Victim Six. Gregg Olsen

      It was after eleven, and Kendall called Tulio, figuring that no matter how late he’d worked, he’d want to talk to her.

      A younger man, who identified himself as Leon Pena, answered.

      “One minute. Tulio! The police are on the phone!”

      “Detective Stark, do you have news?” His voice was full of hesitation and hope.

      Kendall locked her eyes on Celesta’s photo and spoke into the handset. “I’m afraid not.” She refrained from reminding him that they’d only had the case a day, but she knew that even an less than savvy observer who watched any TV whatsoever knew that missing-persons cases were solved in hours, not days. Days of searching usually meant someone was dead or had run away.

      “Tulio, have you had any problems out there with other pickers?”

      “Problems? What do you mean?”

      “Did anyone threaten you or cause problems with you where you were picking?”

      There was a short pause. “No. No, Detective. We did not want any trouble. We heard some Asians out there that day, but we never saw them. We never talked to them.”

      “All right. I have one other question, Tulio. This is touchy, difficult. . . .”

      She could almost hear him gulp on the other end of the line. She wanted to let him down easy, if there was any possibility that Celesta Delgado had left him for another man, no matter how unlikely the scenario.

      “How were you and Celesta getting along? Did you argue?”

      “We were in love.”

      “In love, yes,” she said, repeating his words. “But was she happy? Do you think she might have been seeing anyone?”

      “No. She loved me. Only me.”

      Only you, she thought. Of course, only you.

      She told Tulio that she’d continue working the case and that if she had any more questions she’d call. As she hung up, Josh Anderson appeared in the doorway. For the first time Kendall noticed he was wearing a new suit, a gray chalk-striped outfit with a crisp blue shirt and a raspberry tie.

      “How’s your day going?” he asked.

      “Fine,” she said. “In court today or going to your homecoming dance?”

      “Funny,” he said, sliding into a chair across from her. “I’ve got some important business to attend to.”

      “Okay.” Kendall looked back down at her work.

      “Aren’t you going to ask what it is?”

      She took out a highlighter and made a yellow trail through some text on the printout. “Nope.” She could feel his agitation percolate inside his brand-new suit, and she loved it. She knew that Josh Anderson was the type of man who never missed an opportunity to tell someone—particularly a woman—how smart, how successful, and just how in demand he was. She silently counted to three.

      “I’m speaking at Burien today.”

      Burien was the location of the state’s police training facility.

      “Really, Josh? I guess you forgot to mention it.” She glanced at the whiteboard hanging on the wall adjacent to her desk. In block letters, it read:

      JOSH SPEAKING ON INVESTIGATIVE RESOURCES IN MID-SIZE JURISDICTIONS

      She waited a beat. “Of course I remember. Break a leg, Josh. I want to hear all about it. I’ll work the Delgado case while you’re basking in the glow of your admirers.”

      He smiled at her. She had his number. And that’s why he liked her most of the time.

      Those who worked in it called it a brush shed, but Every-Greens of Washington called their processing offices next to the Old Belfair Highway a “dream factory.” The sheet-metal-sided building was the size of a mid-century high school gymnasium with faded panels depicting bouquets that celebrated the major holidays: Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day. Kendall parked next to a row of old cars, many mud-caked with cracked windows and backseats containing baby blankets and Wendy’s food wrappers. She figured they were the cars of the processors, mothers who worked there part-time during the week and possibly up in the woods on the weekends as pickers.

      Karl Hudson was a round-faced fellow of about sixty, with heavy bags under his eyes, protruding ears, and hairy knuckles that gave him a distinctly simian appearance. He introduced himself to Kendall as the president and chief operating officer of the company that his father and mother had founded in the 1950s. Every-Greens was one of the oldest purveyors of floral greens in the state.

      “You said you’re here about Celesta Delgado.”

      “Yes, that’s right.”

      “I don’t like surprises,” he said. “So I checked. Her residency status was good. She was a good picker. Always had a permit. All our pickers do.”

      Kendall followed him into a large room with about twenty massive tables. Young and middle-aged women were busy sorting the raw bundles, trimming the stems of leaves that appeared bug-eaten or torn by the move from the forest to the bag.

      “That’s the moneymaker,” he said, indicating a bunch of salal, its dark green, almost leathery leaves glossy with water from a quick rinse. “Lasts for months in cold storage. Can’t keep up with the demand. Bet you’ve had your share of bouquets.”

      Kendall nodded. “A few.”

      “When you think about it,” he said, “we are dream makers here. Our team creates the foundation for wedding arrangements, new baby bouquets, and, yes, even memorial wreaths. Every moment marked by flowers carries a little bit of Kitsap County.”

      “Was Celesta ever a processor here?”

      Karl motioned for Kendall to take a seat in his office, which she did.

      “She was here for about a month, until she got the restaurant job. She was a good processor. She figured she could make more waiting tables. I didn’t stand in her way. Was glad to have her out in the woods with the Penas. Good people. Good workers.”

      She knew that was the bottom line for Mr. Hudson.

      “Any problems that you know of between Tulio and Celesta?”

      “I wouldn’t really know. They seemed happy.” He looked down at her file.

      “You seem hesitant, Mr. Hudson.”

      “Look, I am concerned. We’ve had some turf wars. Demand is huge, and we’ve got people coming up from Mexico and other points south canvassing the woods for any scrap of green they can find. A few years ago, it was impossible to get pickers. Now the woods are overrun with them.”

      Kendall didn’t say so, but she could feel the ugly undercurrent of racism in the way the man referred to those who worked for him—those who made him enough money to buy the Lexus she saw parked out front—as them.

      She noticed the CELEBRATING 50 YEARS gold sticker that was affixed to the outgoing mail on his desk.

      “A lot has changed in fifty years,” she said.

      “Yes. My father-in-law started this place. He’s dead now, and a good thing—he’d go apoplectic if he had to deal with what I do these days. Between you and me, these people don’t really want to work. At least, not hard. Not like they did back in the day.”

      “I see,” Kendall said, deciding she’d never buy a supermarket bouquet again.

      “I pay the processors a dollar more an hour than minimum wage, and benefits to boot,” he said, glancing through his office window, which overlooked the women hovering over tables, sorting salal.

      “Celesta and the Delgado brothers at least had the kind of entrepreneurial spirit that made this country great. You know, when it