“Twenty-one Old Mission Road. The house belongs to friends from Santa Barbara—the Bristols,” she explained, as if he would care.

“Your phone number?” he asked, jotting her answers into a little spiral notebook he had taken from the inside breast pocket of his sport coat.

“You’ll want to speak to Detective Tanner at the Santa Barbara Police Department,” she said, assuming he would follow through. He had that air about him—that he would be a stickler for details. “The detective in charge of my daughter’s case.”

“Do you have any reason to believe Ballencoa is in Oak Knoll?” he asked.

“Would I have brought my daughter here if I did?” Lauren challenged.

Mendez didn’t react—another irritating cop trait. “Do you have any reason to think he might know you’re here?”

“I didn’t send him the ‘We’re Moving’ notice,” she snapped. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No, ma’am.”

“No. You think I’m a lunatic.”

“No, ma’am.”

“You are infuriatingly polite, detective,” she said. “You have every reason to think there’s something wrong with me. And I’m being a bitch on top of it.”

Mendez said nothing.

Lauren found an ironic smile for that. “Your mother raised you well.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The radio crackled and spewed out another short stream of information. Roland Ballencoa’s last known address was in San Luis Obispo, almost two hours away. No wants. No warrants.

Mendez gave her a look.

“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t be here,” Lauren argued. “The last I knew, people were free to come and go from San Luis Obispo.”

“You think he came down here to shop at Pavilions?” the detective asked.

Sudden tears burned the backs of Lauren’s eyes. She felt stupid and defeated and helpless.

“Can I go now?” she asked in a small voice.

Mendez gave her a long look that was like a silent lecture. She felt it on her like a ray of light, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

Finally he handed her driver’s license back to her along with his business card.

“If you think you see him again, don’t follow him,” he said. “Call the sheriff’s office.”

“And tell them what?” she asked. “That I saw a man who isn’t wanted for anything shopping for groceries?”

He let out a slow, measured sigh that might have been concession or frustration or impatience. His face gave nothing away. “Call me.”

“Right,” she said, looking down at the card. Detective Anthony Mendez. She opened the door and got out of the car.

“Drive safe, ma’am.”

Chapter 3

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