This gun has a silencer and I will drop you where you stand.”

Nelson Smythe obeyed. “What are you going to do to me?”

“I’ll tie you up until I can get away—if you cooperate. Make a fuss and you’re dead. Got it?” They entered Smythe’s backyard through a door in the fence. “Are you home alone?”

Smythe nodded again. “My wife is out of town until next week,” he stammered. “I won’t report you, I swear. Take my phone, my car, my money. Just don’t tie me up. Nobody will find me. I’ll die.”

“Fine. Show me your car.”

Body sagging in relief, Smythe led him into the garage, where a Lexus was parked. More importantly, there was a chest freezer up against the far wall.

“Stand next to the freezer,” DJ commanded, and Smythe obeyed. “Now open it. I want to see what you have stored inside.”

Frown deepening, Smythe lifted the freezer lid. “It’s just frozen meat and—”

DJ fired, hitting Smythe right between the eyes. He used the backward momentum to push with his right shoulder, toppling the man into the freezer, where there was just enough room for him. DJ fired again, just to make sure.

Kowalski had taught him that, too. He’d learned more from Kowalski than he’d thought.

Holstering his gun, DJ checked Smythe’s pockets, finding an engraved lighter, a half-smoked pack of Lucky Strikes, and the keys to the Lexus.

Excellent in more ways than one. DJ hadn’t had a smoke in over a month and he’d missed it. He lit up a cigarette and inhaled, feeling his body relax. Now that Smythe was taken care of, he’d finish mounting the camera on the tree outside and get out of here.

Or . . . if the house was truly empty until Mrs. Smythe returned, he could hole up here.

Like Ephraim did in the house across from the Sokolovs?

Well, shit. Except DJ knew there was a wife who’d be arriving home at some point. If he could keep track of the wife’s movements, it could work. For a day or two, at least.

He looked at Smythe’s phone and cursed. It was locked again. But . . . Examining the phone’s make and model, he was encouraged. Some of those phones had a major glitch—the facial recognition software worked even when the phone owner was asleep, unconscious, or even dead.

This, he’d determined on his own and had shared with Kowalski. Kowalski had been very pleased to learn this tidbit.

DJ held the phone screen over Nelson Smythe’s face and, bingo, the phone unlocked. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but he could at least find the wife’s texts and Facebook and figure out where she was. As long as she wasn’t headed to this house anytime soon, it could work.

He scrolled through the man’s phone. She’d gone to her daughter’s house. She’d been gone for a week and would stay through Memorial Day, returning home on Tuesday.

DJ was always mildly surprised when holidays like Memorial Day happened. Only Christmas and Easter were celebrated in Eden. All of the other holidays were either ignored or reviled. Valentine’s Day was ignored. Halloween, the devil’s day, was reviled. Fourth of July was also reviled, as it celebrated the government. Which Pastor said was evil.

It was the best way to frighten and manipulate his congregation.

Why are we moving? The government is coming. They destroyed the Branch Davidians. They will destroy us, too.

He’d believed Pastor’s words until he was seventeen. Until DJ had killed his father and taken over as Eden’s shopper. One glimpse at the real world and DJ had known Pastor’s lies for what they were.

But he still didn’t buy into the holidays. They were only good because sales of narcotics skyrocketed over long holiday weekends.

He’d take Memorial Day, though, if it meant he had the house through Monday. It wasn’t like he planned to stay forever anyway. Just until he could figure out where Mercy was living.

The Smythes appeared to communicate through texts. There had been no calls between them, either incoming or outgoing, which was encouraging. It was less likely that the wife would be worried if her calls went unanswered, and as long as the dead man’s face continued to unlock his phone screen, DJ could text back, keeping her from becoming suspicious.

Closing the freezer lid, he scouted every room in the house and found it unoccupied. The spare room was filled with sewing equipment, but it had a twin bed—and a view of the street he’d wanted to monitor in the first place. He could put the camera in the window and not worry about anyone else finding it.

Exhausted from all the driving the night before, DJ was tempted to take a nap, but he needed to get the camera from outside. Once it was in place, he could finally sleep.

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 10:30 A.M.

“This is fantastic work, Hunter,” Croft said as Tom drove them across town. She was studying Pastor’s medical file on her phone. “Looks like he took either a beating or a fall.”

Tom wished he had an ounce of her enthusiasm, but all he could think about was Liza’s empty closets. And how he’d yelled at her when that was the last thing he’d wanted to do.

Rob Winters had been a yeller. God, don’t let me be like him. Please.

Tom thought he’d rather be dead than have an iota of his father’s personality. But genetics were a bitch sometimes.

I’ll go to Irina’s as soon as I have a break. I’ll take Liza flowers. She liked bright, happy flowers. He had to make this right.

“Hunter.” Croft sounded annoyed. “Are you even listening to me?”

Tom realized that he’d completely missed what she’d said. “I’m sorry. My mind wandered.”

“To the moon,” Croft confirmed. “Are you okay?”

Nope. “Of course. I was thinking about the employee file.” Raeburn had announced in the morning meeting that they wouldn’t be storming the Sunnyside rehab center, but that they’d be focusing on recording conversations between Pastor and DJ while Pastor was recuperating. The mission was first to find Eden, then to punish those who’d committed crimes against its people. Raeburn had made it sound like it was all his own idea, but Tom wasn’t going to call him on it. As long as they got eyes and ears inside, Tom was on board.

“Did you find anyone who might turn informant?”

“Maybe. I gave the list to Raeburn with a few recommendations.” Raeburn was hoping to find someone who could be pressured to plant a few bugs in Pastor’s hospital room and to keep tabs on DJ.

“Don’t worry,” Croft said quietly. “Raeburn may be a jackass on a personal level, but he’s a good agent. If he said he won’t raid the rehab center, then he won’t.”

Tom managed a smile, both grateful and a little irritated that Croft read him so well. “What’s this tattoo artist’s name again?” he asked, changing the subject. “Your top pick, I mean.”

They were headed to a tattoo parlor in Natomas. Croft’s source had never seen DJ Belmont or anyone with the Chicos gang tat but had recognized the style. They now had the names of a few possible tattoo artists and were following up on the most likely offender.

“Dixie Serratt. She’s on parole, by the way, so if she did the Chicos tats or knows who did, she might be persuaded to tell us.”

“Excellent.”

They were silent for a time, and then Croft sighed. “If you’re in a bad headspace right now, I need to know. We don’t know what we’re walking into. If you’re not sharp, you need to say so.”

Tom wanted to punch himself in the face. Liza deserved better than his anger, and Croft deserved a partner who had her back. “I’m good. Read me Dixie Serratt’s rap sheet.”

Croft complied, and hearing the severity and breadth of Dixie’s crimes helped Tom’s focus more than anything else. The fifty-five-year-old woman had committed everything from manslaughter and kidnapping to petty theft. There was a vehicular homicide in there, too.

“She’s a bad motherfucker,” Tom commented as they stopped outside Dixie’s studio.

“She really is. I’m glad you’re not a person who thinks that women can’t be evil.”

“Oh, I know they can. My aunt Dana had a female serial killer terrorize her women’s shelter, back when I was a teenager. That woman had no soul. She burned our house down and even hit my mother with a car, trying to kill her.”

“Oh my God! Was your mother okay?”

“Yes, thankfully. My mom is pretty resilient. You ready to talk to Dixie?”

“I’m ready to try. She may not talk to us if she’s been doing tats for the Chicos, as it would be a violation of her parole, but hopefully she’ll let something useful slip.”

The inside of the studio was what Tom expected. He’d never gotten a tattoo himself but had accompanied Liza when she’d gotten hers. This place was clean and the buzzing sound of the needles was almost soothing.

Behind the counter stood a man wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt and a paisley tie. Both forearms bore colorful sleeves. “Can I help you?” he asked, giving them a suspicious look.

“We’re here to see Dixie Serratt,” Croft said, without showing her badge.

The man sighed. “Dixie!” he called. “You got POs here again.” He looked back at them with a mild sneer. “You people just won’t leave her alone, will you?”

A tiny woman with tats covering nearly every inch of skin appeared from the back of the shop. “What?” she asked rudely. “Who are you? What happened to O’Leary?”

“We’re not parole officers,” Croft said. “I’m Special Agent Croft and this is Special Agent Hunter. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

Tom was watching Dixie carefully. She’d stiffened, her expression briefly telegraphing that she was considering running.

Croft tilted her head toward Tom. “He’ll just chase you, Miss Serratt. And he’s young enough and his legs are long enough to catch you.”

Dixie drew a breath and let it out. “Fine. We’re just talking, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tom said. Unless you’ve done something illegal.

“Then come with me.” They followed her to one of the unoccupied rooms, where she gestured at the two chairs.

Croft sat, the picture of calm. Tom sat, kind of wishing that Dixie had run. He had a lot of pent-up energy he would have liked to expel.

“Chinese Cobras, also known as Chicos,” Croft said, and Dixie flinched.

“You don’t start out throwin’ softballs, do you, lady? I don’t have nothin’ to do with them.”

“But you have,” Tom said. “In the past?”

“In the far past,” Dixie claimed. “Way far. I got nothin’ for you guys.” She was halfway to the curtain separating the room from the hallway when Croft stopped her in her tracks.

“You are required to cooperate with law enforcement, Miss Serratt. Otherwise you’re violating your parole. We’d appreciate your help.”

Dixie turned to confront them, face hard and fists clenched harder. “Right. Like I have a fuckin’ choice.” She rolled her eyes but plopped down on a stool.

Croft pulled a photo of DJ Belmont from her pocket. It was the still Tom had printed from the office building surveillance video. “This guy. You seen him?”

Dixie snatched the photo and peered down at it. Tom could see the moment that she recognized DJ’s face. And that she briefly considered denying that recognition. “Yeah.” She returned the photo to Croft and settled herself in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

Croft just smiled, unperturbed. “When did you first see him?”

“The night I did his tat.”

Tom noted it on his tablet. “When was that, ma’am?”

“You can cut the ‘ma’am’ bullshit, buddy. You think you can butter me up?”

Tom didn’t rise to the bait. “When was that, ma’am?” he repeated.

Dixie’s shoulders slumped. “Has to have been at least five years. I don’t know his name, so don’t ask. They paid cash, so don’t ask about receipts, either.”

“Five years is a long time ago,” Croft remarked. “Was there something about him that made you recall his face after so much time?”

Dixie looked away, but not before a spark of fear flickered in her eyes.

“Did he hurt you, ma’am?” Tom asked kindly. “Or threaten you?”

“No,” Dixie said, but too quickly. “I didn’t want to do the tat. I was done with that life. But he’d been sent by his boss and he wasn’t leaving until he got one. It was some kind of initiation thing, I think.” She swallowed. “I didn’t want to do it.”

“But he forced you to,” Croft said sympathetically.

Dixie simply shook her head, making it clear she’d said all she would on the topic.

“You mentioned this man’s boss,” Tom said. “Who was he?”

Dixie paled, shaking her head harder. “Haul me in for breaking parole if you want to. I’ll be safer back in prison.”

Croft frowned, holding up DJ’s photo. “Are you afraid of this man or his boss?”

“Both.” The word was barely audible. Her skin had grown sweaty, her fear palpable. “Mostly his boss.”

“What did he do?” Tom asked.

She held out her arms wordlessly. Tattooed vines covered her skin, but there were areas where the ink hadn’t taken as well. Scars. Round, about a centimeter in diameter.

Tom’s stomach roiled, because he recognized those scars. He had several. His biological father had given them to him, trying to make Tom into a man. He’d been six years old. He could still smell the tobacco. And the burning skin.

Someone had held Dixie Serratt down and burned her skin with cigarettes. He found himself unable to speak and was grateful when Croft stepped in.

“This boss person did this to you?” she asked. “With cigarettes?”

“Yeah, because I didn’t want to do any more tats for his boys. The next time one of his boys came in, I said yes.”

Tom blew out a breath, trying to get hold of himself. “Can you tell us anything about him?”

Dixie’s eyes narrowed, like she saw his reaction and understood. “No. He’s a big deal in these parts. Dig into the Chicos and his name will come up. Talk to the high school kids. They know the dealers. The dealers know him.”

“Thank you,” Tom said, somehow keeping his voice level.

“When was the last tat you did for them?” Croft asked.

“Three years ago. Right before I went in again.” She grimaced. “I drove when I was high. My fault.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out an NA chip. “Two years sober. I’m trying to get my life right, but I draw the line at having my throat slit or getting a needle full of heart medicine.”

Tom’s eyes widened and Dixie’s slammed shut.

“Shit,” she muttered, covering her face with her hands. “I’m done talking to you. Please go.”

Croft glanced over at him, then gestured at the curtain with a tilt of her head. “Thank you, Miss Serratt. We’ll leave our cards here on the table. If you think of anything else or receive any threats from the Chicos or their associates, please call. We’ll see ourselves out.”

Tom waited until they were both in the SUV to lean his head back and close his eyes. “Fucking hell,” he whispered.

“You gonna tell me what got you going in there?” Croft asked.

“My biological father was abusive. I know what it feels like to get those scars.”

“Ah, shit, Hunter,” Croft murmured. “Good to know. For what it’s worth, you rallied well. So. You believed her?”

“I did. She’s no angel, but I don’t think she was lying today. I didn’t want to force her to talk. Felt like we wouldn’t have anywhere to go in the future if we shoved her over the edge.”

“Good instincts. I was in the same place. At least now we can confirm that DJ has a Chicos tat, like the little girl described. If we can track down other gang members, we might be able to find out where he’s hiding.”

The mention of Abigail made Tom think of Liza. Not now. “Where to?”

“The local precinct. They might know where the Chicos hang out. I agree with waiting to grab both DJ and Pastor until we know where Eden is, but we need to keep tabs on DJ until then. Mercy’s life depends on it.”

“We’re one hundred percent on the same page.” Tom had put the SUV into gear when his work phone buzzed. “Special Agent Hunter.”

“Special Agent Hunter, this is Sergeant Farley with the Yuba City PD. I got your name from Sergeant Howell of SacPD. We have a crime scene you should see.”

Howell was the guy they’d met on the rooftop the morning before. This has to be about Belmont. “Can I put you on speaker? I’m with my partner, Special Agent Croft.” The man agreed and Tom put his phone on the center console. “Agent Croft, we’ve got Sergeant Farley, Yuba City PD, on the line. What do you have?”

“A homicide. Victim is Minnie Ellis, seventy-five, Caucasian. Found by her friend this morning, dead in her bed. There are signs of forced entry. The night before last, Mrs. Ellis told her friend that she suspected her neighbor of fishy business. Nobody is answering at the house next door. It appears to be empty, but we found trash in the can on the curb. Dusted a beer can for prints and came up with a match. Seems Mrs. Ellis’s neighbor’s prints were also found on a railing of a rooftop yesterday morning at Sergeant Howell’s crime scene. DJ Belmont. Ring a bell?”

“Can you text me the address?” Tom asked, his pulse ticking up. “We’re on our way.”