I stared at the paper cup in the evidence bag. Then turned to Remy. “You wanna take a ride?”

“We’re not finding much here,” she said. “You got someplace in mind?”

“I do,” I said, letting Yantsy know we’d be back in an hour.

Out in my Silverado, I asked Remy to get out my patrol light, and she tossed it onto the dash so we could haul ass. We drove northeast on small rural highways that crossed 906. Off to our left I could see an area of deforestation that led out to the Condesale Gorge, where Remy and I had faced off with assassin Kian Tarticoft this past spring in a blaze of smoke and fire.

As we kept cutting northeast, the area became more rural and the elevation dropped. Some farmland was here and there, with a dozen or so cows dotting the horizon. But most of the area contained deserted properties.

On several parcels of land, I saw signs with demarcations on boards stuck into the dirt. The signs rose six or eight feet high, with dates spray-painted on them, all in the 1970s. Of a time when the area had flooded, over and over again. Eventually the Army Corps of Engineers stepped in and dammed off the water that flowed here from June Lake.

Now the opposite effect had happened. The lack of precipitation had killed the region.

We crossed 914 and moved closer to the area where we’d found the Caprice at the roadside.

About five minutes later, we were standing at the front office of the Garden Palms. Thiago Carilla’s motel.

The place was a notch above an Econo Lodge, but well below the level of the Homewood Suites, where we’d just come from.

The manager had shiny black hair with one lock of bangs that hung over her left eye. She wore bright red lipstick and sported a V-neck that sat low, with a solid inch of lacy pink bra showing, choreographed right along the V of the shirt. Her nametag read Lady.

I hadn’t met her before, since I was on leave when Abe and Remy had gone through Carilla’s motel room.

“I love that,” I said, pointing at the name tag. “Is that your birth name?”

“It was either that or ‘the Tramp,’” she said, flicking a set of huge fake eyelashes at me. “My mom chose Lady.”

I grinned, wondering how many times she’d stared a man down and said that line.

“What can I help you with, Detective?” she asked, her hands clasped together, showing off her matching red nail polish. “I aim to please.”

“Room Eleven.” I pointed out the door.

She held on Remy, before moving her gaze back at me. “Tell me you’re not gonna make the same mess that this one did?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. Guessing that Remy and Abe had torn the place apart after the shooting at the bar.

“All right then.”

Lady grabbed a set of keys off the counter and clipped them to a shiny blue carabiner clip that hung off her wrist. “We’ve had cleaner visits from the fire department than y’all.”