“Pete’s Bar,” he muttered. “Why?”

“What time did you leave?”

Sam tried to look Zander in the eye but could do it for only two seconds. “Dunno. After last call. Tim drove me home.”

Zander turned to the deputies. “Can you two find out when Pete’s Bar closed last night? And who was tending bar?” The deputies gave him a casual salute and headed toward the bar two blocks down the street.

Zander turned his icy gaze back to Sam. “Want to guess at the time?”

Sam looked up at the gray sky, twisting his mouth in thought. “One-thirty? Two?”

“Remember any problems in the bar last night?”

Sam’s gaze went directly to Mason. “No. I confronted a guy who’d dented my truck, but nothing happened. That guy there”—he tipped his head at Mason—“bought us a pitcher of beer.”

“Who’d you confront about the truck?”

“Am I under arrest?”

“We’re just having a chat.” Zander showed him his teeth.

“Who are you? None of you dress like cops.”

Zander reached into his jacket pocket and flipped open his ID. In unison Ava whipped out hers, along with Mason and Nora.

Sam’s mouth dropped open. He stared at Zander’s and then squinted at the other three IDs. “Holy shit! The FBI? Why? What happened? I heard someone was killed up in the hills, but no one said anything about the FBI!” His gaze grew eager and interested.

Ava’s heart dropped. This wasn’t the response of a killer. She glanced at Mason and saw he’d felt it, too. Either Sam was the biggest psychopath she’d ever met or he’d had nothing to do with Denny’s death.

“The truck,” Zander reminded him.

“Oh, yeah. That guy. Don’t know his name. He’s not local, but he’s around here several times a year. Is that who was killed?”

The realization struck and Sam straightened his spine as his mouth dropped open. “Me? You think I killed him? Because I bitched about a dent? Jesus Christ! I wouldn’t do anything like that!” He looked to Ava and Nora, his gaze pleading. “You got to believe me. I didn’t hurt anyone.”

Zander looked back at the women, too, his gaze questioning. Nora gave him a small nod. They all agreed: Sam Gates wasn’t their killer.

The deputies returned. “Last call was at two,” said the clean-cut farm boy. “The bartender from last night is there right now. He said Sam and his friends didn’t leave until almost two thirty.”

Zander moved toward the investigators and the deputies stepped to either side of Sam, each placing a hand on one of his arms. “Hey! Am I under arrest?” Sam shouted at Zander’s back. “I didn’t do anything.”

“We’re discussing that,” Zander replied over his shoulder. In a quiet voice he asked their group, “Anyone have any thoughts? I think this is a dead end.”

“Either he’s the greatest liar in the world, or he’s not involved,” said Mason. “He doesn’t strike me as being the greatest in the world at anything.”

Nods all around.

“Could still be a local,” said Nora. “Both he and Jessop said rumors were going around town. Either someone talked—”

“Or someone picked up on the squadron of police vehicles at Denny’s this morning,” said Ava. “In a town this size, news travels fast.”

“I’ll send some deputies to ask questions in the diner,” said Nora. “And the same in the bar. I want to know who else was in the bar last night. It’s not Sam, but it might be someone who was there.”

“Looks like Zander and I need to move on to Special Agent Weldon’s investigation,” Ava stated, looking ahead to the next step.

“I’m meeting with his wife first thing tomorrow morning,” said Zander. He looked at Nora. “We’ll leave you to handle the questioning down here? All the evidence from Denny’s scene is going through our lab. We can get it done faster than OSP.”

“That’s fine by me,” said Nora. “The less I add to our lab’s backlog the better. They’re tired of hearing me say everything is a priority.”

“Any other immediate leads?” Zander looked from one investigator to another.

The silence hurt.

“Then we’ll follow where the evidence leads us,” Zander said, looking at Mason. “We’ll find this guy.”

“I know we will,” Mason stated.

Ava mentally crossed her fingers.

7

Zander straightened his notepad for the seventh time and glanced at the clock. He was early. Sharon Weldon wasn’t expected for another four minutes. He was glad the widow of Special Agent Vance Weldon was willing to come to the Portland office to talk to him. Last evening he’d spent the long drive home reviewing interview questions and evidence points with Ava. Then he’d been up until two A.M. reviewing on his own. He’d studied every photo from Vance Weldon’s death.

But his notepad was all he’d brought to the interview. No way in hell would he pull out crime scene photos in front of the widow. He didn’t need to see them again because each one was stamped clearly in his brain. It was a special skill he’d discovered as a child, almost perfect recall. He had to concentrate when he committed something to memory, but once he did it was usually permanent.

Including the images he’d rather forget.