“Please don’t tell me there’s another foot,” I said as we drove.

Yellen’s look said he wasn’t in the mood for humor.

“I’ve got a deputy working to find Kiley James’s journal. We’ve searched her house and her car. No luck. Lundberg says she had a locker at the rangers’ station. I want to check it out.”

We were retracing the now-familiar drive south through Homestead. We’d turned right on Ingraham Highway toward the park entrance when Yellen’s mobile rang.

“Sheriff Yellen.” As he listened his mouth bunched even tighter than before. “I’ll head over there now. Get me Scott Pierce.”

He disconnected. Seconds later his phone rang again.

“Thanks for getting right back to me. Listen, I’m on my way to search Kiley James’s locker at the rangers’ station.”

I could hear a tinny voice on the other end of the line. Couldn’t make out the words.

“Yeah, she had a locker. Brain Trust Lundberg just told me last night. I have a warrant, but I’ve gotta get back to district. If Doc Brennan brings the paper, can you toss the thing then get her home afterward?”

The buzzy staccato sounded again.

“I owe you one.” Yellen ended the call.

To me, “Change of plans. Dawn raid on a Florida City meth lab spat out a tweaker that’s my favorite for a series of arsons. I’ll drop you. Scott Pierce will get you home.”

“My car’s at the morgue.”

“Just tell Pierce where you want to go.”

A few minutes later we pulled up to the main entrance of Everglades National Park. Yellen drove past the visitors’ center, and down a road behind a sign that warned PARK RANGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. The squat frame building at the end served as a rangers’ station. The flag in front looked as limp as I felt.

As I got out, Yellen lowered his window. I circled to his side of the cruiser.

“You’ll get to that foot ASAP?” he asked.

“As soon as I can.” I meant it. No one was more eager to finish this than I was.

The window rose with a hum and Yellen was gone.

I climbed the steps and entered the rangers’ station.

Unlike the visitors’ center, the place was stark and functional. Desks and filing cabinets dotted the room, chosen for function over form. A collection of rescue equipment was stacked to my left, and a handful of park radios were propped in chargers to my right. At the back of the room, a stuffed alligator wore clown-size sunglasses and a University of Florida cap.

A green-uniformed woman occupied a desk near the door. Her name tag said H. FLORES. Dark brown hair knotted at the nape of her neck. Harry Potter glasses. A face that was neither friendly nor unfriendly.

“I’m looking for Scott Pierce,” I said.

“And you are?”

“Temperance Brennan.”

Flores made a call, listened, disconnected. “Sorry. No answer.”

“He must be on his way,” I said.

“You can cop a squat over there.” Flores pointed to a collection of plastic chairs that looked decidedly uncomfortable. They were.

Five minutes passed.

I read the warrant. Kiley James had been assigned locker 53.

I drummed impatient fingers on the unyielding armrest. Eyed a wall clock that told me three more minutes had passed. I told myself I’d wait fifteen. Inspected my nails. Studied the park maps and pictures of local wildlife adorning the walls.

At fourteen minutes fifty-five seconds I popped to my feet and crossed to Flores.

“I have a warrant.” I held up the judge’s paper. “If you could point me to the lockers, I’ll get out of your hair.”

She looked at the paper and nodded. “Okay, locker room’s down that hall, fourth door on your left.”

“Tell Pierce where I’ve gone when he gets here.”

“Will do.”

I turned the knob and entered. The room was square, with linoleum underfoot and fluorescents overhead. Beige metal lockers lined three walls.

Movement to my right startled me.

Scott Pierce seemed equally surprised at my entrance. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, frowning.

Odd. Pierce had gotten a heads-up from Yellen. He should have been expecting me. “I’ve got the warrant for Kiley James’s locker.” I produced the document again.

“Great. I’ll take that.” Reaching out. “You can wait up front.”

A tiny alarm pinged in my head.

“Thanks, but I’ll stick around.” Tucking the warrant back into my pocket.

Pierce’s eyes bore into mine. They were dark. Unreadable. I realized I’d never seen them before. They’d always been hidden by dark lenses.

“This is my beat.” Pierce gave what I’m sure he considered a lady-killer smile. Probably practiced in the mirror every time he shaved. “We do things my way.”

“Yellen asked me to inventory the contents of the locker.” Not exactly, but the arrogant prick was pissing me off.

Another long stare. Then, “Fine. But you look when I’m done. And touch nothing.”

“I work with law enforcement in two countries.” I issued an abbreviated form of a smile. “I know evidence collection protocol.”

Before Pierce could reply, the door opened and a ranger walked in.

“Hey, Scott.” The kid looked twelve, with shaggy blond hair and acned skin.

Pierce gave a curt nod.

“What’s up?” the kid asked, oblivious to the tension. “You doing an inspection or something?”

For the first time, I noted that a number of locker doors stood ajar.

Pierce shrugged. “No clue. They were open when I got here. Probably maintenance.”

The kid went to a locker, twisted the dial on a combo lock, and flipped the door wide.

Pierce and I both waited him out. Couldn’t say why. Maybe respect for the woman whose belongings we were about to rummage.

The kid took something from his locker, slammed and relocked it, then left, calling over one shoulder, “Catch ya later!”

When the door closed, Pierce refocused on me.

“Locker number?” Glacial.

Again, I hesitated, wishing Yellen were there. Even Lundberg. Why the apprehension? Just because he was an asshole didn’t mean he wasn’t good at his job.

“Fifty-three,” I said.

Pierce picked up a bolt cutter I hadn’t noticed and crossed to the specified locker.

“Stay back.” With an effortless move he severed one of the double prongs, maneuvered the lock free, and opened the door. His body blocked my view of the locker’s interior. Intentional?

“Shouldn’t you wear gloves?” I asked his back.

Without replying, he held up the pen he was using to sift through things I couldn’t see.

A full minute passed, then he paused and looked over his shoulder. “Actually, I could use gloves. Do you mind? They’re in the supply cabinet out in the hall.”

Again the ping. Why couldn’t Pierce get his own damn gloves? I wasn’t his gofer. But I was on his turf. And clearly unwelcome.

“Sure,” I agreed. Reluctantly.

“Grab a pair for yourself.” Suddenly Mr. Congenial.

I went to the corridor, found the cabinet, and returned two minutes later. Pierce hadn’t moved.

“Here.” I held out a pair of green surgical gloves.

“Thanks.”

As Pierce pivoted, took the gloves, and snapped them on, I looked past him to the locker’s interior. A fleece jacket hung from a hook. A pair of flip-flops lay on the bottom. The shelf held sunscreen, a box of tissues, a hairbrush, and a small stack of magazines. I couldn’t see what was stored behind the front row of items.

“There’s not much.” Pierce followed my gaze.

“The journal?”

Pierce shook his head. “Damn shame. I was hoping it might help catch this bastard.”

I felt a twinge of guilt for my unkind thoughts. The guy was probably just doing his job.

“You want help with the inventory?” Pierce asked.

“Thanks.” I dug a pen and small spiral from my purse.

Pierce called out articles as he removed them from the locker. I recorded each. In addition to what had been obvious at first glance, there were granola bars, a box of tampons, lip balm, dirty socks. Mundane stuff.

“Scott?” Ranger Flores’s head was poking through the partially open door. “Can I borrow you a minute?”

“Be right back.” Thrown to me as he followed her out.

I stepped to the locker and lifted the magazines. Nothing hidden below. Balancing the pile on one palm, I ran the fingers of my other hand along the locker’s metal seams. Zilch.

What had I expected? Geo-coordinates for the journal’s hiding place etched on the shelf? Notes secreted in a crack?

As I was replacing the magazines, the top three slid to the floor. I bent to retrieve them, and spotted a corner of paper sticking from the pages of one. I tugged the paper, and two sheets slid out. One looked like a page torn from a magazine. The other was lined in blue, filled with girlish handwriting. Jotted letters and numbers, not sentences. Identical crease patterns suggested the two sheets had been folded together.

The doorknob clicked. I quickly slipped the papers into my notepad. A violation of scene protocol, but I wanted to examine them in private.

Pierce joined me and eyed the escapee magazines.

“Sorry.” Chilly grin. “They slid.”

A curt nod was his only reply. So much for conviviality.

Wordlessly, Pierce gathered and shook each fallen magazine. I watched, anxious. Nothing fluttered out.

Pierce set the magazines on a bench and straightened to face me. “That’s it.”

I nodded. “I’ll get this list to Yellen.”

Pierce studied me for a very long moment. Appeared to dislike what he saw.

I stripped off my gloves and tossed them into a trash bin.

“It’s been real.” I turned to leave.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Pierce’s tone stopped me at the door.

I turned, mind scrambling for an excuse to justify confiscating the papers.

Pierce dangled his keys. “I’m your ride.”

I exhaled breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “So you are.”