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“The Yuma Vista fire in northern Arizona. Two thousand acres and fifty-seven low- to moderate-valued homes destroyed. Morgan Developments wanted the property for luxury estates. A campfire spread out of control. One of the principals in the company was suspected of starting it. Hard to prove it was intentional. Until the police found he’d already written offer letters to whom it may concern for the lots that burned—a week before the fire. He’ll be out of jail in forty years.”

Tolifson said, “I suppose so. But, I mean, I love Hinowah. It’s my home and my family’s been here for donkey’s years. But it’s hardly the most appealing place in the state. It’s an old dried-up mining town. And you’ve got to drive miles to anyplace worth taking your wallet out for. Why would a developer risk jail to buy up the property?”

Dorion said, “Maybe somebody wants to put in high-end vacation homes. And on the drive here I saw they were constructing a new highway. I assume it’ll go to the Five.”

“That’s right,” Starr said.

“That’ll bring people from Sacramento, Fresno, the Bay Area.”

Starr offered, “I heard this podcast about the mob going into their own Airbnb business to get rich clients to come to their casinos. Stock them with liquor and hookers. Yeah, yeah, it’s incorrect. I’m supposed to say ‘sex professionals.’ But I kind of reject correctness, as a general rule.”

Olsen said, “I’m liking that theory. The mob would have easy access to explosives; they control half the construction industry in the state. And they also are pretty happy to blow up their competitors.”

Colter said, “I passed a development driving here. A big one. Just north of Fort Pleasant.”

Starr said, “I’ve seen it. My oh my…Talk about lavish. And prices through theroof.”

Colter said, “Maybe he has his eyes on expanding here.”

Dorion asked, “Who is he?”

“Theodore Gabris.” Starr was reading from some online source. “His main office is in San Francisco. Nob Hill. And that’s one fancy place. But there’s a local news story that he’s working out of Fort Pleasant on this development.”

Colter was looking at the computer on which a map was displayed. “The man who attacked me. Bear. You were saying he might be connected with the mine, working security. But isn’t Fort Pleasant and Gabris’s development near where I was attacked?”

Starr replied, “Not that close but in the same direction. Another seven miles or so further south. But that’s not a long drive. You think there’s a connection?”

“Don’t know. What’s Gabris’s background?”

Dorion was on her computer too. “Not much online. His company website talks about developments in San Francisco and Silicon Valley. Small projects. Some in Arizona and New Mexico. No bio. And no other news about him. No Facebook or X accounts.”

“That’s odd,” Olsen said.

Colter looked to Tolifson. “NCIC?”

The FBI’s crime database, Dorion knew. Even though it’s run by the feds, NCIC’s vast resources include state criminal cases and suspects too.

Starr looked up from her Dell. “I’m there right now. Nothing. And no record of a name change. That’s always the first thing to look for.”

Dorion said, “There’s a first time for everything. Maybe there was no more good land in Fort Pleasant—it’s a pretty rocky place—and this was the closest thing he could find for expanding his empire.”

Tolifson said, “Of course, there is one thing working against him as a suspect. The flood. All right, it’s a rare occurrence, but with climate change, there’ll be more and more snowmelt. That means the floods’ll belessrare. He buys the property for a song, and then hopes it doesn’t flood again.”

“He’ll fix it,” Colter said. “Put in a reinforced concrete levee.”

Dorion nodded. “It’ll be a selling point. The Hinowah flood can never happen again.”

Colter stretched. “You know what?”

Everyone looked at him.

“I’m taking a liking to these here parts. Think I may want to consider buying a house.”

Starr was chuckling. “Undercover Exposé.”

Dorion was wondering what the woman meant.

Her brother, though, apparently got it. “Podcast.”