CHAPTER 39

Independence Mountains, Northern Nevada

brEE AND SAMPSON TOOK multiple photographs of the skid marks on the road where Ryan Malcomb’s van had flipped into the canyon.

Eldon Boyt, the caretaker of the ranch Malcomb had been visiting, called them over to the bent guardrail and gestured at the snow-covered hulk of the van several hundred feet below.

“I climbed down there the other day,” Boyt said. “It’s scorched but not burned to hell the way it would have been with a full tank of gas.”

“Okay?” Bree said.

Boyt popped a stick of gum in his mouth, chewed a few times. “I know the guy was from back east and all. But most people don’t drive into mountains this rough with only about a quarter tank aboard.”

“Not a mountain boy,” Sampson said. “Maybe he forgot to fill up.”

Boyt said, “Or maybe someone put just enough gas in the tank to burn the body beyond recognition.”

“But not beyond DNA identification,” Bree said.

They thanked Boyt for the information, drove back to Elko, and arrived at the county sheriff’s office shortly after four in the afternoon. They identified themselves and asked to see Deputy Patty Rogers about Ryan Malcomb’s case.

Deputy Rogers, a big brunette in her late thirties, met them at the front desk a few moments later, visibly irritated. “What are you doing here?” she said. “I told you it was an accident.”

“We looked at the skid marks up on that road,” Sampson said. “They don’t add up to an accident.”

“Oh, really?” she said, hands on her hips. “I’ve been investigating auto accidents for ten years. How about you?”

“Washington, DC, homicide detective for twenty. I know a thing or two about physics and skid marks.”

“Look, what is it that you think happened?” Rogers said.

On the ride down to Elko, Bree and Sampson had decided to lay their cards on the table if necessary.

Bree said, “For the past few years, along with the FBI, we have been investigating a vigilante group known as Maestro. It’s run by a mysterious guy known only as M. We have recently come to suspect that Malcomb was involved in Maestro.”

“And maybe was M himself,” John added.

Rogers looked at them suspiciously. “And, what, you think this Maestro group somehow turned on Ryan Malcomb and killed him?”

“Maybe,” Bree said. “If that was even Malcomb in the wreckage.”

The deputy snorted. “Who the hell else could it have been? DNA does not lie.”

“Ryan Malcomb had an identical twin with identical DNA,” Bree said.

“Okay, now, that’s interesting,” Rogers allowed. “But I suspect they did not have the same dental records.”

Bree’s heart sank a little. “They have a match on dental?”

“As I understand it,” Rogers said. “But check with Dr. Bevan, the ME. And I know he confirmed that Mr. Malcomb had a high level of alcohol in his system.”

“We’ll do that,” Sampson said.

“Dr. Bevan works out of the hospital,” the deputy said, reaching out to shake their hands. “Let me know what he says. In the meantime, I need to check in with my sergeant, get out on patrol, and wait for the next accident investigation.”

Rogers winked at them and wished them well. They left, and she watched out the window to identify their vehicle, then got what she needed from her locker, pocketed it, and walked to her cruiser.

Inside, windows up, air conditioner on, she took out a burner phone she had never used and dialed a number she had never called.

On the third ring, someone picked up. No hello.

“Is this the sweeper?” she asked.

“Janitorial services. Yes.”

“They said to call on this phone if there was ever a problem.”

“Is there?”

“I’d say so,” Rogers replied. “A big one.”