Piper interrogated John, not me. He would remind Piper of that when he delivered the police psychologist. He ducked away from the chopper with its blades still whirling and struck out for the vehicle yard, where he borrowed Piper’s personal SUV hybrid, having left his own with John in San Francisco, and drove off toward the tree crops. Marilyn had been assigned to the mowing crew, he’d learned with a phone call, and the crew would be in the walnut grove today. He saw Jim Tate first, the foreman, astride his palomino at the edge of the grove. Tom switched off his engine, so as not to startle the horse, and cruised to a stop within feet of Jim. Tom push-buttoned his window all the way down. “Hey, Jim.” “Hey, Tom.” “You got Marilyn Michaelsen back there somewhere?” Tom glanced into the trees. “Sure do.” “She’s coming with me. Won’t be back today neither.” “I’ll go get her for you.”
