What was there left to talk about? Their food came but Kelly had lost her appetite. Begging to be excused, she left the restaurant. There was much she had to absorb. In her car, driving down the coast toward Charlie’s house, her emotions made her wonder. The chance to return to her family thrilled her. But she had striven so long to convince herself that she didn’t care that it terrified her as well. It some ways it was easier to concentrate on kidnappers and murderers and worry about it later. Work gave her peace of mind.

But Matt did not. With him it was personal now, not professional.

Charlie lived in a cheap apartment in Compton, home to gangbangs and drive-in funerals. He had grown up in the neighborhood—he saw no reason to leave. Parking on a block that had graffiti for street signs, she strode briskly toward his door. She felt plenty of eyes on her ass, on her gun as well. She let her coat open, let the locals see her Glock. They all knew Charlie was FBI and left him alone.

He was watching baseball when she knocked. He was a fanatical baseball and basketball fan. He had season tickets for the Lakers and the Dodgers. He also collected Persian rugs and violins—they were all over his apartment. If he ever got broken into he would have a long talk with his insurance agent. He was an accomplished musician. They had played together a few times, with her on the piano: mostly jazz and classical. But his real joy was to rework the violins and sell them for a profit. He had a few dollars socked away. Charlie wouldn’t have to beg in his old age.

What she had told Matt was partially true. She was on a leave of absence from her job. She’d told Vicki it was because of her health and no one at the Bureau had questioned her excuse. Charlie was not so easily fooled; he thought she was up to something. When he had her comfortable on the sofa with a glass of apple juice, he studied her.

“You gonna tell me or is it a secret?” he asked.

“Good to see you, too, babe.”

“Jesus. You disappear on me for a month.”

“I’m on vacation,” she said.

“So you have a tan. You’re not on vacation.”

“How’s the Techer case going?”

“Nowhere. We’ll never find that kid.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“Yeah? I thought we agreed to work on it together until we did find him. Why did you bail on me without talking to me about it?”

“I told you,” she said.

“Yeah. During the ten minutes you were cleaning out your desk.”

“Charlie, please, don’t be mad. I needed to get away from the office for a while and sort things out.” She paused. “I just had lunch with Tony. He wants me back.”

“Is that good news?”