“If it’s an ambush,” Remy said, “he’d turn when he heard the first shot. The shot at the driver.”

I imagined the killer sitting down into the back of the Caprice. Making a few words of small talk before he pulled out a .22 and laid a single bullet into the back of the head of Juan Vinorama. It made sense that Dilmendes would turn suddenly as the gun moved in his direction.

In front of us was the edge of the mod garage, but my partner grabbed me by my arm, stopping me before we entered.

“P.T.,” she said. “You want to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

I nodded, my lips pursed for a moment. I had walked out of the station and a full block with Remy, all from nervous energy.

“That was Hartley,” I said.

Remy looked confused. “The guy setting up in that office?”

I explained about my conversation with the chief and with Hartley, and Remy shook her head. Here and there she asked, “He said that?” and then followed by asking, “What did you say?”

“I just tried to stay calm,” I said. “Give us a chance to investigate. That’s what you told me last night, right?”

“Right,” she said, her eyes big atop those curvy cheekbones. Realizing her words in front of my house last night weren’t hollow, but the start of a plan. A plan she couldn’t back out of now.

No one said anything for a moment, and suddenly Carlos was in front of us. He’d sauntered over while we had gotten into it.

“So yesterday you show up two hours after I get that Dodge Magnum,” Carlos said. “Today it’s one hour after I get this yacht?”

I held up my hands. “I just needed a walk, C,” I said. “Thought I’d check if you had anything early on the Caprice.”

“I actually got two things early,” Carlos said. “But then you gotta leave me alone. Give me some real time. Cool?”

“Cool,” Remy said. “Let’s hear ’em.”

Carlos walked over to the Caprice, and we followed him. He had all four doors splayed open at once and the car looked like some winged metallic animal, ready to take flight.

“Well, first off, the car’s a bit messy, right?”

We nodded.

“Candy wrappers. Haskell’s Burger wrappers,” he said. “Clothes. Here’s the thing, though. There ain’t a print inside.”

“What do you mean, ‘ain’t a print’?” Remy asked.

“Zero. Cero. Nada.”

I blinked. “Someone wiped it down?”

“Like a professional,” Carlos said. He held up an empty Skittles package with his purple gloves. “Even the candy wrappers. By the way, Wild Berry is my favorite Skittles, in case you ever feel like bringing me a snack as a thank-you.”

Remy and I went silent. For the first time since we’d arrived, I heard country music coming from an overhead speaker in the garage. A Cole Swindell song about a girl dancing in a nightclub. Carlos was humming under his breath to the tune, and I remembered something Abe once said to him. That Carlos couldn’t carry a tune if it was in a bucket with a lid on it. I still didn’t know what that meant.