Located in the northeast area of Fresno in a mixed neighborhood of residential and commercial properties, Amber Sheldon’s apartment was part of a larger complex of identical structures laid out in pairs, back-to-back, with parking on both sides. Second-story walkways ran their entire lengths, accessed by concrete prefab stairs on each end. Several hundred yards to the north, the metal river of Highway 41 could be heard, but not seen. Andrews parked the sedan at the west end of the buildings where it wouldn’t be noticed from the target’s apartment. According to the NCIC file, Sheldon lived in apartment number 46.

“If she’s not here and has a roommate, we’re blown,” Henning said. “It’s fair to assume the roommate will call her and tell her the FBI came knocking on her door.”

“We don’t have much choice,” Nathan said. “We don’t have time for a prolonged stakeout. If she’s not here, we’ll ask where she works, that way the roommate will think we don’t know.” Nathan turned toward Andrews. “Do you know where Pete’s Truck Palace is?”

“It’s off Highway Ninety-nine, about twenty miles south of the city.”

“Okay,” Henning said. “It’s probably better if only two of us knock on her door. Andrews, you cover the stairwells and watch our backs in case the Bridgestones are around. Shoot first and ask questions later.”

“You got it.”

They followed a concrete sidewalk paralleling the building, then cut across the grass over to the west stairs. Apartment 46 was on the second floor. This had to be a nicer neighborhood because a big-wheel tricycle, along with several children’s bikes, were leaning against the building, unlocked. A smattering of litter was present, nothing serious enough to suggest it was a lowlife establishment. Licking its paws, a calico cat sat on the bottom step of the stairwell. She squinted in friendship as they moved past her. The windows on either side of Sheldon’s door were screened by closed curtains. Nathan and Henning paused and listened to the buzz of a muffled television set.

Nathan kept his voice just above a whisper. “Bridgestone could be in there. I’ll go left, you go right.”

Henning nodded and grabbed the butt of his gun. Keeping to the side of the door, he knocked twice. The sound of the television went silent, followed by a forceful, “Who is it?”

“FBI, ma’am. We’re just here to ask you a few questions. No one’s in any trouble, okay?”

The curtains parted, revealing a slightly overweight, dark-haired woman in her late teens or early twenties. Her yellow tank top revealed more than necessary.

“My mom’s got nothin’ to do with that man no more.” From what Nathan could hear through the window, Amber Sheldon’s daughter had retained most of her southern drawl.

“May we come in, please?” Henning asked.

“Y’all got some ID?”