“It doesn’t matter what you found up there,” Deputy Bobby said, “because you’re not a law enforcement officer, and you’re certainly not part of this investigation, and I’m sure, because you’re a smart young man—”

“You’re three years older than me, not thirty-three.”

“—you would never do something so foolish as to be snooping.”

“First, I object to the term snooping—”

“Dash.”

“Nothing! There was nothing up there. No footprints. No scuffs. Nothing. There’s soft soil. There’s bare stone. There’s a stretch of gravel. It should have been easy to see where Gerry had been—an impression in the dirt, or a print he tracked onto the stone, or even just displaced gravel to show where he’d stepped. But there’s nothing!”

Deputy Bobby didn’t say anything.

“Someone covered it up!”

Deputy Bobby still didn’t say anything.

“That proves it’s a murder, see? Gerry couldn’t have covered his own tracks because he fell. So, it had to be the killer, and they were so scared about leaving evidence behind that they overcorrected and wiped out any sign at all.”

“Maybe the ground wasn’t soft enough to take an impression. Maybe it wasn’t muddy enough to leave a track on the stone. Maybe the gravel was spread too thin.”

“Maybe. But I checked, and I left prints.”

Nothing changed in Deputy Bobby’s face. And that didn’t make any sense because even though Deputy Bobby was on leave—was, basically, already out of the sheriff’s office—Deputy Bobby had strong opinions about right and wrong. In fact, he—

My jaw dropped. “What the heck?”

(Not exactly—use your imagination.)

Deputy Bobby arched his eyebrows, but a hint of uncertainty underlay his usual even keel.

“You think he was murdered too!” Glee made my voice rise. “You think I’m right!”

“I think we should let law enforcement—”

“You do! You think he was murdered! That’s why you’re out here sneaking around like—like Rambo!”

“Like Rambo?”

“Oh no, don’t you dare get me off track. I want answers.”

“Where was this attitude when Keme skipped school last week?”

“Deputy Bobby!”

He winced, and his smile was like a cracked mirror when he said, “Just Bobby, remember?”

I wanted to say something about that. I did. But instead, I said, “You do, don’t you?”

He shrugged. But then he said, “I thought I saw someone.” And then he gave me that broken smile again. “Besides you.”

So, that answered one question: I had been following Deputy Bobby the night before. “But why didn’t you stop when you found Gerry?”

“Because I know better than to walk along the base of a cliff where a rock could fall on my head. I cut up toward the bluffs; I was going back to the camp when I saw somebody up on the ridge.” I opened my mouth, and he shook his head. “Just their silhouette—the clouds were breaking up, and they stood out against the sky. Otherwise, I never would have seen them.”

“Did you tell the sheriff?”

Deputy Bobby had a very communicative look sometimes.

“Okay, but why didn’t she believe you?”

“She did believe me. She’s smart, and she’s good at her job. But she’s also in a situation where there’s no evidence to suggest a murder.”

“But—”

He held up a hand. “I know. And I’m not saying you’re wrong. But outside of a Sherlock Holmes novel, the whole ‘lack of evidence is evidence’ thing isn’t as compelling as you think.”

I gave him an appraising glance. “Say something else about Sherlock Holmes.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his voice was serious when he said, “Why are you doing this?”

Well, I thought, because it kind of seemed like the sheriff suspected you. But I said, “Because someone killed Gerry, and they’re going to get away with it, and that’s not right.”

It was impossible to read the look on Deputy Bobby’s face.

“So,” I said, “I’m going to get my gat and throw iron and pump the killer full of lead.”

“What?”

“I have an overdeveloped sense of justice from reading too much Chandler.”

“Do you know, sometimes I have zero idea what you’re saying?”

“I know. Your face is extra cute when you’re trying to figure it out.”

I heard what I said, ladies and gentlemen. And that was when I died. Angels wept as they carried me out of my body.

Somehow, my still shambling corpse managed to stammer, “Anyway, I think I know who did it. Or who might have done it, anyway. There’s that guy, Nate, the one who’s on the city council.”

“The glorified used-car salesman?”

“You had to break up their fight at the beach, remember?”

“Murder’s different from taking a swing at somebody.”

“And there’s that protester, the one who thinks everybody is building on sacred land.”

“To be fair, she’s not wrong about Gerry. The Confederated Tribes don’t have any objection to events on the beach, but that new development is on an important ceremonial site.”