“Did he hear something and leave the cabin?” Duff asked. “Or did he just happen to step outside?”

“God damn it,” Steve swore. “Could someone have been inside the cabin? Taken him outside?”

Mason shook his head. “We would have heard. Denny’s a big guy. There’s no sign of a struggle anywhere between here and his room. No scuff marks, no drag marks in the dirt. He walked out here on his own.”

“Where’s his cell?” Ray asked.

“He usually keeps it in his shirt pocket.” Mason glanced back at Denny. “Clearly it’s not there now. I didn’t see it when I looked in his room, but I didn’t dig. Call it,” he told Ray.

Steve darted back into the cabin to listen for a ringtone as Ray called. “It went straight to voice mail,” stated Ray. Steve jogged back down the steps shaking his head to show he hadn’t heard a sound inside.

“It was probably taken and turned off. We shouldn’t start messing with anything that could be evidence,” Mason stated. “It’s not our place to meddle in someone else’s investigation.”

“Bullshit. This is Denny,” said Steve. “We’re not going to let the local yokels handle his murder.”

“They won’t,” Mason said with forced confidence. “The murder of an Oregon State Police captain? They’ll pass it up to the Lincoln County sheriff, who will probably call Major Crimes in Salem,” he added, referring to OSP’s primary office. If the command of the investigation didn’t immediately move in that direction, he’d prod until it did. Steve was right. This couldn’t be left to the locals.

“Anyone know his ex-wife’s number?” Ray asked the group.

Everyone shook his head. Mason couldn’t remember the woman’s name.

“Two boys, right?” asked Duff.

“Yeah, both married and live out of state,” said Ray.

Mason had forgotten that, too.

“We need to be doing something,” Steve said. “We can’t just stand around.” He ran a hand through his hair, making his case of bedhead even worse. “What was the name of that bar we were at last night?”

Mason wasn’t the only one thinking about the argument Denny had had last night with a local.

“Pete’s Bar,” answered Ray. “But you can’t think—”

“Yeah, I can,” said Steve. “That guy had it in for Denny. If Mason hadn’t stepped in, someone would have thrown a punch. I don’t know what that asshole’s problem was, but Denny said it had something to do with his truck. It sounded like it went back a few weeks.”

Mason nodded. “But just because someone made a dent in your truck doesn’t mean you cut his throat.”

Steve’s brown stare met Mason’s. “You know as well as I do that plenty of people have killed for less.”

True.

“Who saw Denny last?” asked Duff. His calm manner had always been a good balance for Steve’s temper. The four men exchanged looks. “I went straight upstairs to my room when we got home,” Duff said. “Since Denny was the only one sleeping on the main floor, did you guys see him after I crashed?”

“I stayed up and talked with him a bit down there,” said Mason. “I noticed it was nearly one thirty when I went to bed. Anyone else see him later? Or hear him after that?”

Everyone shook his head. “I was in bed before one,” said Ray. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“Same here,” said Steve. “What’d you guys talk about?” He turned a curious gaze on Mason.

Déjà vu passed through Mason. He was suddenly on the hot seat, the one who had seen the murder victim last. He’d been here before, when one of his informants had been murdered and the killer had set up Mason for the crime.

It’d nearly ripped him apart.

“No work stuff. We just talked about fishing and why he bought the cabin,” he hedged.

A faint siren grew louder and the men turned their attention to the end of the driveway. Mason’s stomach felt as if he’d eaten too much fiery salsa. It burned and twisted. Ray met his gaze, and he saw sympathy. His partner remembered exactly the hell he’d gone through last December under the magnifying glass of his department.

It wasn’t going to happen again.

Mason forced himself to stand back and watch as officers from the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department and the Oregon state police from the Newport office tried not to step on one another’s toes.

“All we need now is the FBI,” Ray muttered.

“Not ruling it out,” answered Mason. He’d listened to each word and watched every movement of all the officers. No one would be allowed to make an error on Mason’s watch.

A Lincoln City patrol cop had arrived first; the population of Depoe Bay was too small to support a police department. The cop was young and Mason bet he’d never seen a dead body before. As Mason had expected, he’d quickly deferred to the Lincoln County deputy and OSP officers who had showed minutes later. The news of a murdered OSP captain had quickly shot up the ranks. The Lincoln County sheriff appeared, dressed in jeans and hiking boots, looking as if he’d just rolled out of bed. He shook all the detectives’ hands and looked each one in the eye as he offered condolences. He strode to the body and bent over, staring for a long moment, his hands on his knees as the morning sun glinted off his silver hair. Mason had heard about Sheriff Michael Jensen for the past decade. The man was known for being outspoken and getting shit done. He wasn’t an apologizer; he was a doer. If he heard something he didn’t like, he handled it immediately. He was blunt and very popular in his county. He came back to the four men and crossed his arms on his chest.