On a whim, he walked into the tavern, glanced at the waitstaff and few patrons huddled over a long bar or staring at a big screen in the corner. Satisfied that whoever he’d been chasing hadn’t taken refuge in the establishment, Bentz ordered a zero-alcohol, made small talk with the waitress, and asked if she knew who owned the Chevy. She gave him a blank stare that was almost identical to the expression of the bartender when Bentz posed the same question to him. If they knew anything, they weren’t going to give it up, but his gut told him they didn’t have any idea of the answer and didn’t really care.

Ignoring the beer and leaving some bills on his table, he left the tavern and headed to the bookstore, where a shopkeeper nearing eighty was waiting to close. Now the girl who had been in the Datsun had moved inside and was still talking on her cell as she cruised the aisles, concentrating on a wall of books in an area labeled “Vampires and Ghosts.” Without a break in her conversation, she picked up various books, thumbed through them, then replaced them on the shelf.

The bookstore was nearly empty, one balding guy near thirty poring over computer texts and a woman with a little girl in pigtails perusing the children’s books section.

No one here could have played the part of Jennifer.

The grocery, too, was devoid of customers. Bentz bought a sixteen-ounce Pepsi and checked the aisles. Two teenaged boys in long hair and baggy shorts were checking out the candy section while stealing peeks and whispering about the “hot” girl at the till. A harried young mother, toddler on one hip, eyebrows knit in concern, was shopping for disposable diapers and scowling at the price.

They were the only patrons.

No Jennifer.

Of course.

Outside, behind the strip mall, two men in their early twenties stood smoking near a Dumpster.

Nothing surprising there. Bentz drank his soda and wondered why the hell he’d come down here. What, if anything, had he learned?

Just that you’re a gullible ass, willing to chase shadows.

He climbed into his rental and kicked himself for not having the presence of mind to take pictures of the woman he’d been chasing; even a dark image on his cell phone would have helped.

He twisted his key in the ignition, then looked at the empty spot in the lot where the silver Chevy had been parked. There was something about that car that had seemed out of place. His cop instincts were in overdrive, which happened whenever he experienced an anomaly—something that didn’t seem to fit.