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tombs.” Maybe she’d found baby Samuel Elling’s remains beneath her grandparents’ rose garden, but what if the truth behind the death was buried within these brick walls?
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    Simon inhaled his last gulp of brandy. “Why don’t you come back another time, and we’ll see about that DNA.” The man’s eyes flashed a message that the interview was over.
    Rich’s fingers itched to snatch the glass out of Simon’s hand. That item would do very nicely for DNA, but he had no choice except to leave. For now.
    He jerked his chin toward the Elling patriarch. “I’ll stay in touch.”
    â€œBe sure you do. Maybe I’ll give Judge Becker a call. Let him know you’re on top of a hot case and need your docket cleared.”
    â€œThat won’t be necessary. I’ll visit with the D.A. in the morning.” If Simon Elling could play the old-buddy card with his lifelong pal, Judge Becker, Rich could remind him that the prosecuting attorney was from a different era andnot in his pocket. And it was the D.A. he’d report developments to, not to either of the judges that served the county, especially not Becker.
    Rich saw himself to the door, footsteps echoing in the empty foyer. He’d known this family was strange, but why would Simon balk at the surest way to prove his son had been found? He needed to look at the case file from the time of the kidnapping and see how closely family had been looked at as suspects. The personal touches in the clandestine burial indicated some level of caring. Of course, he hadn’t seen any such thing in the hard eyes of Simon Elling.
    Dusk had gripped the land when Rich stepped outside. He deeply inhaled the cooling air, relieved to be out of that house’s oppressive atmosphere. He went down the stairs and up the walk toward his vehicle. At the curb, Rich did a one-eighty observation of the property. As he turned toward the house, a curtain moved in a lit room upstairs. Fern or Melody?
    The roar of a motor drew his attention. Headlights barreled up the driveway toward him, and a low-slung sports car rumbled to a halt behind his SUV. A male figure climbed out of the passenger side. Mason Wright. Now the gang’s all here. Rich hooked a thumb in his front jeans pocket and watched the young man move toward him, swaying as if he were a sailor at sea. Three sheets to the wind all right, and it wasn’t even 10:00 p.m.
    If Mason had been behind the wheel, Rich could have arrested him. Maybe this third time would have been the charm, and the D.U.I. would stick. Or maybe not, if Judge Becker heard the case. The Elling fortunes might be in the tank, but their influence still loomed large.
    Whip-slender and inches shorter than Rich’s six feet one, Melody’s son halted in front of Rich and snappeda sloppy salute. “If it ain’t the chief. Come to harash me again? Shorry to dishappoint you.” The twenty-six-year-old delinquent burped in Rich’s face.
    â€œI think you’ve disappointed yourself enough for the both of us.” Rich went to the sports car and knocked on the window.
    The glass whooshed down, and Taylor Mead, Dr. Sharla’s daughter and Mason’s newest girlfriend, stared up at him. “Don’t mind me, Chief, I’m clean and sober.” Her gaze fell away.
    Rich shook his head. She’d probably had a soft drink, that was the kind of girl she was. But how long would she maintain her standards if she hung around Mason and his crowd? The doctor’s family went to the same little community church that Rich did. He’d taught Taylor in youth group, and she was a classmate of his daughter Katrina’s, though not a close friend.
    He leaned closer. “Does your mom know you’re rocketing around in this death trap with a drunken passenger?”
    Taylor glared. “Hey, he called me up and asked me to drive him home from Sparky’s Bar. He knows you guys are