Blake Largo was out of the car and wearing a ridiculous Bengal tiger polo shirt and velvet shorts and was berating a woman in a tight mini bandage dress who was teetering shakily on high stiletto heels. Eve later learned her name was Shirlee.

“You puked all over my Lambo!” Largo yelled.

“I’m sorry,” Shirlee said. “All those curves made me carsick.”

Eve got off her bike and approached the guy. She didn’t know that Blake Largo was a celebrity and was unaware that a bunch of customers at the Rock Store were already capturing the scene on their cell phones.

“It’ll cost me what you earn in a year to clean this up.”

“I told you to slow down,” Shirlee said.

Largo backhanded her across the face, nearly knocking her off her feet. “Nobody tells me anything.”

Eve stepped between him and Shirlee. There was no way she was letting this asshole hit the woman again.

“Back off,” she said and looked over her shoulder at Shirlee. “Are you okay?”

The woman nodded, but her nose was bleeding. That was not okay as far as Eve was concerned.

“Who gives a shit about her?” Largo said. “Look at my Lambo. There’s bitch puke all over the suede dash.”

Eve turned back to Largo. “Shut up.”

Largo took a swing at her. She dodged the blow, grabbed his arm, wrenched it behind his back, and forced him face-first to the ground, pinning him down.

“Apologize,” Eve said.

“Fuck you,” he said. Eve twisted his arm up until he winced. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Not to me,” Eve said. “To her. Say it like you mean it.”

He looked up at Shirlee, who appeared stunned by the unexpected turn of events. His eyes became moist, his expression pleading.

“I’m sorry. There’s no excuse for what I did. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

“Wow,” Eve said. “You’re good. I almost believe it.”

“You should.” Shirlee wiped her nose and sniffled. “He’s got an Oscar. He keeps it by his bed and stares at it while he’s fucking.”

That was more than Eve wanted to know.

“Let me up,” Largo said.

“Nope,” Eve said. “I smell alcohol on your breath.”

“So what? You gonna write me a ticket?”

“I would but I’m off duty.” She turned to see the crowd of customers behind her, filming it all, and said to nobody in particular: “Someone please call the sheriff’s station. Let them know that Detective Eve Ronin is holding a man in custody for assault and possible DUI.”

And that was how she ended up where she was now.

The mobile home park where Coyle lived was tucked into a sharp curve of the two-lane road and was surrounded by trees and thick brush. She rode into the complex. There was a fountain at the entrance and, beyond that, a central clubhouse and pool.

“I’m inside,” Eve said.

“Ten-four,” Duncan responded.

Several narrow roads branched off from the entrance, each lined with well-tended mobile homes packed tightly together. She went down the road that Coyle lived on. She coasted past Coyle’s place, a nicely tended mobile home with fake wooden siding and flower boxes filled with plastic flowers. He wouldn’t be coming out to water those. The carport was empty.