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Oscar sank his putt. “You’re way off. I wouldn’t bandy that theory around. Holman is well liked. If he gets wind of that, I don’t think an army of Schreibers will be able to sweet-talk you out of jail. Anyway, there are other candidates.”

Terry’s third shot went wild. There was too much emotion behind the stroke. The ball bounced over the concrete boundary and rolled into one of the Gold Rush’s man-made ponds. “Like who?”

“Deep Throat, your mystery caller. He and Holman’s anonymous tipper could be one and the same.”

Fishing his ball out of the shallow water and shaking it dry, Terry said, “He hasn’t called me in a while.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have to. He knows where you live. He knows who you are. What more does he need?”

“Doesn’t mean anything.” Terry made a drop shot back onto the nylon-carpeted green. “Maybe the guy was just an obscene-phone-caller. Maybe he’s had his fun and moved on to greener pastures.”

“Yeah, true, but what if Deep Throat is the Honda driver? He doesn’t have to call when he has access to your house.”

“He will now. I’m changing the locks. And getting a new garage-door opener.”

“But you’re locking the proverbial barn door after the horse has bolted. If he took Sarah’s lockbox, he probably got all the information he needed from the house. You won’t see him again.”

“That still doesn’t explain who ‘him’ is.”

“Who else has an ax to grind?” Oscar asked.

Pamela Dawson and Frosty Frazer sprang to mind. “There’s my boss and her sidekick.”

“Okay, what about them?”

Terry recounted their weird behavior, Sarah’s bust up with Pamela, and Kyle Hemple’s gossip. “I’ve got to admit the general atmosphere is one of fear. Everyone seems frightened of their own shadow.”

“Okay, we’ll add this pair to the mix, but they’re hardly leading candidates.”

Terry knew Oscar was right. No one stuck out. He was trying to make the puzzle fit, regardless of whether he had to use a sledgehammer to do it. He made his putt and his ball joined Oscar’s in the hole.

Leading off on the next green, Oscar said, “Where do we go from here? We know you didn’t do it. How do we go about proving who did? Hot damn. Hole in one.”

Terry tossed a scrap of paper at the celebrating Oscar.

“What’s this?”

“Our starting point. Sarah’s list of names.”

“I thought you said it was stolen.”

“Holman found it during his search. Whoever stole it must have dropped it.”

“And you stole it from Holman?”

Terry shook his head. The moment Schreiber had jumped in to bail him out, Terry had snatched a burglary prevention flyer and seized a pen from his lawyer to scribble the five names and locations Sarah had written before he could forget them. “It’s a copy.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Find out if these women are alive. See if they know each other. See if they know Sarah.”

Oscar checked his watch. “This game is taking forever. Let’s go.”

“Can you give me a ride home?”

A troubled look crossed Oscar’s face. “You’d better crash at my house.”

“TV people?”

“They probably know you’re out and about.”

“Okay. Can you give me a ride into work tomorrow?”

“You gonna go in?”

“Why not? It should be interesting.”

From the receptionist to the CEO, their faces said it all. Their expressions shrieked, “How come a murderer is allowed to walk the streets?” Terry possessed the power of the grim reaper. No one made eye contact or acknowledged him. No one wanted to be his next victim. Terry carried on as normal, trying his best to ignore their stares. He wasn’t bothered. Their reaction was only to be expected. He did have a suspected murder rap hanging over his head. It was hardly a career-advancing qualification.

Entering the lab, Terry realized why he was handling the situation so well. He was innocent. Proving his innocence was a different matter, but he was innocent and no one could shake that. Simply, he was prepared. Nothing could harm him. He got as far as sitting down before Pamela Dawson called him into her office.

Here goes
, he thought.

“Yes, Pamela,” he said, entering her office.

“Close the door, please.”

Pamela’s office wasn’t a real office—it was a lot of Plexiglas and very little insulation. Any affairs that needed to be conducted privately couldn’t be. It was all on show. As he closed the door, he noticed his colleagues focusing on Pam and him and not their work. He smiled to show them he was aware of them.

“On second thought, let’s take this to one of the conference rooms,” Pamela said.

Business at Genavax had begun early, and all the conference rooms were busy except for the boardroom. It was more
dramatic than they needed, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Pamela flicked on the lights.

“Please, sit.”

Terry did, but Pamela didn’t. She stood stiffly, occasionally shifting her weight from one foot to the other in a birdlike fashion.

“I won’t pretend that I haven’t heard, Terry.” Her tone was terse.

“I don’t expect you to.”

“Terry, as far as I know, unless you can correct me, you were questioned as a suspect in Alicia Hyams’s murder.”

“That’s correct.”

“You’ve placed Genavax in a very embarrassing position.”

Embarrassing
, Terry thought. He was potentially facing a murder trial. He felt his predicament trumped Genavax’s. He straightened in his seat.

“I’ve mentioned before that Genavax went to a lot of trouble to hire you.” Pamela cut a groove in the carpet, pacing ten or twelve feet in one direction only to reverse. She reminded Terry of a carnival duck shoot, with the targets passing back and forth. “Frankly, we’ve been disappointed. We are not seeing the return on the time and effort invested in you. First of all, you’ve demonstrated absenteeism.”

“My wife is missing, and I took personal days. They are allowed in my contract.”

But Pamela wasn’t listening to him and plowed on, oblivious to his justification. “You’ve also interfered with the progress of other projects.”

“What projects?”

“Luke Frazer found you in the freezer playing with a set of samples.”

“No, he didn’t. The wrong rack was stored on my shelf. I was trying to relocate it.”

She stopped pacing and raised a hand to silence him. “None of that is important. The murder investigation is.”

“It’s not like I’ve been charged,” Terry said.

“Regardless, you’ve put everyone here in an uncomfortable position. We have the company’s image to consider.”

“Am I fired?”

She hesitated. “That hasn’t been decided. But I don’t want to raise your hopes.”

“What the hell happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“It has nothing to do with innocence. It’s about perception.”

“Perception! What exactly is your perception of the situation?”

She snorted. “The perception is, if you haven’t heard, that you came to this country and abducted and killed Alicia Hyams.”

“And I did all this with the consent of my wife, I suppose?”

Pamela shrugged. “Well, there are two theories on that one.”

“Like what?”

“One is that your wife discovered your crime and ran away, and the second is she’s dead somewhere, killed in a similar fashion to Alicia Hyams.”

“What a load of bollocks,” Terry said, leaping to his feet.

Pamela stiffened, taking a step backward.

“Talk sense for a moment. How could I have abducted Alicia Hyams? She was abducted between two and three p.m. on the thirteenth. At that time, I was in an airport shuttle on my way to my house.”

Terry froze, trapped in the moment. He rewound what he’d just said and picked through events as he recalled them. Adrenaline-driven euphoria overrevved his brain, clouding his logic, messing with his puzzle. He stared at the ground to concentrate his focus.

“What are you saying?”

He needed a moment to think, to check his mental facts. Yes, he was right. He’d been in an airport shuttle with a bunch of witnesses when Alicia Hyams was taken. Holman had been so focused on the stash of Alicia’s personal items and the list of
names that he’d found in the crawl space at Terry’s house, he hadn’t even tried to verify Terry’s whereabouts before Schreiber had sprung him. Terry should have realized it earlier, but he’d been too emotional, too wrapped up in the turmoil to keep a level head. But he was levelheaded now.

“What I’m saying is there’s no way I could have done it, and you just gave me the proof.” Terry pounced on the phone on the desk and dialed Oscar’s cell number.

“Gold Rush,” Oscar answered.

“Oscar, call Schreiber. Tell him to meet me at Sheriff Holman’s. I have the world’s greatest alibi.” He slammed the phone down with more energy than he intended, making Pamela jump. “Yes!” he shouted with delight.

He raced for the door.

“Where are you going?” Pamela demanded.

“I’m going to prove what I knew and you should have believed.”

H
ours after blowing Holman’s case apart, Terry and Oscar were being loud. The restaurant’s mood music had been turned up twice to compensate, but they didn’t care who heard them. Alcohol dictated the volume.

Schreiber stood. “I’ll leave you guys to celebrate alone. My ride’s here, and I have other clients to defend. Enjoy.” He reached for his wallet.

“No way,” Terry said. “Dinner is on me. You did me proud.”

“I’m not sure I did anything. I think you proved yourself innocent.”

“Maybe, but you cut through the red tape. That’s something I never could have done.”

“Okay. I accept your hospitality.” He stretched to shake Terry’s hand, then Oscar’s. “Stay out of trouble, guys. I hope we don’t have to do business again.” He smiled. “I’m one businessman who doesn’t hope for repeat business.”

“Good luck to you, counselor,” Oscar slurred at Schreiber’s retreating form.

He waved as he left the restaurant.

“Good man,” Oscar said.

“That he is,” Terry agreed.

Their waitress returned.

“Shall I bring you your bill?”

She was all smiles and politeness, but her question seemed more like a request.

“We haven’t finished yet,” Terry said. “Have we?”

“No, we haven’t,” Oscar said emphatically. He waggled an empty bottle that once held a moderately expensive Californian Chardonnay. “Can you bring us another bottle of this?”

“Actually, you’ve been disturbing the other customers. If I do bring you another bottle, you have to promise to be quiet.”

“Sorry, but we’re celebrating,” Terry said. “If we’ve been obnoxious, I apologize. We’ll do better to respect everybody else.”

The waitress, Becki, according to her name badge, smiled and nodded, accepting Terry’s apology and promise. He found his accent worked wonders. Surprisingly, a couple of coworkers and store clerks had described it as exotic. He didn’t understand it himself. He considered his accent plain, but he did find that it defused situations. Americans, regardless of color, creed, or background, changed their opinion of him when they found out he was English and not American. His accent was perceived as a hallmark of honesty and dependability. He was accepted in more places than a platinum credit card. If Oscar had said the same thing to the waitress, they’d probably be leaving, so he wasn’t going to knock it. Becki relieved Oscar of the empty bottle.

In the bar, someone turned up the television. The news-anchor’s voice penetrated the background music, and Oscar blew Terry’s bridge mending.

“Hey, buddy.” He leaped from his chair. “Turn that up.”

Oscar lurched toward the bar. Terry shrugged apologetically at Becki and followed his friend. He wanted to see the news as much as Oscar did.

The female anchor went into the lead story. Oscar clutched the bar rail, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. Terry joined Oscar. He ignored the glances they were drawing.

“Turn it up another notch,” Oscar urged.

The bartender shrugged and hit the volume button.

“Dramatic events unfolded today in the murder investigation of Alicia Hyams and the disappearance of Bay Area journalist Sarah Sheffield. This report from Tom Degrasse.”

The smooth and professional Tom Degrasse didn’t have a cigarette in his hand for his report. He was standing outside the sheriff’s department. It was a recording from earlier in the day, after Holman had dropped all interest in Terry as a suspect, at Schreiber’s insistence. Terry’s lawyer had demanded an immediate press release be made to clear Terry’s name.

“I’m outside the Santa Rita County Sheriff’s Department in Edenville where there’s been a new twist in the Alicia Hyams murder case. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Terry Sheffield, a British citizen, now a resident in the United States, was questioned in connection with Mrs. Hyams’s murder after personal effects belonging to the deceased were found at his home. Interestingly, Mr. Sheffield’s wife, Sarah, has been missing for over three weeks, which has raised suspicions of his involvement in that case. But all that changed this morning.”

Degrasse’s report cut to another recording of Holman making a statement to an assembled group of reporters. Holman’s name filled the bottom of the screen.