“Well, that was weird,” Hicks said as they walked out to the car. “What do you suppose happens if she doesn’t serve dinner at six thirty on the dot?”

“I don’t know,” Mendez said. “Court-martial? But I bet I know where she goes on Thursday nights.”

“Where?”

“AA meets at the Presbyterian church on Piedra Boulevard Thursday nights. That’s my jogging route. They’re usually all out smoking on the lawn when I run by.”

“She had definitely had a few before we got here.”

“Yeah. Nap my ass. Sleeping it off is more like.”

Hicks shrugged as they reached the car. “If I was married to Frank, I’d drink too.”

Farman was in Dixon’s office when they got back. He did not look happy to be there.

Join the club, Mendez thought as he and Hicks walked into the room.

“It’s just a formality, Frank,” Dixon said.

“It’s an insult,” Farman snapped. “How many years do we go back, Cal?”

“A lot.”

“A dozen. A dozen years, and you’re doing this to me? This is bullshit.”

“I’m not doing anything to you, Frank. We’re following procedure to the letter. If I had written that girl up myself, I’d have the detectives do the same thing. If Mendez had written the girl up, I’d be doing the same—and you’d be saying it was the right thing to do.”

Farman had nothing to say to that because it was true. He would have been the first one in line demanding to treat Mendez like any other person of interest. But he was embarrassed and his pride was hurt, and Mendez could understand that too. A guy like Frank lived for the job. His reputation was everything to him.

“It’s nothing personal, Frank,” he said. “We’re dotting i’s and crossing t’s, that’s all.”

Farman wouldn’t look at him. Mendez sighed.

“You wrote up the Vickers girl at fifteen thirty-eight that day,” Hicks said, getting on with it. “We’ll just need to see your logbook for the rest of the shift.”

Farman crossed his arms over his chest. Dixon motioned to the logbook sitting on his desk. Hicks picked it up and paged through.

“You’d never met the girl before, right?” Mendez asked.

“Do you remember every citation you ever wrote?” Farman demanded.

“No,” Mendez said calmly.

“I didn’t remember the girl ten minutes later. It was just another ticket.”

Mendez had a hard time believing that, but he let it slide. “You’d never met her before that.”

“No.”

“I don’t want to go through the DMV records and find out you wrote her up before.”

Farman looked at him then. “You’re a prick.”

“Frank,” Dixon cautioned.

“I’m just saying, Frank,” Mendez said. “Better if you tell me now than have it be a surprise.”

“Fuck yourself.”