“It just seems that Stanford or UC would be the first choice, given they’re California institutions and Stanford is where he went to school.”

Nora tried to suppress an upwelling of irritation. “Why are you so suspicious of Clive?”

“I didn’t say I was suspicious—”

“It’s obvious. Why?”

“Because everything seems to revolve around him, in one way or another. The journal, the dig, the gold.”

Nora stared at her. “What you have are a bunch of vague notions. You’re trying to put them in order, but you can’t. Because there is no order.”

“I’m still in the evidence-gathering phase—”

“Look at it from my perspective. You come up here, hurl around a bunch of accusations without really knowing what you’re talking about. You say a guy who fell off a cliff might have been pushed—without proof. I know Clive. He’s a straight shooter. He could’ve come up here and taken the gold. But he didn’t.”

“How do you know he didn’t?”

“Well, if he’d already collected the gold, what would we be doing here?”

Corrie didn’t answer.

“And if he didn’t find the gold, why would he pull in the Institute, when that prevents any chance of him profiting from the gold himself? You’re fishing—and hindering an excavation that’s already had more than its share of problems.” She paused, irritation increasing. “Look, everybody else in law enforcement who’s seen the site is satisfied. It’s pretty clear you’re a rookie, and you’re eager to see bogeymen where there are none.”

Corrie flushed deeply. Nora realized she had hit home with the comment, and immediately regretted it.

After a moment the agent said a terse “Thank you,” turned, and left.

* * *

As Corrie walked into camp, the group sitting around the fire fell silent. She headed for her tent and Burleson rose.

“A Special Agent Morwood called on the sat phone. Wanted you to call back. Phone’s in the equipment tent.”

Corrie headed to the tent, picked up the box with the sat phone, and carried it to her own tent, where she could speak in privacy.

“How are things going?” Morwood asked when she reached him.

Corrie hesitated. “I’m making progress. Everyone’s been interviewed, and I’ve assembled quite a lot of information.”

“Any hard evidence connecting the missing Parkin skull with your case?”

“No hard evidence, but I’m still working on it.”

A silence, and then Morwood said, “We’ve got a lot to talk about, and we can’t do it over this phone. I’d like you to come down tomorrow and meet me at the Truckee sheriff’s department.”

“But I haven’t finished my investigation up here—”

“Agent Swanson, I want you to come down. I’ve already spoken to the sheriff, and he can make available a conference room where we can speak privately. If you leave in the morning, you should reach Truckee around two o’clock. Can we make it for three?”

“I…Yes, sir.”

“Good. Bring your tent and gear.”

37

May 17

THE NEVADA COUNTY Sheriff’s Office in Truckee was an ugly midcentury modern building with a flat roof, surrounded by a parking lot. Low dark clouds accumulated in the afternoon sky as Corrie headed across the asphalt lot to the building. Her butt hurt from the ride down the trail, and her knees were stiff. As she approached, she hung her badge around her neck.

“Special Agent Morwood is waiting for you in the conference room,” the receptionist said as she entered the building. “Third door on the right.”

Corrie walked quickly with her head down, successfully evading Sheriff Devlin, whose door was open. Morwood rose as she entered, extended his hand.

“This is a nicer town than most to conduct an investigation, don’t you think?” he asked, closing the door. “Beautiful mountain scenery and fresh air. Too bad about the altitude, though—for me, anyway.” He punctuated this with a cough.

“Thank you for coming out here, sir.”

“Let’s get down to business.”

Corrie took out her notebook and thumbed through the pages that summarized her findings. She quickly described the examination of Peel and the surrounding site; the fact that the Parkin skull was missing; her suspicions about Benton; the supposed existence of the treasure; and her conclusion that Peel had likely been hit over the head before being pushed off the cliff—making it a homicide. In conclusion, she reviewed her interviews with each member of the group.

She lowered the notebook. Morwood had listened intently, and now he eased back in his chair and let out a long exhale. What was that—disapproval? Frustration?

He fished a file out of his briefcase and put it on the table, sliding it toward Corrie. “The autopsy report on Peel.”

Corrie took it and opened it, but already Morwood was speaking again. “Conclusion: death by misadventure.”

She skimmed the contents before replying. “With respect, sir, I think he’s wrong.”

“He’s not just some amateur county coroner. This guy is highly trained and experienced, with a degree in forensic pathology.”

“But my degree is—”

Morwood held up a hand. “Corrie?” he said gently. “If I may?”

Corrie fell silent.

“Let’s get back to basics here. Was a crime committed up there at that dig?”

“I think Peel—”

“Forget Peel. It’s officially an accident. Outside of that: where’s the crime?”

“Before I got here, we had Parkin bodies disappearing all over. Now the Parkin skull found at this site is gone, too. There’s twenty million in gold hidden up there. I think the missing Parkin bones are related to other crimes I’m investigating, and the gold is, at the very least, a complicating factor.”

Morwood issued another sigh. “The bottom line is, once again: where’s the crime? And the answer is: there is none. You’ve gathered a lot of scattered evidence and drawn some unfounded suspicions, but that doesn’t amount to a coherent theory. Nor does the evidence offer a link to the other Parkin disappearances. The FBI doesn’t investigate rumors or conjectured crimes. We operate on facts. We need an actual crime—and there’s none here.”

“I still think there must be a connection. It can’t all be coincidence.”

“Corrie, I’ve been ghosting people now for almost ten years. I’ve seen this happen many times with young agents freshly minted from Quantico. They’re bursting with energy, they want to make their bones, and they see suspicion in every face and conspiracy in every coincidence. I authorized you to come here to look for a Parkin connection. I was skeptical, as you know, but you were persuasive and you were persistent, and in the end that’s what ghosting is all about: letting the new agent find things out for herself. And your own briefing just now has convinced me this is a genuine archaeological site, it is being excavated properly, and everyone is doing their job. There may or may not be gold here, but there’s no mystery surrounding it. Everything is aboveboard and accounted for.”