“And he could’ve done this. Screwed with us like this.” Matt looked away, stared off, shaking his head. “Threatening Ro, shooting at her, for God’s sake. Now messing with equipment. We never did anything to him or his. Never did a damn thing, and he can’t say the same.”

“Right now, we take care of our own, so grab that shower and some chow, then report to the ready room.”

“Okay. Listen, if you need me back on the jump list—”

“We’ll leave you off for now.”

“I appreciate it, a lot. My parents should be in late this afternoon. I’m going to let them know I might have to cut it short. I don’t want you having to shuffle somebody into my spot with the other crap on your plate, too. You call me in if you need me.”

“Copy that.” He gave Matt a slap on the shoulder.

He headed back into Operations. He had twenty-one men in Alaska, and didn’t expect to see them back until the next day, soonest. Another load barely touched down, and a fire in California where they might need some Zulies before it was said and done. Dry conditions predicted for the next two weeks.

He’d be damned if he’d send the first load up without being sure, absolutely sure, every strap, every buckle, every f**king zipper and switch passed the most rigorous inspection.

He thought of Jim, felt the familiar heartsickness. Accidents couldn’t be controlled, but he could and would control this human-generated bullshit.

At the end of a very long day, Lieutenant Quinniock drove out to the base. He wanted to go home, see his wife and kids, have dinner with them the way men did who weren’t cops.

Most of all he wanted to be done with Leo Brakeman.

The man was a stone wall, wouldn’t give an inch.

Every pass he or DiCicco had taken at him—together or separately—met with the same result.

Zero.

Brakeman just sat there, arms folded, eyes hard, jaw tight under that scruffy man-of-the-mountain beard. He’d lost ten pounds, gained ten years, and still wouldn’t budge from his I’m-being-framed routine.

Now he demanded—through his lawyer, as he’d stopped talking al-together—a polygraph. So they’d have to go through that dance and shuffle.

Quinniock suspected if the polygraph results indicated Brakeman was a lying sack of shit who couldn’t tell the truth over the size of his own dick, he’d claim the polygraph framed him.

They had circumstantial evidence aplenty. They had motive, means, opportunity and the fact that he’d run. What they didn’t have was a confession.

The DA didn’t want to charge Leo Brakeman, former All-State tackle, a Missoula native, with no priors and deep ties to the community, with the murder of his own daughter without a confession.

And since every goddamn bit of that evidence tied Dolly’s murder with Latterly’s, they couldn’t charge him with that, either.

Need a break, Quinniock thought. Need a little off-the-clock before going back the next day to beat his head against the DA’s. But first he had to see what the hell Michael Little Bear wanted.

Once on base, he aimed directly for Little Bear’s office.

“You looking for L.B.?”

Quinniock stopped, nodded at the man who hailed him. “That’s right.”

“He just walked over to the loft. Do you know where that is?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He changed direction. It struck him how quiet the base seemed. None of the crew training outside or hustling from building to building, though he had seen a couple of them hauling ass down one of the service roads in a jeep. Either a test or a joyride, he decided.

When he made his way to the loft, passed what he knew they called the ready room, he saw why.

Here the hive of activity buzzed. Men and a handful of women worked on tools, taking them apart or putting them back together. Others pulled equipment off shelves or replaced it.

Routine inspection? he wondered, considered the organized chaos as he entered the loft.

There he saw chutes spread on counters, being unpacked or meticulously repacked. More hung in the tower waiting to be inspected or already tagged for repair or repacking.

He spotted Little Bear standing beside Lucas Tripp at one of the counters.

“Iron Man.” Quinniock offered a hand with genuine pleasure. “Have they talked you back on the team?”

“Just helping out for the day. How’s it going, Lieutenant?”

“I’ve had better days, and I’ve had worse. You wanted to talk to me?” he said to L.B.

“Yeah. Where’s the tree cop?”

“Seeing to some tree cop business. Did you want her here?”

“Not especially. I have crews in Alaska, and another just back this morning from Wyoming.”

“I heard about the fires in Alaska, threatening Denali Park. What’s the status?”

“They hope to have it contained within a few hours. It’s been a long, hard haul and my people jumped that fire with defective equipment.”

“Is that what this is about?” Quinniock took another look around the loft. “You’re running an equipment inspection?”

“What this is about is the fact that the equipment was tampered with. Stripped valves in pumpers, and one of them went into Wyoming. Chain saws with burned-out spark plugs and a frayed starter cord.”

“I don’t want to tell you your business, but all of that sounds like it could easily be simple wear and tear, something that got overlooked during the height of a busy season.”

L.B.’s face went hard as stone. “We don’t overlook a damn thing. Equipment comes in from a fire, it’s gone over, checked out and checked off before it goes back in rotation. The same valve stripped on three pumpers, and two in the load that went to Denali?”

“Okay, that’s a stretch.”

“You’re damn right. We’re inspecting everything, and we’ve already found two more defective saws, and four piss bags with the nozzles clogged with putty. We’re not careless; we can’t afford to be. We don’t overlook.”

“All right.”

“We have to inspect every chute, drogue, reserve. And thank God so far none of the ones we’ve gone over show any signs of tampering. Do you know how long it takes to repack a single chute?”

“About forty-five minutes. I’ve taken the tour. All right,” Quinniock repeated, and took out his notebook. “You have a list of who checked off the equipment?”