"Listen faster," I snapped. "I was talking to Liberty a few minutes ago, and she told me about something that I'm sure is important."

Jawarski perched on the corner of his desk, putting my face level with his stomach. "Something about a kid named Davey Mendoza."

Admirable as his flat stomach is for a man in his early forties, I lifted my eyes to meet his. "Yes. He was killed in a car accident shortly after that whole group graduated from high school."

"And you're sure this is related to Hobbs's murder because . . . ?"

"It's a gut feeling."

"That's what I thought."

"Don't dismiss me without even hearing me out," I complained. "First, you have a whole group of kids centering around Kerry Hendrix. Quentin Ingersol and Dwayne Escott are with him everywhere he goes. They're practically inseparable. There's a fourth kid in the group: Davey Mendoza."

"Okay." Jawarski folded his arms across his chest. "Go on."

"Then you've got the girls-girls who'd do just about anything for these guys. You know how some young girls can be. One of them is Ginger Ames-the same Ginger Ames who showed up back in Paradise a couple of months ago and opened an antique shop that we both know is selling phony antiques."

Jawarski inclined his head slightly. "We don't know anything."

"All right, we suspect that she's selling phony antiques. Probably just enough phony stuff mixed in with real pieces so people don't get suspicious right away. I have no idea why she's doing this, except that she's still insecure enough to do what people ask her to."

"Who would ask her to do this?"

"I don't know. Apparently, she was head over heels for Kerry Hendrix back in high school. Maybe she's still trying to please him."

"Or maybe Hendrix knows something about her she doesn't want anyone else to know."

I thought about that for a second, then shook my head. "I don't think so. Those men I heard arguing at the recreation center were talking about a woman and the proof she had. I think they were talking about Ginger." I hadn't forgotten that Liberty could have been the mystery woman, but an unexpected surge of loyalty kept me from saying so. I just hoped that loyalty wasn't misplaced.

Jawarski stood and walked around his desk slowly. "But why do that? If you're right, and Davey Mendoza's death is somehow at the heart of all this, why is it suddenly an issue now?"

"I think Hobbs was blackmailing the others."

Jawarski's gaze shot to mine. "You think what? Why?"

"I was at the bank the other day. Dwayne Escott was trying to cash a check, but the teller couldn't do it. His account was overdrawn."

"That doesn't mean he was being blackmailed."

"It doesn't prove that he was being blackmailed," I corrected him. "But I have a hunch that he was. The teller said that this wasn't the first time he'd been overdrawn, and Hobbs always made deposits of cash."

"Well, h.e.l.l, if that's the case, half the population's being blackmailed. Come on, Abby." Jawarski dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk and picked up a file folder. "I've gone through the report on the kid's death twice. It was an accident, that's all. He was driving under the influence, and he lost control."

"You're sure?"

"I knew the cop who had the lead in the investigation. He was a good man, and an even better cop. If there was anything to find, he'd have found it."

Disappointed, I sank back in my chair and racked my brain for answers. Liberty had filled me in on the details she could remember about Mendoza's accident. He'd gone off a cliff a few miles northwest of town, halfway between Paradise and Aspen. The road was narrow and winding, much of it running along steep cliffs that fell away to a narrow river valley far below. By the time they'd recovered the car and body, there wasn't much left of either.

"What about suicide?"

"I don't think so. Everything in this file indicates that Mendoza had an accident. According to McMillan's notes, there were skid marks all over the road going up that hill. Mendoza might have been drunk, but he was working the brakes, trying to stop the car. If Davey Mendoza had been intent on driving himself off that cliff, he'd have aimed straight."

"You don't know that," I argued without conviction.

"The evidence doesn't support any other answer-not well enough to take to court. And that's what I have to think of, Abby. You were a lawyer-you know that. I can suspect someone all I want, but unless I can find evidence that will stand up in court, I've got nothing."

"I know," I said, suddenly weary. "Go on."

"The testimony of witnesses-several kids at the party heard Mendoza making plans for the following day. n.o.body mentioned him being despondent, worried, or acting strangely, and it seems unlikely that he'd make plans with friends if he planned to leave the party and drive himself off a cliff."

"So you think the accelerator got stuck?"

Jawarski nodded. "That's what the investigators on the case believed."

"And what physical evidence was there to support that theory?"

"There wasn't much. You saw the photos." Jawarski flipped open the folder and studied the report again. "I'll admit this part is odd," he said after a minute. "The crime scene investigators recorded the first skid marks at the base of the hill."

"Which means what?"

"That he deliberately sped up that hill. They estimated his speed at over seventy miles an hour."

"Seventy?" I gaped at him. "And they're sure it wasn't suicide?"

"We probably won't ever be one hundred percent certain, but they called it an accident, and we have to go with that. He was eighteen and drunk. He probably thought he was invincible."

Maybe he did, but I wasn't bound by the same rules and regulations. "Is there any chance someone else was there? Maybe someone who rigged the accelerator at the bottom of the hill and then sent Davey Mendoza to his death?"

Jawarski looked up from the file wearing a deep scowl. "Murder?"

"Why not?"

"You want me to list all the reasons, or just the top three?"

I smiled at his attempt at humor. "Give me the top three."

"Okay, how's this for starters? How could Mendoza have been alert enough to try to stop the car, but so out of it he let someone put him in that position in the first place?"

"What if it was more than one person? What if three guys overpowered him or something?"

"Such as Hendrix, Ingersol, and Escott?"

I grinned. "If you insist, we can use them for argument's sake."

"Okay, what's the motive? And how did they force him to drive?"

He had me there. Everything fit perfectly-at least in my head it did-except for the motive. There didn't seem to be any reason for anyone to want Davey Mendoza dead. "We'll have to work on that," I admitted. "What about opportunity? I know they were all at the party together, but maybe Mendoza wasn't the only one who left early."

"Maybe not. Why don't you ask Hendrix about that when you see him tonight?" Jawarski teased.

I called his bluff. "Good idea. I'll do that."

His expression sobered immediately. "I don't want you talking to Hendrix about this case again, Abby. I don't want you talking to Ingersol or Escott, either. Or to Ginger Ames. From here on out, you leave this investigation to the department."

"Come on, Jawarski. I'm the best person you've got working on this case, and you know it."

"I won't deny that you've gathered some information that may turn out to be valuable, but you haven't brought one sc.r.a.p of proof. There's nothing here I can use."

Chapter 35.

"Abby, call K Hendrix."

I found the note taped to my front door when I got home from Jawarski's office. It was only a few minutes after seven, but Divinity's windows were dark and the parking lot empty. Jawarski and I had gone round and round over the evidence- or lack thereof-for hours. Much as I hated to admit it, there really wasn't a single shred of evidence to support my theory, but I still believed I was on the right track.

The storm had rolled into the valley while I was at the police station, and as I unlocked the front door, thick flakes drifted from the sky. The snow was falling so fast it had already covered my footsteps in the parking lot.

I ripped the note from the door and crumpled it in my fist. The sky itself could have been falling, but I still wouldn't have been in the mood to talk to Kerry Hendrix. I checked my watch, saw that I had an hour until practice, and groaned aloud. Maybe I'd get lucky, and the coach would cancel because of the storm. It couldn't hurt to wish.

I fed Max a couple of Beggin' Strips and filled his dish with kibble, then found a can of c.o.ke in the fridge and carried it into the living room. My conversation with Jawarski had left me exhausted and disheartened, and the only thing I wanted to do was watch a little mindless, empty entertainment and go to bed early.

I pulled my emergency stash of toffee from the end table and munched a couple of pieces. Half a can of c.o.ke later, I felt revived enough to face the world again-at least for a couple of minutes. Yes, Aunt Grace's toffee is that good.

Since I couldn't put it off any longer, I steeled myself for the miserable experience of talking to Coach Hendrix, smoothed out Karen's note, and dialed the number. As I punched in the last four, I became dimly aware of something niggling at the back of my mind. A moment of deja vu, maybe. That strange, unsettling feeling that you've been somewhere and done something before. The phone rang twice before I realized that the moment was more than deja vu.

I stabbed at the Off b.u.t.ton and shot up from the couch, almost tripping over Max as I raced to my bedroom. I threw open the closet and tore through the laundry hamper, trying to find the jeans I'd been wearing the day Elena gave me the phone number Hobbs had used when he was alive. I found three sweaters, four pairs of panties, socks, towels, and the black pants I'd worn to Richie and Dylan's dinner party, but the jeans weren't there.

Frustrated, I searched the bathroom, the floor of my closet, and finally lifted the bed skirt so I could check under there. When I spotted a denim leg, I yanked the jeans out from under the bed and shoved my hand into the pocket. There, deep in the bottom of the pocket, I found a crumpled piece of paper. Hands shaking, I smoothed it out and compared the numbers. The first time through, I thought I'd dreamed the match. After the second, the air left my lungs in a whoosh, and I sat back against the headboard.

So there it was. Proof that Lou Hobbs had used Kerry Hendrix's phone. I dialed Jawarski's number, got his voice mail, and left a message. I thought about walking back to the police station, but with the snow coming down so fast and thick, Jawarski was probably out dealing with fender benders and slide-offs. I'd have to wait until morning to tell him.

I called Kerry, got his voice mail, and left a message.

I tucked the number and message away into a dresser drawer, changed into clothes for practice, and put milk on the stove to heat. If I had to go out in the storm again, I wanted something warm and soothing to take with me.

The temptation to curl up with a good book was almost painfully strong, but every instinct I had was screaming that Kerry was involved in Lou Hobbs's death, and I didn't want to do anything that might make him more suspicious.

I tossed Max a rawhide bone and was just pouring the cocoa into a travel mug when someone knocked on the door. "It's about time," I said as I threw open the door. "Do you know how many times I've tried calling you?"

"You've called me?" Marshall looked both surprised and pleased.

"Oh. Sorry. No, I thought you were someone else." I stood there uncertainly for a minute, unsure whether to invite him in or turn him away.

"You're worried about why I'm here. Well, don't be. I'm not here for . . . you and me. I need to talk to you about Ginger."

My hesitation vanished immediately. I stepped aside to let him enter. "I have practice in about forty minutes, but I have a few minutes. I was just making homemade cocoa. Would you like some?"

He nodded and blew on his hands to warm them. "I'd love some, thanks."

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back."

"I can come in there if you want. I don't mind the kitchen."

"Whichever you want," I called back. "It won't take long."

He came to the door and watched me while I poured the milk and measured the cocoa. "Ginger's in trouble," he said softly, "and I need some advice. She's gotten herself involved with the wrong people, and they've pulled her into a scheme that's going to send her to prison if she gets caught."

I glanced over my shoulder. "Selling fake antiques?"

Marshall's face fell. "You know?"

"I figured it out."

"Have you . . . have you told anyone else?"

"Have I told the police?" I nodded. "Jawarski and I both witnessed a delivery, so it's safe to say the police are aware of what she's doing. I don't know how they'll catch her, or when, but they will. If you want to help her, convince her to turn herself in and testify against the others. That might get her a lesser sentence."

Marshall sank into one of the chairs at my chipped old table and buried his face in his hands. "I had no idea what she was doing until tonight," he said when he could speak again.

I wasn't sure I believed that, but I pretended to.

"Ginger's not a strong woman, you know. She never has been. She's easily persuaded." He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a thin laugh. "She was an easy mark for those guys back in high school, and nothing's changed."

"Why did she decide to come back to Paradise?"

"Kerry talked her into coming back. He could always get her to do anything he wanted. Dwayne had taken these antiquing cla.s.ses, and Kerry got the bright idea about having him fake some antiques to make some quick cash. They needed someone to front the business for them."

"But why Ginger? I'm sure she wasn't the only woman who would have gone along with Kerry's scheme."

Marshall lifted one shoulder. "I don't know why they wanted her, but I know why she agreed. She's had a rough time the past few years: a couple of divorces and a bankruptcy, and she lost her job just a few weeks before Kerry called her. She was feeling desperate."

"Out of curiosity, what kind of car does Ginger drive?"

"A black Tahoe. Why?"

"With a broken light on the side?"

A confused scowl creased Marshall's face. "I don't know. Is it important?"

"Not right now. Don't worry about it." I thought about that while I stirred the cocoa into the milk and watched it dissolve. "I understand being desperate," I said, "but if you want me to feel sorry for her, forget it."