“She wasn’t there.” Miguel’s throat bobbed. “She’s been home since it happened. She’s scared. She doesn’t trust the police.”
Well, I could hardly blame her there.
The pressure of my hand eased on his shirt, just a fraction. “Do you trust us?”
Miguel licked his lips. “You… you talked like you cared about the girl missing. About what happened. Kelsey said you were not with Carson. That you were looking because someone had to.” His gaze darted to mine. “You were a cop before, yeah?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“And you?” He looked at Madden. “She said you were a lawyer.”
“I was a prosecutor in L.A.,” she said evenly. “I’m not anymore. I’m not here in any official capacity. Neither is he.”
Miguel hesitated. Then nodded, like he’d made a decision he wasn’t entirely happy with but couldn’t see another option.
“She told me if I could find you, to bring you,” he said. “Today. While Carson is busy with… with the other thing.” The way he said it told me word of Willie’s death had already spread.
“Where?” I asked.
“I… I’ll take you,” he stammered.
I weighed the possibility that this could be some kind of setup. This kid I could take apart in my sleep. But he could have bigger buddies. Still, this didn’t have the stink of a trap.
My grip finally dropped. “All right. You walk ahead. We’ll follow.”
His eyes widened. “You don’t trust me?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I make it a habit not to give my back to strangers until we’ve at least had breakfast.”
Madden snorted softly. “Such high standards.”
Miguel raised both hands in a halfhearted “have it your way” gesture and moved past us toward the street.
I fell into step on one side of him. Madden took the other. It felt… weirdly like a protective formation.
We didn’t head back toward the boardwalk. Miguel cut across, taking a few side streets I knew well, leading away from the polished up, tourist-focused part of town and into the kind of neighborhood I’d grown up in—small, tired houses with peeling paint and kids’ bikes left on side lawns, cars in various states of operability parked half on, half off the street. Heat clung to the asphalt, rising in waves. A lawn sprinkler ticked uselessly at a patch of crabgrass. Someone’s radio played faint bachata from an open window.
Eventually, he stopped in front of a small, one-story duplex with a sagging porch and flowerpots riotous with color. The house was worn, but the flowers were thriving. Somebody here cared.
Miguel gestured toward the house. “Let me go first.”
We hung back while he climbed the two steps and knocked a quick pattern on the frame. The door opened just a crack, chain still on. A woman’s voice snapped something sharp in Spanish.
“Es Miguel,” he said quickly. “Traje a los que preguntan. No a la policía, te lo juro.”
The chain slid. The door opened wider.
The woman was small. Late twenties, maybe younger, black hair pulled back in a low knot, dark eyes wary as hell. Fading bruises shadowed the side of her jaw and at the edge of her collarbone where her T-shirt dipped. She wore cutoffs and a soft, faded tee. Her gaze flicked over us, cataloging every threat.
“This is them?” she asked Miguel.
“Sí. The lawyer and the… ex-cop,” he said. “They say they just want to know what happened.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You stay outside,” she told him in Spanish. Then, to us, with an accent but careful diction: “You come in. But I do not talk to police. Ever. You understand?”
“We’re not the police,” Madden affirmed—in perfect Spanish—before I could answer. Her voice had gone into that low, even register I was starting to recognize—prosecutor mode without the sharp edges, all calm reassurance and control. “We don’t work for them here. We’re just trying to figure out what happened behind Home Port the other night and whether it has anything to do with the girl who’s missing.”
The woman studied Madden for a long second. Then stepped back. “Come.”
