“Neither had an accent.”

  I narrowed my eyes thinking about that. No accent. American, then? Did that make it more likely they were working for the chief? Besides the coyote, who would want Rosalie?

  Opening my eyes, I shook my head as if to clear it, but it was still racing with dark thoughts. “How did your mom get help?”

  “I called a few hours later, and when she didn’t answer, I called for a welfare check. Deputies found her in the closet. I came straight up.”

  That made me think.

  “Did you call Rosalie’s burner phone when all this happened?”

  His eyes widened. “No. I didn’t think to do that.”

  He reached for his phone, but his hand paused in midair.

  “Did they find her phone in the bedroom?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. They just left, the crime scene tape is still up. But her backpack is right inside on the counter.”

  I opened the sliding glass door as quietly as I could in case Mrs. Hunt was still asleep.

  Rosalie’s backpack was on the counter. Her phone wasn’t in it.

  James came in beside me.

  “Let’s check her room.” He spoke in a low voice.

  In the guest room, the bed covers had been thrown on the floor and Rosalie’s clothes had been scattered. A large blood stain had seeped into the carpet near the bed.

  “I’ve called some crime scene cleaners,” James said.

  That was one thing that always surprised me—police and medical personnel don’t clean up after a tragedy or violence in a private building. It’s up to the owners to deal with it themselves.

  I sifted through Rosalie’s clothes and bed covers but didn’t find the phone. I searched all the drawers, under the mattress, and between the wall and the headboard, but there was nothing.

  James watched me. “She might have it.”

  I nodded. It would be too dangerous to call her. She would have to call us.

  “Too bad it’s a burner. We can’t use “Find My Phone” or anything,” he said.

  We both sat there in silence for a few seconds.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “You’re the detective.”

  It worked. He smiled.

  “They’re checking for prints. But the guys wore gloves. It might take a while to get an identity on the one guy—see if he comes up in NCIC.”

  “I think our only lead is what my mother heard the kidnapper say. Does it mean anything to you? Carnegie?”

  I shook my head. I grabbed my phone and searched Carnegie in the San Francisco Bay Area. Dozens of names came up. “Can your sergeant help us narrow it down?”

  “Let’s try something better,” James said.

  I followed him into his mother’s small home office. He logged onto her computer and searched a special police database he somehow still had access to.

  “Got it. I’ll check them out deeper, but nothing on the surface sets off an alarm.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” I said. I dialed Danny and asked him to search all Carnegie’s in the state for someone who might be involved in human trafficking.

  Within the hour, he’d called back. “I think I’ve got a possible,” he said.

  “Let me have it,” I said.

  “A Joe Carnegie. A big philanthropist apparently. Upstanding citizen.”

  “Keep going,” I said, raising an eyebrow at James, and putting Danny on speakerphone.

  “Check your email,” Danny said.

  I pulled up an article featuring a Joe Carnegie and scanned it before saying, “That’s from some fucking conspiracy-theory-right-wing-mumbo-jumbo group.”

  “Ignore that part and look at the two pictures,” Danny said.

  The first photo was of Joe Carnegie in a tux, standing beside a beautiful blonde woman at some fancy San Diego gala. That picture was side-by-side with another. It showed a man who bore a striking resemblance to Carnegie standing next to a swarthy man in camouflage military clothes holding a bazooka. It was hard to tell for sure if it was Carnegie because the photo only showed him in profile.

  “Same dude,” James said.

  “Who’s G.I. Joe?” I asked.

  “That’s G.I. Juan to you,” Danny said.

  “Huh?”

  “The guy in camo is believed to be the cartel leader’s right hand man. Juan Suarez.”

  The cartel.

  “Thanks, Danny.”

  “No sweat,” he said. “I’ll text you any details I can find on him—address, city of residence, etc.”

  “You are a rock star,” I said.

  When the line disconnected, I squinted and turned to James. “Can you blow up the photo?”

  James did, but it didn’t help. If only his head wasn’t turned away from the camera. When James clicked to make it original size again I stared at it for a few seconds. The two men were standing in front of a plane at what appeared to be an airport. I caught glimpses of other planes in the background. “Wait,” I said. “What’s that?”

  I pointed to a small dot at the bottom of the picture. James blew it up. It revealed a small white bird with a black head and orange beak.

  “Looks like a bird, Santella.”

  “That’s it.”

  “It’s a bird,” James said. “A cute little bird, but a bird.”

  I smiled. “Allow me.”

  I’d seen a poster about it at the San Diego airport.

  Taking over the keyboard and mouse, I quickly pulled up a website and read out loud:

  “The California least tern is an endangered species. The last remaining populations of tern can be found nesting near the runways at the San Diego airport…”

  I leaned back so James could see the picture of the bird—a small white bird with a distinctive black cap and a bright orange beak.

  At that moment, I got a text from Danny. It listed an address for a Joe Carnegie. In San Diego.

  Grabbing my phone I logged onto the airline website. “I need to head back down south.”

  James glanced back toward the hallway. “I think I need to stay here with my mother. At least until I’m sure they aren’t coming back.”

  “That makes sense.”

  I sensed her before I saw her.

  Mrs. Hunt was standing in the doorway. She wore a peach silk robe belted tightly over what looked like peach silk pajamas. For the first time since I’d met her, she seemed feeble.

  “James?” Her voice was wobbly.

  “Right here, Mama.” He was at her side in a second.

  She pretended like I wasn’t there. That was fine.

  “It’s nearly four in the morning,” she said.

  “James,” I said in a low voice. “I’m going to head back to the loft, check on Django, and see if I can figure out where to start.”

  Out in the driveway, Tony saw us come out and drove over. Once I was in the passenger seat, James stuck his head in my window and searched my face.

  “How was San Diego?”

  I hadn’t had a chance to tell him anything.

  “She’s dead. They strung her up on a tree.”

  “Jesus Christ.” James scowled. “What kind of monsters are they?”

  “The worst kind.”

  23

  Garcia practically shoved his wife out of the way as he lunged for his phone.

  “Jesus Christ, watch out. It’s just a phone call,” she whined.

  He swatted one palm as if his wife’s voice was the annoying buzz of a mosquito.

  “Yes?” He said into the phone. His voice was calm even if he was not.

  “I have the girl.”

  The tension he’d been carrying oozed out of his body. He closed his eyes for a brief second in a moment that would have been a prayer of thanks if he were the praying type.

  A small smile curled his lip. It would be okay.

  “Bring her to me.”

  Only after Garcia hung up did he wonder why the caller had said “I” instead of “we.”

  24

  Tony parked in front of my garage door and waited until I used the keypad to go inside and then closed it behind me. He said anyone who tried to come in the garage would have to go through him. He was a sweetheart and looked like a grandpa, but I knew the time he’d served had been for murder. He knew how to take care of himself. Once I was safely inside, I heard his car drive away.

  Django ignored me when the elevator doors slid open and instead walked into the elevator, sniffing the floor.

  It took me a second to figure out what was going on.

  “Come on, boy,” I said, calling him out.

  He looked at me for a second and whined, but then he came out to where I was crouched. I hugged him and buried my face in his fur.

  “She’s not with me,” I said. “But don’t worry. I’m going to find her.”

  I stood. A fierce anger and determination soared through me. I would find her.

  The kidnappers had made a mistake. They had spoken. And Mrs. Hunt had heard them. That’s why the one guy was dead. The other guy knew it had been a huge mistake.

  It was how many criminals got caught—opening their big yaps. Even so-called pros like these two. The only problem was the guy who took Rosalie had surely warned Carnegie by now. But I couldn’t let that stop me.

  I would find Rosalie. And I would find her kidnapper. And he would pay. He’d pay no matter what, but if he had hurt her? I couldn’t be responsible for what happened to him.

  25

  At the first light of dawn, when the fog was still burning off the city streets and there was only a pink glow to the west, I loaded up a bag with a change of clothes and my set of daggers. I strapped my Ruger LC9 into my ankle holster and stuck my Glock 43 into its shoulder harness.

  If I got pulled over for speeding I’d deal with that later, but for now, I was going in armed to the hilt. At the last second, I threw in a large first aid kit I kept in the closet and scooped a few painkillers and amphetamines out of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

  Before leaving, I filled Django’s food bowl, made sure he had water, and blended a green smoothie that I poured in a Mason jar, screwing the lid on and throwing it in my bag.

  Once I was in my Jeep, I looked at the screen showing what the cameras saw outside the garage before I opened the door. Clear. But at the last minute I took the gun out of my shoulder harness and put it in my lap. Anybody who came running up would get a gun up their nose. Anyone who wanted to follow me? Fine. It would be a long drive.

  Once the Jeep had squealed onto Highway 101 headed south, I told my phone to dial the Queen of Spades. I’d put the number from her card into my phone under this name. It seemed too intimate to call her Eva. I barely even knew the woman. She was my aunt and my last living blood relative, but she meant nothing to me. Last year, she’d stayed with me for a few weeks, nursing me back from an opioid addiction and then set me up on a fierce, ass-kicking boot camp, but then she left. I hadn’t heard from her since.

  “Ciao.” Her voice was low and guarded.

  “It’s Gia.”

  “I know.” She didn’t sound any happier or less guarded.

  “The girl you sent my way. She was just kidnapped.”

  No response.

  I waited. I’d wait her out. But she obviously knew how to play that game too.

  Finally, I broke. “Are you there?”

  “I’m thinking.” She didn’t say it rudely, just matter-of-factly.

  “Let me know when you’re done.” I leaned over and took a long sip of my green smoothie. As I did, I scowled. She was the one who got me drinking shit like this. She was the one who started me on my health kick. Right now, I found that little fact irritating. I hated to admit that I’d adopted her regimen—if only to be prepared for situations like this one where I was pretty sure I was walking into a shitstorm of trouble.

  Now, thanks to the Eva boot camp she’d put me through, I woke each day and had a morning routine: I worked out for two hours, drank lemon water, gulped down a green smoothie and limited my alcohol intake. It was as if the Gia who’d moved to San Francisco had died and arisen from the ashes as a health nut Vlogger on YouTube. It was fairly nauseating. But I had to admit I felt damn good waking up clear-headed in the morning instead of waking up beside strangers and then making a mad dash for the toilet to barf my brains out.

  I nearly forgot she was on the other line when she spoke next. “You are driving.” It was a statement not a question.

  “Yep.”

  “You think they are taking her to San Diego?”

  “Yes.”

  It sounded like my aunt spit, but I couldn’t possibly picture her doing something that uncouth. Whatever she was doing, she was clearly disgusted. “Family.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  At least we saw eye-to-eye on one thing: The coyote was full of shit.

  “My lead is a guy named Joe Carnegie,” I said.

  “I will call you.”

  Before I could respond, the line disconnected.

  “Well, that did a whole lot of fucking good.” I said aloud.

  I dialed James next.

  “How’s your mom?”

  “I think I should stay with her a few days. I’ve hired private security—some of that lot from Iraq who are out of work—to guard her house.”

  The lot from Iraq? He must mean the private contractors. The mercenaries.

  “Jesus. You trust them?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m on my way to San Diego. I thought you were coming home, so I didn’t make arrangements for Django.”

  “It’s all good. As soon as the security guys show up, I have to head back to the loft anyway to get my laptop and some other stuff. I’ll grab Django. He loves my mom, and he’ll be an extra layer of protection.” Django freaking loved his mother. I didn’t get it. The dog had nearly lost his mind with happiness the few times he’d met her.

  What was it with dogs and kids loving his mother? They obviously saw something I didn’t.

  “Where was Snuffles this whole time?” I hated that I was worried about the dog.

  “He was hiding under my mom’s bed.”

  “Some watch dog he is,” I laughed.

  “Maybe he’s the smartest one of all of us,” James said.

  I bit my tongue. What I wanted to say was that the dog was a coward—just like his previous owner.

  I hung up feeling slightly better. James was safe. Django was safe. Now to get Rosalie and bring her back home safe.

  I was just escaping the traffic in L.A. when my phone dinged.

  It was a text from James. Two pictures. One of a guy’s scarred face on a driver’s license. The other of a beat-up matchbook.

  He had written: “Dead guy’s license. Info is fake. Picture is accurate. Matchbook found in his pocket.”

  The matchbook was worn and ripped, but I could clearly see the name on it: Tori’s.

  Six hours later, I crossed into San Diego.

  I had one lead. The matchbook found on the dead body.

  It didn’t take long to find Tori’s. It was a strip club. Surprise, surprise. A one-story, brick, windowless building with a tiny sign. And a full parking lot. At ten in the morning. Whatever.

  That might make it harder. Or easier, depending.

  Inside, there was the low thrum of music and all eyes were on the stage. I think she was the main act—big Texas hair and big Texas boobs. A really good dancer too. She had a hypnotizing way about her movements. Snake charmers got nothing on her. As the door slammed behind me, she met my eyes, and I gave her a nod of approval—always good to acknowledge someone on top of their game—and headed toward the bar.

  I ordered top shelf bourbon, slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter and told the bartender to keep the change. He was an older, gray-haired guy with a Marine Corps haircut and a short-sleeve tee-shirt that revealed lean muscle. He knew I wasn’t there for the act on stage. For some reason, he set my glass down in front of the seat next to mine and then stood in front of it. He also set my change down, splayed out across the table. His eyes were a penetrating blue. Even though he had to be in his fifties, he was really attractive. It was less his features and more his confidence and poise. He was fit and looked like he could take care of himself.

  “You double as the bouncer here?” I said, admiring the way his T-shirt clung to his chest.

  “Why don’t you move over here? To this bar stool?” The way he said it and the intensity of his eyes made me do it. I wasn’t sure why.

  “Okay. Happy now?”

  He gave me a curt nod.

  “Keep the change,” I said, pointedly scooting the money back toward him.

  “Gonna cost you more than your change for what you want,” he said as he pushed my drink in front of me.

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

  “You’re trouble.” He didn’t look at me as he said it, doing some fancy drink mixing.

  For a split-second I wondered if he was an off-duty cop. He had that authoritative air about him. Nah.

  “I could be trouble.”

  He raised his eyebrow. He was not smiling.

  “But not for you,” I said with a smile. I put the glass to my lips and didn’t set it down until I drained the glass. He walked down to the other end of the bar and handed two men their drinks and returned, busying himself washing dishes in some soapy suds in the sink before him.

  “If I give you what you want then it will be trouble for me,” he said and finally met my eyes.

  “Nobody needs to know,” I said, holding his gaze.

  “This whole place is filled with cameras.”

  “Can they hear me, what I say sitting here?”

  “Nope. Don’t look now but behind me is a little red light flashing. You’re on camera.”

  I started to look.

  “I said don’t look now.”

  “If I wanted to show you a picture of a guy what would be the best way to do it?”

  “Wait until I’m standing between you and that little red light and then you can put it down on the bar, but pick it up before I move. This spot is the only blind spot in the whole joint.”