“Sharon!” he yelled. He picked up a black remote from the arm of his chair and switched the TV off, cutting off the announcer’s voice. “You call me Zeke or Mr. Remus.” he said gruffly. He pointed toward the couch. “Sit.”

I glanced at Jesse, who stayed on his feet. I was beginning to pick up on the psychology of Jesse’s interviews, and I was guessing that he didn’t want Remus to feel like he was in charge. I played along, although I really wanted to sit down. I tried not to look longingly at the couch.

A woman who was also in her sixties came through the open doorway. Sharon Remus, presumably, was a thickset, unadorned woman with sensible short hair the color of cement blocks. She wore plain, unflattering jeans and an equally plain and unflattering blue button-down that did nothing for her sallow complexion. Her eyes, unlike the rest of her, were stunning: big and Elizabeth Taylor-violet, with a thick fringe of black eyelashes that couldn’t have been anything but natural. On a pretty or even pleasant face, the eyes would have made Sharon Remus a knockout. Instead, they seemed jarringly out of place.

She blinked those big eyes at us in combined terror and relief, like she’d been expecting the police to knock on her door for a long time now. “This is my wife, Sharon,” Zeke said, nodding at her. “I already forgot your names.”

“Detective Jesse Cruz,” Jesse said again, reaching out to shake hands with both of them. “And this is Scarlett Bernard; she’s a civilian consultant.” I shook their hands too. Sharon’s was plump and a little damp, like she’d just dried her hands on a towel that wasn’t dry to begin with. Zeke Remus’s hand was big and rough, and he squeezed just a little too hard. He eyed my leg and cane as though he was dying to ask me what had happened, but had thought better of it.

“Please, sit down,” Sharon said nervously, and this time Jesse moved toward the couch. I followed gratefully. “Let me just grab a chair from the kitchen. Do you all want coffee or some lemonade . . .” she trailed off, unsure of the social protocol of a police visit.

“They’re fine, Sharon,” Zeke said dismissively. He reminded me of an old-fashioned country preacher, although I had no idea if the family had any connection to religion. There was just something about the commanding, self-possessed way he stood, and the way Sharon Remus kept glancing at him with nervous deference. She scurried toward the kitchen, coming back with a plain straight-backed wooden chair.

“What do you consult on?” Sharon asked me as she took her seat.

I opened my mouth, though I’m not sure what I would have said, but Jesse jumped in and saved me. “Missing persons cases,” he said immediately. “Ms. Bernard is a coordinator with that department.”

Sharon nodded, looking confused. Zeke grunted. “Let’s get this over with,” he said stiffly. He looked at me, then at Jesse. “I have three sons. But I’m guessing you’re here about Hank.”

“Henry,” Sharon added, in case we were confused.

“Yes, sir,” I answered Zeke. Unlike Jesse, I’m allowed to call members of the public anything I want—but he was just the kind of guy you called “sir.”

“He’s not missing,” Sharon said hurriedly. “He lives here with us . . . but he camps a lot.”

“That’s not why we want to speak with him,” Jesse said to her. “We think he may know something about some other disappearances.”

“Who disappeared?” Zeke broke in.

“Five women in LA have gone missing in the last two weeks,” Jesse said evenly. “They were all involved in environmental causes, just like Henry.”

He didn’t come out and say that he suspected Henry of murdering them, but the implication lay thick and obvious on the table between us. I expected Zeke, at least, to raise his voice and demand that Jesse apologize. He looked like the kind of guy who demanded a lot of apologies. But instead, Zeke and Sharon Remus exchanged a complicated look.

“Hank—Henry, I mean, he prefers Henry—wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she said slowly, as if she really wanted it to be true.

“I understand, but it’s important that we ask him some questions,” Jesse responded. “When was the last time he was here?”

Zeke looked pointedly at his wife, and she scanned the ceiling, considering the question. “Maybe three weeks ago? He was going up to the Sequoias,” she added. “He has a little pickup truck that he took up there.”

The Sequoias. Why was that chiming in my brain?

“Raided the fridge first,” Zeke grumbled. He’d picked up the black remote control and was fidgeting with it.

“Have you heard from him since then?” Jesse asked.

Sharon Remus nodded eagerly. “Oh, sure. We have a system, you know. Henry calls or texts every Sunday to let me know he’s okay, when he’s traveling. He texted me this past Sunday, said everything was fine.” Understanding dawned on her face, and she said to Jesse, “Hey! You were the one who called me last night!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jesse said. Unapologetic.

Sharon looked disappointed. “I thought—I thought some parent really did like his show. He goes around to schools in the area, you know, and gives little presentations to the kids about preserving their world and all that.” Without looking down she began worrying at a cuticle. “He does it on a volunteer basis.”

Zeke snorted. “They would never pay him for it, is what she means. The schools tolerate the boy because he’s free and he brings his own photos.” Jesse and I exchanged a quick look. “The boy” was forty-four. “The other two’re straightened out,” Zeke continued, “but there’s something off about Hank. Always was.” Sharon shot him a despairing look. To his wife, Zeke added irritably, “You know I’m right, Sharon.”