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completely.
    â€œNo idea,” I said into the phone, “but probably an hour at least.”
    While waiting for a patrol car to arrive and to avoid disturbing any possible evidence, I forced myself to stay away from the vehicle. I walked past the house, through the front yard, and all the way back down to the fence, where I stood stock-­still, staring out to sea. Anyone seeing me right then might have assumed I was simply admiring the water view. I wasn’t. I was peering into an abyss at the appalling possibility of losing what I held most dear and knowing that if Mel was lost, I was, too.
    That’s when it hit me. If a woman goes missing, who’s the first suspect? The husband or else the person who calls it in. In this instance, that would be yours truly twice over. I thought about how I had forced myself to sound calm during the 9-­1-­1 call, and then I thought about all the other 9-­1-­1 recordings I had heard over the years—­the ones where some chump calls to report that he found his dead wife, the wife he just murdered, lying on the floor in the living room. Usually, the killer will mention that he’s tried reviving her even though the autopsy will reveal that she died hours before the 9-­1-­1 call. Instead of trying to bring her around, he’s spent the interim attempting to clean up the crime scene.
    I was that guy now, the calm one on the phone. When officers did show up, I’d be the first one they interviewed and the first one under suspicion. I knew what that meant, too. While investigators were busy investigating me, whoever had done it would have plenty of time to get away.
    That thought brought me up short. Who had done it? Was the unknown assailant someone who just happened to come by? Was this a crime of opportunity, or was it something else, something planned and deliberate? And if it was the latter, who had it in for Mel Soames.
    I could think of only one answer to that question—­the guy who had been passed over for the job of chief, Austin Manson. Mel’s phone was there in the car. Otherwise, I could have used our Find My Device app to locate her. But what about Manson, where was he, and, if he was the culprit, was Mel still with him?
    The house was at the far southern end of Bellingham in a low-­crime area. That explained why it was taking time for a patrol car to arrive on the scene. I took out my phone again and redialed Mel’s office. “I’m looking for Austin Manson,” I told Kelly, identifying myself again and hoping against hope that word of my 9-­1-­1 call hadn’t yet filtered upstairs from the emergency operator.
    â€œSorry, Assistant Chief Manson is out sick today,” Kelly informed me. “Can anyone else help you?”
    I’m not generally a very good liar, but right then that’s exactly what I needed to be—­a capable and believable liar. “I wanted to surprise Mel by inviting Assistant Chief Manson to dinner with us tomorrow night,” I said. “Do you happen to have either a home number for him or else a cell?”
    Kelly gave me both, texting them to me because I had no other way to write them down. Did I turn around and try calling either one? No, I did not. Instead, my next call was placed to a guy named Todd Hatcher.
    Todd is a self-­styled forensic economist whose playbook includes access to untold databases. He also has an uncanny way with computers. In S.H.I.T., Todd had functioned as Ross Connors’s unseen right-­hand man, and now Todd was the one I turned to for help.
    â€œHey,” Todd said when he answered the phone. I could hear the noisy sound of a child wailing somewhere near the background—­most likely Todd and Julie’s two-­year-­old daughter, Danielle. “Long time no see.”
    A momentary silence followed. I was remembering the last several times I’d seen Todd—­first in the flashing-­light chaos