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at his feet and quickly became absorbed by a couple of seagulls paddling by in the river. The water sparkled in the midday sun, and looked deceptively clean and blue. Archie knew better. They pulled a corpse from the Willamette once a week.
    â€œNice watchdog you have there,” Raul Sanchez said with a grin. He stepped beside Archie and Ginger, who didn’t even look up. Sanchez was a compact man, with thick dark hair and rough-hewn features made rougher by the pockmark scars that peppered his face. Whether the scars were a result of childhood acne or a close encounter with gravel, Archie had never asked. Some people didn’t like to talk about their scars.
    â€œShe’s monitoring those dangerous gulls,” Archie said. “And I saw you coming as soon as you crossed the Hawthorne Bridge,” he added. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your FBI windbreaker.”
    â€œYou should see my FBI pj’s,” Sanchez said. He started to say something else, then stopped and fiddled with a button on his tan jacket. “Obviously, you know I can’t talk to you about the Beauty Killer thing,” he said.
    Sanchez was the FBI liaison on the task force charged with hunting down Gretchen Lowell. Archie heard updates through the grapevine. He read the headlines. He knew she’d supposedly been seen in six countries so far. But there was never any solid evidence. No trail. They had all agreed, back in August, that the best thing for Archie’s mental health was not to be involved. Nothing had changed. Archie had been the one who’d lobbied for Sanchez to take the lead.
    â€œI just want to know when she’s dead,” Archie said.
    One of the gulls squawked and flapped off, flying low above the water.
    â€œLet’s talk about Leo, then,” Sanchez said.
    Archie glanced over his shoulder at the interstate behind them. “Somewhere quieter,” he said. The two men headed north, toward the Steel Bridge. Archie had to give Ginger’s leash an extra tug to get her to leave gull duty, but soon she was trotting happily ahead of them. A cyclist pedaled past pulling a small boy in a three-wheeled netted trailer. The boy smiled at Archie. He was probably high on exhaust fumes.
    Archie and Sanchez followed the concrete path along the river until it diverged from the interstate and the din of traffic waned. The Willamette gleamed serenely. A nearby sign warned that fish caught in the river might be toxic. “Leo’s not answering his phone,” Archie said.
    Sanchez turned his collar up against the chill. “I know,” Sanchez said.
    â€œEverything okay?” Archie asked.
    Sanchez stopped walking, so Archie knew it was bad.
    â€œHe’s on the island,” Sanchez said. “They took him there last night. We have surveillance outside. I have no idea what’s going on inside.”
    â€œDoes he know you’re his contact?” Archie asked.
    â€œIf he read the note I sent with the flowers,” Sanchez said. He squinted out across the river. “He’s cut off. We can’t contact him. There’s no way to get a message through.”
    If anything happened to Leo, Archie knew that Susan would never forgive him. “You need to extract him,” Archie said.
    Sanchez peered at Archie, worry lines creasing his craggy forehead. “This isn’t your problem, friend,” he said. “You’re too close.”
    In the distance, Archie could hear the pedestrian alert bells of the Steel Bridge readying to lift. “Are we still talking about Leo?” he asked.
    â€œWhat do you think we’re talking about?” Sanchez asked carefully.
    Archie had worked the Beauty Killer case for thirteen years. She had cost him everything. Gretchen would always be his problem. They could take him off the case, but she would always be his.
    A brisk wind rippled the surface of the river. A jogger, still thumb-sized, was heading