“Hey, Callahan. Schefte said you’d be stopping by. Need new prints?”

“I guess. Looks like I’m turning up in places I haven’t been.” Mason hung his hat on Tom’s coat tree inside the door.

“We can’t have that happening. Let’s get you scanned again.”

“Say, Tom. My card didn’t work on the keypad.”

Tom Hannah frowned. “That’s weird. You get demagnetized somehow?”

“Beats me.”

“Maybe they’re fooling with the system.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Like fooling with the system to lock me out?

Tom led him over to what looked like a photocopier with a computer monitor on top. He typed for a minute. “Date of birth?” he asked.

Mason told him.

“This info look accurate?”

Mason scanned the screen. Name, address, DOB, birth city, and state. “Yeah.”

Tom rattled the keyboard a bit more. “Okay, let’s get the slaps first.” He took Mason’s hand and laid all four fingers on the lighted pad while he watched the fingers appear on the screen.

How many times had Mason watched this done? Usually he and Ray stood back and silently smirked. There was a bit of vulnerability to getting prints taken, no matter what the reason. It was psychological. And he’d tried to make people feel as guilty as possible while they were scanned. Now it was his turn.

Next Tom took one of Mason’s hands and carefully rolled each finger across the pad, watching for the computer to give him a thumbs-up on the quality of each scan. He took Mason’s other hand and started to roll. The first finger slipped. Tom repositioned the finger, and it slipped again. “Your hand is too sweaty. Try wiping it on your pants.”

Sheesh.

Mason brushed his hand on his jeans. Sweaty was right. Christ. You’d think he was a terrified perp.

“Happens to everyone,” Tom muttered. He rapidly rolled the rest of Mason’s fingers and nodded at the screen in satisfaction. “Looks good.”

“You gonna run them against the prints found at the Josie Mueller scene now?”

“Uh . . . not at the moment.” Tom sprayed the lighted pad and wiped it with a soft cloth. “I’ll wait until that request comes down the chain.” He avoided Mason’s gaze.

Mason watched him for a split second longer. Clearly, Tom didn’t want to run a comparison while Mason was standing beside him. No problem. His prints weren’t going to match anyway. He didn’t need to be here to see it. He’d head upstairs, tell Schefte that he was done with prints, and ask to look at the calendar on his computer to see for himself when he’d last visited Josie Mueller.

“Thanks, Tom. See you around.” Mason grabbed his hat and strode out of the lab. He skipped the elevator and took the stairs. His usual move when he needed to be alone to think. He jogged up the metallic-sounding steps.

His card hadn’t worked in the security slider.

Tom wouldn’t run the print comparison in front of him.

Schefte had pulled his computer.

He had a few questions for Schefte. When he reached his floor, he hit the stairwell door and sped down the hall to the big room where he and Ray had a corner for their desks. Several other pairs of Major Crimes detectives shared the room. For a brief second, heartburn stung his upper gut as he thought about facing his peers. I’ve got nothing to hide.

Maybe they were pulling a practical joke on him.

Mason stopped, sheer relief flowing over him like a cool breeze. Why hadn’t he thought that before? A smile fought to cross his face. It made perfect sense. What better way to get him riled up than to make him think—

No. They wouldn’t do that to him when there was a kid missing in his family.

Possible answers to the questions surrounding Josie’s murder were slowly being crossed off his mental checklist. His buddies weren’t playing a gag on him. That left human error in the evidence collection and . . .

Mason couldn’t fathom the last possibility on his list. This wasn’t a movie; he wasn’t being framed for a murder. That didn’t happen in real life.

Impossible. Or was it?

Feet suddenly heavy, he pushed open the door to what he’d always thought of as the corral. Six Major Crimes detective teams worked in adjoining cubicles along the edges of the big room. In the center of the room was a stack of cabinets with a coffee pot, crappy sink, and a fridge.

No one was at their desk in the corral. That wasn’t unusual, especially for a Saturday afternoon. He glanced over at Morales and Hunsinger’s corner of the room. Their desks were relatively neat. Where were they at on Josie’s murder? Were they out pursuing leads or watching their kids play soccer?

Mason walked over to his desk. His monitor was present, but the tower under his desk was gone. He closed his eyes for a second. So much for hoping it wasn’t true. Somebody was after his ass. But who? And why?

He walked around and stood in front of Ray’s monitor. Ray still had a tower. His heart pounded in his ears as he touched Ray’s mouse and his screen sprang to life. Mason stared at the log-in page to get into the Oregon State Police’s system.

Will my log-in work? Or has that been deactivated, too?

Mason sat heavily in Ray’s chair and tapped on the keyboard. Sweat dripped down his back as he typed in Ray’s user name and password. He eyed Ray’s email program. What could he find there? Had Ray passed on everything he’d been told regarding the suspicions around Josie’s case? Or had everyone kept their mouths shut around Ray, knowing his friendship with Mason ran deep?