The Flagstaff Police Department was housed on the opposite end of the same large government building as the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office. Even though she hadn’t been there since she’d left home after college nearly fourteen years ago, Regan knew the building well. It hadn’t changed much. She expected there would be plenty of new faces, but the first one she saw was familiar and friendly.
“Regan Merritt, as I live and breathe,” said the guard as she entered the building.
“Since when do you work for the PD?” she asked Raul Ramirez, who’d been a deputy who worked under her father when John was sheriff.
“Since my heart attack two years ago,” he said. “Lateral move. Flagstaff needed a desk sergeant, I qualified, no patrol. The chief and the new sheriff worked it out, and I appreciate it. I still have eighteen months before I can retire with full benefits.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“Growing old isn’t fun,” he said. “Though, I’ll admit I do like the regular hours and more time to play with my grandkids. Amber had six kids, can you believe that?” Raul had one daughter, she remembered. She was a few years older than Regan.
“Six? Wow! Good for you.”
He laughed. “She barely remembers what day it is, but Josh has a good job so she’s able to stay home until the youngest starts school. Makes it tight on them financially, but we gave them the house a few years back, and my bride and I moved into a town house on the golf course. No maintenance, no stress, and a much smaller place to keep clean.”
Raul had been married for at least forty years and always called his wife his bride. It was endearing.
“How can I help you this afternoon?”
“I’m here to see Detective Steven Young. Is he in?”
“I believe so. He’ll want to know what it’s regarding.”
“The Candace Swain homicide.”
“Give me a minute.”
She nodded, walked around the lobby looking at the photos—two officers lost in the line of duty since FPD had been founded more than a hundred years ago. She knew one of them: they’d gone to the same high school, and he was a year behind her. He’d only been twenty-eight when he was killed. Risk was part of the job they signed up for, but his murder was completely senseless. She had adjusted to her dad leaving every morning with the idea that he might not come home. He’d once told her that no matter what, when you leave your family, tell them you love them.
“It doesn’t matter if you had a disagreement, a fight, if you’re still angry even after a good night’s sleep. Tell them you love them and you’ll work it out, no matter what. Because tomorrow is never guaranteed.”
She understood more than she wanted to. She had accepted that she might lose her dad in the line of duty. She’d accepted that she might lose her own life in the line of duty. She had never conceived of losing her son.
She still didn’t know how to accept it. She could face the truth: Chase was dead. But accepting the facts was a world different than accepting that she would never hold her son again, watch him play ball, hear his laugh.
Raul called over to her. “Young is coming out.”
She breathed deeply, controlled her emotions, turned to face her friend. “Thank you.”
Five minutes later, a man she suspected was Steven Young turned down the hall and walked toward the lobby. He was tall with dark eyes. Late thirties, early forties. Well-dressed. He wore black-framed eyeglasses and a gun in his shoulder holster.
“Merritt?” he said.
“Detective.” She extended her hand. He hesitated, then shook it.
“Follow me.”
He knew why she was here. His poker face was good, but the tension in his grip revealed him.
She followed him down the hall to a small conference room, the first on the right, and he motioned for her to sit, which she did. He closed the door and sat across from her.
“You know why I’m here,” she said.
“I listened to Vega’s podcast,” he said.
That didn’t surprise her. If she were in the same position, she would have listened as well.
When she didn’t say anything, he added, “I was surprised that a former US Marshal would participate in something like that.”
“Like what?”
He frowned, leaned back. Assessed her. “A sensational program like that podcast.”
“My former advisor from NAU asked me to talk to Lucas. I was intrigued by his program so agreed to be interviewed.”
“I wish you had talked to me first.”
“I’m no longer in law enforcement,” she said, which should explain why she felt no need to go to local cops for permission to talk about a cold case. “I know Lucas talked to you at one point.”
“Lucas Vega is a smart, stubborn, angry young man. Emphasis on young. I don’t know what he told you about his conversation with me, but he essentially accused me of being lazy and not caring about the victim. He threw information I already knew at me and demanded I answer his questions. I showed him the door. Why are you helping him?”
Carefully, she said, “I’ve become invested in this case, primarily because it’s attached to my alma mater. Lucas’s quest to retrace Candace Swain’s steps from when she left Sigma Rho until she was found dead is a viable approach.”
“Most of the people who knew Candace are no longer around campus. Maybe a dozen or so are still in the sorority.”
She nodded. “If you listened to the podcast, you know several people have come forward with sightings of the victim during the week she was supposedly missing.”