AFTER THEY CALLED it a night, Orson grabbed Luke’s arm. “Can we take a walk?”

Luke looked at his boss and friend and could tell there was something serious behind the request. “Sure.”

He followed Orson out into the hotel parking lot. Abby had already gone to bed and Woody was on the phone with his dog sitter.

“What’s up, buddy?” Luke asked.

“I want to ask you a personal question.” He faced Luke with his hands in his pockets. “I just wondered about . . . Faye. I mean . . . are you two . . . uh . . . ?” Orson was uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

“Faye? We’re not dating anymore, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Relief flooded his friend’s face. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“I thought you were sweet on her.”

Orson’s face reddened. “I was about to ask her out when you jumped in. Good thing we didn’t have to fight about it. I’d have kicked your butt.”

“Oh yeah?” Luke raised his fists in a mock fighting posture.

“Yeah,” Orson said, doing the same, then dropping his fists and holding his arms outstretched. “But I wouldn’t want to mess up that pretty face in the middle of a case.” He grinned.

Luke extended his hand to shake Orson’s. “I think you’ll be perfect for her, my friend.”

They shook, shared a brotherly hug, and went off to their separate rooms. Luke found himself happy for both of his friends, really happy.

The next day their fake DNA story ran in the paper, along with the in-depth story about the cold case squad itself, why it started, its success so far and plans for the future. It was a great story, adding to the initial story Federer had written about the squad looking into Ciara’s murder. It even generated some phone calls to the dedicated tip line. Unfortunately, most of the calls they received that morning were not helpful. Two more people called saying aliens had kidnapped Ciara, and what happened to her was a result of their failed tests. A couple more callers claimed they were certain horrible Harkin was a serial killer with more bodies buried under his junk.

Orson and Woody headed for Los Osos to conduct surveillance on Considine while Abby and Luke left early to start on the winery search.

Their first stops were to the wineries located in and around San Luis Obispo. On the list Victoria had composed, there were seven in the SLO area. A website for wine tasting in San Luis Obispo said that the bulk of vineyards in the area could be visited within a fifteen- to twenty-minute drive in any direction. They weren’t doing any tasting; they were just asking questions.

The biggest problem with their cover story was the fact that grape harvest time was long past. It was now late January; grapes were generally harvested in late summer and early fall. The majority of migrant workers were gone. At the first vineyard they visited, the owner told them they’d never find the guy they were looking for.

“From twenty years ago?” He shook his head.

Abby embellished the story. “The tip we received said the man is still working in the area, and he’s here now. We just have to find out where.”

“Well, good luck to you.” He studied the description they’d drawn up of their “witness.” “No one close to this works here, but I think I may have seen this guy. Just can’t help you with where.”

Abby left him her card and he promised he’d call if he remembered where he’d seen their man before.

They left the tasting room and headed back to their car. It was Luke who saw him first. Abby felt him stiffen next to her.

“What is it?” she asked, glancing at Luke. He was looking straight ahead. She followed his gaze and they both stopped.

J. P. Winnen was leaning against their car. He was in civilian clothes: cargo pants, T-shirt, baseball cap.

“What are you doing here?” Luke asked.

“Wine tasting. My turn. What does this place have to do with Ciara?”

Luke started to say something and Abby nudged him to stop. She could feel his anger and didn’t want to hit Winnen with it yet.

“Why, good news,” Abby said brightly. “We got a tip. There was a witness to the dumping of Ciara’s body. We’re just trying to find him.”

Winnen paled noticeably, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “How is that . . . ?” He rubbed his chin. “You’re sure?”

“Yep,” Luke said, following Abby’s lead. “The tipster was genuine, the tip gold. We’re working a hot trail right now.”

Winnen seemed to gather himself. He straightened up and moved away from the car. “Wow, I guess that is great news. Great news.”

“It is,” Abby said with a smile.

“What’s the deal with this new DNA test?”

“You can read all about it in the newspaper.”

He hiked a shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, but is it the real deal? We’re all on the same team here; I want this guy caught as bad as you guys. Maybe more. If I can help . . .”

Luke shook his head. “We have everything under control. Don’t you worry. We’re close to wrapping up this case with an arrest.” He smiled. “Enjoy your wine, Officer Winnen.”

As they drove away, Abby said, “He’s got ants in his britches, don’t you think?”

“I do.” Luke laughed. “We really rocked his boat.”

She didn’t mind the wild-goose chase much anymore and couldn’t wait to tell Orson about the contact with Winnen. She phoned him and let him know.

“That’s great.” Orson was equally enthused. “We didn’t even have to circulate that story. He was nervous enough to keep tabs on you.”

“Yep,” Abby agreed as she ended the call, at that moment happy to have something to do while they waited to see if anything popped with their DNA story. She’d rather be moving than sitting and watching Considine. And she was beside Luke while they drove through beautiful countryside. The winter had been mild, and the drought in California severe, but in December and most of January there had been some rain, so wildflowers were poking their heads out of the ground in a lot of places.

By late Wednesday afternoon, they’d covered six of the seven vineyards in SLO. At a couple of places they ran into workers fearing that they were immigration. Orson’s direction on that had been clear: “We’re not immigration. So if someone is illegal, we’ll just forward the information to the proper place. But make sure that’s all it is. Our fugitive is cagey and resourceful. We need to turn over every rock.”

Abby and Luke worked hard to assuage immigration fears, and they usually got people to start talking. They would ask about the guys they worked with and around, and conversation flowed. In spite of the good conversations, the only interesting information they’d collected was that men at three of the vineyards mentioned a neighboring vineyard manager who everyone thought was quirky.

“He speaks Spanish too well,” one man said. “Says he’s Mexican but talks like a Spaniard.”

“That guy obviously made an impression,” Luke said.

“Yep, too bad we’re not looking for a Spaniard pretending to be a Mexican.”