I AWOKE TO THE FEELING I WAS BEING WATCHED.

Opened my eyes.

The room was shadowy gray. Through the balcony door I saw pewter clouds skimming the ocean.

The clock said 8:40.

“That’s going to be one sick scab.”

I rolled to my back.

Katy was standing beside my bed.

Scooching to my bum, I stuck a pillow behind my head and patted the mattress.

Katy dropped down beside me. I noticed she was holding a paper.

“You’re awake early,” I said.

“I may have screwed up.”

“Oh?”

“You know I started a blog last winter, right?”

“Right.”

“Somehow it got linked over to some biggies, like BuzzFeed and BlogBlast, even the Huffington Post. I can’t believe the number of hits I’m getting and the number of people posting comments.”

“That’s great.”

Katy sighed.

“Isn’t it?”

“Lately I’ve been blogging for Coop. I wanted to talk about the stupidity of war, of young people dying far from home, in foreign countries, you know.”

“OK.” I had no idea where she was going.

“It went totally viral. But people were all over the map, talking about kids getting killed by drunk drivers, shot in drive-bys, shot by cops.” Katy twisted a strand of hair as she spoke. “Then, two days ago, this whole new thread started. About gangs.”

Uh-oh.

“I mean, there must have been two hundred posts about kids dying as a result of gang violence.”

Katy ran the strand of hair across her upper lip. Drew it back. Repeated the gesture.

“Do you know how many gangs there are in Los Angeles alone?” Her tone reflected shock and dismay.

“Tell me you didn’t write about the case I discussed last night.”

Nothing.

“Did you?”

“You never said not to.” Defensive. “And I didn’t use any names. I couldn’t. I didn’t know any.”

“Oh, Katy.”

“They were young, someone killed them. It’s sad, Mom. Even if they were drug dealers.”

“Did you mention me?”

“No.” Quick. “But I did say the murder happened here.”

“Did you identify the gang?”

Katy nodded.

Shit!

“This morning I found this posted to my site.”

She handed me a printout of the entry.

YOU TELL CRASY LADY DOC SHE FUCC MIGHTY GANG MIGHTY GANG FUCC HER. AND ALL ENEMIES. MIGHTY GANG SOS. SONS OF SAMOA CRIP. FUCC W SOS YOU DIE!!!

My heart threw in extra beats. I forced myself to keep smiling, willed myself to stay calm for Katy’s sake.

“Lady doc. Could that be you?” Katy asked.

I put an arm around her shoulders. “The Internet’s full of loons.”

Some of whom kill, I thought.

“Could it be a threat?”

“More of a rant.”

“How could they know? About you, I mean.”

“Relax.” I decided to low-key it for now. The posting was obscure and almost illiterate. What were the chances it was related to yesterday’s collision?

“I feel awful. I never thought—”

“Hey.”

We both looked up. Lily was in the doorway wearing a bikini top and cutoff jeans. Exceptionally short ones.

“So.” I patted Katy’s leg. “You have a surf lesson. Then what do you ladies have planned for today?”

“Miss Priss has agreed to a day at the beach. Going to risk burning her skinny black butt.”

“At least mine doesn’t go all freckly-ass red.”

Katy gave a thumbs-up. Lily returned it. Both were smiling.

Whoa.

“Where’s your dad?” I asked Lily.

“In the kitchen.”

“Serving breakfast?”

She nodded.

“Let’s eat,” I said.

We were finishing Ryan’s coconut-mango pancakes when the landline rang.

“I’ll get it.” Lily fired from her chair.

“Who’s taken possession of Lily?” I asked.

“What? She’s decided she likes it here,” Katy said.

I looked at Ryan. His eyes were fixed on his daughter. In them I saw love. And something else. Hope? Suspicion? Fear?

“It’s some guy named LaManche.” Lily held the handset pressed to her chest.

“I’ll take it,” I said, surprised.

Ryan raised questioning brows. Why would the chief be calling from Montreal? I raised mine in reply. No idea.

“Thanks for breakfast. Before you take off, there’s something I’d like to ask you about.”

“I’m not taking off,” Ryan said.

Lily handed me the phone.

“Bonjour.” I rose and moved outside to the lanai. “Comment ça va?”

“Sacrifice, she lives. Temperance, you no longer return my calls?”

“I lost my BlackBerry.”

I told LaManche about the wreck.

“You are unharmed?”

“I’m good.”

“Bon. Then you have learned a valuable lesson.”

“Don’t drive too close to shoulders hugging the sea?”

“An SUV trumps a Cobalt every time.”

“Noted. What’s up?”

“Bad news.”

“I hate it when people open a conversation with that.”

“I did not. I complained about you going incommunicado.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“I received results from the DNA section on the gentleman found floating in the Hemmingford pond.”

“John Lowery. Spider.”

“Apparently not.”

“What?”

“According to the report, it is not Monsieur Lowery.”

“What?” I was hearing LaManche’s words, but their meaning was not sinking in.

“The sequencing did not match.”

“The sample was too degraded?”

“The sample was degraded, but the technicians were able to amplify. The results were exclusionary.”

“How did the LSJML get a comparative sample? Plato Lowery refused to submit a swab.”

“Local law enforcement in North Carolina was very cooperative. A sheriff whose name eludes me was particularly accommodating.”

“Beasley?” Of course. I knew this. I was in denial.

“Oui. C’est ça. Sheriff Beasley recalled that John Lowery’s mother was hospitalized for a short period before her death. He found that the hospital had retained pathology slides. One specimen was sent to AFDIL. At our request, another was sent to the LSJML DNA section. Extraction was successful, and testing shows that the Hemmingford victim is not Harriet Lowery’s son.”

“But the sample was degraded.”

“Temperance, they have confidence in the results. The sequencing does not match.”

The naughty-nurse floater was not Spider Lowery? How was that possible? Then who was he?

Did the exclusion mean I was wrong about the man buried in the Gardens of Faith Cemetery in Lumberton in 1968? Was that man Spider Lowery and not Luis Alvarez, after all?

And what about Xander Lapasa? We still didn’t know why Lapasa was found wearing Spider Lowery’s dog tag.

“—sorry. I know this is not what you hoped to hear.”

“No, sir. It’s not. But thanks for letting me know.”

I was standing with the phone in my hand when Ryan came up behind me.

“Bad news?”

I shared LaManche’s news on the DNA exclusion.

“What about the FBI fingerprint match?”

“Yeah.”

“Tabarnac.”

“Yeah.”

I was about to tell Ryan about Katy’s blog when his cell phone sounded.

Katy and Lily chimed in from the kitchen.

Sunny day. Keeping the clouds away.

“Ryan here.” Waving down the giggles.

“Uh-huh.”

Ryan patted the front of his golf shirt. Found no pocket. Pantomimed writing.

I delivered pen and paper from the counter.

“OK. Shoot.”

He scribbled what looked like two names. A long pause followed.

“When?”

Pause.

“What’s the address?”

Ryan jotted something else.

“We’ll be there.”

“That was Lô.” Jamming the phone onto his belt. “For the past three years Francis Kealoha has been running with an SOS gang operating out of Oakland. Went by Francis Olopoto.”

“Probably his original Samoan name.”

“Logo’s a guy named George Faalogo.”

“Also a Samoan name.”

“Ted Pukui’s in the wind, but they’ve bagged Pinky Atoa. They’ll let him cool his heels awhile, then grill him. Hadley Perry is otherwise engaged. Since you’re her rep on the case, Lô invited us to observe.”

“Is that standard here?”

“How would I know?” Ryan lowered his voice. “Maybe the little fellow has designs on your awesome little ass.”

I narrowed my eyes and cocked my head in the direction of our daughters.

“Then why would he invite you?” I whispered.

“He knows I have first dibs.”

My eye roll was of Olympic quality.

“Is Atoa being charged?” I asked.

“No. The guy owns a pit bull that’s supposed to be mean as a snake. Gata.”

“I think gata means snake.”

“Apparently Gata killed some neighbor’s Chihuahua. Atoa thinks he’s being hauled in because of that. Lô and Hung will focus on the dog for a while, then spring Kealoha and Faalogo.”

“I’ll be ready in ten.”

We took Ryan’s rental car, a Pontiac G6. As he drove, I used his cell to phone Danny. First off, I told him about the crash.

“Why didn’t you call right away?”

“You were at your arrival ceremony.”

Next I told him about LaManche’s report. He was as shocked as I was.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Wish I were. Have you heard from AFDIL concerning the remains I exhumed in Lumberton?”

“They said no way on nuclear DNA, doubted they’d even get mitochondrial. Besides, there’s no Alvarez maternal to provide a sample for comparison. Looks like we can kiss that avenue goodbye.”

“LaManche said Harriet Lowery’s specimens were pretty degraded. I think it’s worth trying to locate another source.”

“Will your lab foot the bill for a second round of tests?”

“Leave that to me.”

“Should I ask Plato one more time?”

“Got any other ideas?”

“I’ll make the call,” Danny said.

“What a mess,” I said.

“A real conundrum.”

Within the hour things would really hit the slag heap.