As for his “client”? He grabbed the old phone book that had come with the old pedo’s house and opened it at random. He closed his eyes, poked at the page, then opened his eyes. “David Peele it is.”

The FAQ also covered the confidentiality the client could expect from the interpreter, and Cade realized they might refuse to tell him anything.

But that wouldn’t be a huge deal. Cade knew how to get information out of people.

Now, which service to call first? He flipped a coin, then dialed.

“How can I help you?” a cheery female asked.

“Hi, my name is Dennis Kagan. I’m an attorney and need to hire an interpreter for my deaf client. He’s being held at the police department off Ezzard Charles Drive. I’ve never done this before. How do I go about hiring someone?”

“Oh, dear,” the woman said. “Our court-certified interpreter is out of town this weekend. We’ve been referring clients to the other interpreting service. If you have a pen, I can give you their number.”

“Not necessary. I can see them here on my computer. I did a search. Thank you.” He ended the call, feeling suddenly cheery himself. He dialed the other number and repeated his spiel. This time he was rewarded.

“Our interpreter will meet you at the police department in one hour,” a more reserved voice told him.

Cade nearly asked them who to expect, but then spotted the only certified legal interpreter’s photo on the company’s website. His name was Andrew McNab and he appeared to be early thirties and slender.

This shouldn’t be too hard at all.

Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, March 17, 3:10 p.m.

John Brewer had been such a sonofabitch, Diesel thought, barely managing to suppress a growl. An abusive, conniving, manipulating sonofabitch. He was glad the man was dead, because he wanted to rip Brewer’s head from his neck.

But he needed to keep his cool, for Michael’s sake. The boy had cried his eyes out while holding on to Diesel like he’d never let go, but eventually his sobs had quieted. Dani had given him a cup of tea and assured him that Joshua was napping comfortably in his bed upstairs.

Diesel hadn’t even been aware of Dani carrying Joshua up from the basement. His sole focus had been the boy crying for the innocence that had been so cruelly ripped away from him. And from fear that his world was about to come to an end.

“Temporary,” Michael had whispered in a voice that was a little slurred, but understandable. The whispered word had been his response when Diesel had assured him that everything would be okay, that he was safe in Dani’s house.

Temporary. In that moment, Diesel had known exactly how the boy felt.

But now Michael was napping on the sofa, Hawkeye sprawled at his side, half in his lap. And Diesel had returned to work.