“Bourneville, no,” Cloister said sharply. He cupped his hand in the signal that should send her around the car. “Go round.”
The denial made Bourneville sigh. She shook her head hard enough to make her ears flap and dropped her nose to the ground again as she padded around the car. Tancredi shifted and ducked her head down to wipe her face on her shoulder.
“If she doesn’t find anything,” she said, “do you think Special Agent Merlo would approve the use of some of the Feds’ tech? The drones he used on the raid in the foothills last month, they have infrared. He showed me how they worked.”
She sounded impressed. Cloister wasn’t sure if it was with the tech or with “Special Agent Merlo.” His conscience nudged him that he couldn’t really blame her if it was the second. Cloister had been more than happy to make a fool of himself over Javi the last few months, up until he decided to see what would happen if he screwed everything up instead. He couldn’t even remember what the fight was about. That was a lie. It was about Javi’s lunch with that hot PI and the beer he hadn’t wanted to have with Cloister. But they hadn’t spoken since.
It had been a week—not even a week yet—but Cloister knew the terms of his relationship with Javi. He knew he’d fucked things up and that he did it at least partially on purpose. That’s what he usually did.
They hadn’t been dating, exactly, and they hadn’t even been not-dating that long. Cloister still felt the pinch of pain, like a charley horse in his emotions, when he thought about it being over.
Cloister clenched his teeth against the ache and impatiently shoved it to the back of his head. It wasn’t the time. He had a job to do, a dog to run, and a lost girl to find. If he wanted to, he could pick at his scabs later.
“Infrared wouldn’t be any good in this,” he said as he gestured toward the heavy, unsettled sky. “I doubt the drones could even get up, anyhow. Maybe tomorrow. If we don’t find anything, you can ask him. It can’t hurt.”
She frowned unhappily and nodded as she folded the coat over her arm. “Hope we won’t need to.”
Before Cloister could say anything, Bourneville barked once—a low, guttural noise strangled with enthusiasm. He gave Tancredi a quick reassuring smile.
“Hope so.”
He reeled the long wet strip of the leash in as he jogged over to where Bourneville stood over a pock in the dirt. It could have been nothing, or it might have been a rain-blurred footprint.
“Good girl,” Cloister praised as he slapped her shoulder. “Good dog, Bourneville. Now such.”
She gave herself a quick shake to shed a coat full of water and loped forward, her nose down to the invisible trail that scooped and meandered across the sodden stretch of the median and onto the uneven pavements of neglected streets.
CHAPTER TWO
THE OUTSKIRTSof Plenty were scored with dead streets like urban cellulite around the bloat of the new neighborhoods. Some were razed and rebuilt by an eager developer. Others were left to die as the gutted buildings sagged in on themselves and the tarmac chipped up from the streets.
Cloister unclipped the flashlight from his belt and flicked it on as he walked. The puddle of light in front of his feet was enough that he could avoid the worst potholes in the road, but it didn’t distract Bourneville. She ranged ahead of him at the end of her leash as she tried to keep track of the rain-diluted scent.
Twice she lost the trail completely, and they had to backtrack through the rain for her to find it again. It took longer each time as she tried to find the attenuated scent where it clung in damp pockets in the gutters and clumps of litter. It had been easier for her on the wet strip of waste ground between the roads, where the smell settled in puddles and caught in the tangled grasses. As the area got more built-up around them—strips of fenced-off concrete and uneven pavements—the trail didn’t get a chance to stick. Instead it was washed away down the clogged drains or blown away across the wide expanse of road.
It was still possible, but every time Bourneville lost the trail, it was less likely there’d be enough of it for her to pick up again.
Lightning cracked down out of the sky and struck somewhere in the maze of abandoned buildings. Cloister grimaced and rubbed his eyes as he tried to blink away the afterimages smeared behind his lids. By the time he scrubbed away the blurs of light, Bourneville had doubled back on herself again.
“Damn it,” Cloister muttered.
He reached for his radio. “Dispatch. It’s Witte. Any chance Tancredi’s 10-57 has made her way back on her own?”
There was a pause, and then Mel’s familiar voice fought its way through the crackle of static.
“No. If there’s no sign on your end, call it a day and go back to your car. If Tancredi’s right, the girl will sober up and stumble home.”
Cloister pulled his hand down over his face and flicked away the water as he loped after Bourneville. It was a pointless gesture since the rain dripped back down out of his hair. He didn’t feel optimistic about his chances of finding Janet, but…. He thought about the selfie-ready driver’s license photo and the impractical neon faux-fur jacket she’d left in the car.
She was nineteen, and she was lost. It wouldn’t be any comfort to her that it was her own fault. If something happened to her, it wouldn’t help Cloister sleep either.
“I’ll give it five more minutes.” He reached Bourneville and crouched down to fuss over her. It wasn’t her fault she’d lost the scent. She pushed her head under his hand and huffed her disbelief of that. “She’s just a kid.”
“Five minutes,” Mel allowed with a sigh. “No more. There’s other calls.”
The radio cut out.
Cloister pulled Bourneville into a rough one-armed hug and scratched under her chin. “Good girl,” he assured her. “One more try.”
