“That's what I figured. It's probably why Evelyn postponed her appointment with me. Rodriguez told her they had to leave Wednesday. And why Hurley Keffler hassled me—where is he?”

“Still in. I found a few traffic warrants and had one of the jailers lose his paperwork—just another few days, but every little bit helps.”

Robin said, “It never ends.”

“It's all right,” I said. “There's no reason for the Priests to bother us.”

“True,” said Milo, too quickly. “They and the Raza boys will be concentrating on each other now. That's their main game: my turn to die, your turn to die.”

“Lovely,” said Robin.

“I had some Foothill guys drop in on them after Keffler's bust,” he said, “but I'll see if I can arrange another visit. Don't worry about them, Rob. Really. They're the least of our problems.”

“As opposed to?”

He looked at the tape recorder.

We sat down. He punched a button.

The child's voice came on.

Bad love bad love.

Don't give me the bad love.

I looked at him. He held up a finger.

Bad love bad love.

Don't give me the bad love . . .

Same flat tones, but this time the voice was that of a man.

Ordinary, middle-pitched, male voice. Nothing remarkable about the accent or the timbre.

The child's voice transformed—some kind of electronic manipulation?

Something familiar about the voice . . . but I couldn't place it.

Someone I'd met a long time ago? In 1979?

The room was silent, except for the dog's breathing.

Milo turned the recorder off and looked at me. “Ring any bells?”

I said, “There's something about it, but I don't know what it is.”

“The kid's voice was phony. What you just heard might be the real bad guy. No bells, huh?”

“Let me hear it again.”

Rewind. Play.

“Again,” I said.

This time, I listened with my eyes closed, squinting so hard the lids felt welded together.

Listening to someone who hated me.

Nothing registered.

Robin and Milo studied my face as if it were some great wonder. My head hurt badly.

“No,” I said. “I still can't pinpoint it—I can't even be sure I've actually heard it.”

Robin touched my shoulder. Milo's face was blank, but his eyes showed disappointment.

I glanced at the recorder and nodded.

He rewound again.

This time the voice seemed even more distant—as if my memory was spiraling away from me. As if I'd missed my chance.

“Goddammit,” I said. The dog's eyes opened. He trotted over to me and nuzzled my hand. I rubbed his head, looked at Milo. “One more time.”

Robin said, “You're tired. Why don't we try again in the morning?”

“Just once more,” I said.

Rewind. Play.

The voice.

Completely foreign now. Mocking me.

I buried my face in my hands. Robin's hands on my neck were an abstract comfort—I appreciated the sentiment but couldn't relax.

“What did you mean might be the bad guy?” I asked Milo.