Martinez glanced at the fence. “Let’s just hope the gate holds.”

As they reached the porch, a light over the door flipped on and the cement steps were bathed in a fake yellow glow. The door opened, leaving the grillwork of a screen door separating them from a slim woman with dark hair falling past her shoulders. She was wearing a white tank top, orange capris, and a bad-ass expression.

Hayes recognized Yolanda Salazar from the information Montoya had sent over. Her driver’s license didn’t do her justice; she was a helluva lot prettier in person, even in her bad mood.

“Can I help you?” she asked without a smile.

“I’m Detective Hayes, this is my partner, Detective Martinez, with the Los Angeles Police Department.” They showed their badges. “Are you Yolanda Salazar?”

A slight hesitation, then she nodded, barely moving her head. “Why are you here?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?” In that instant her anger fled, to be replaced by fear. “Fernando? Is it my brother? Oh, Dios, don’t tell me he’s hurt or in trouble.” Without thinking she made a quick sign of the cross over her chest.

“No, nothing like that,” Hayes assured her. “We need to ask you about a car that you own, a 1999 Silver Chevrolet Impala, registered to Ramona Salazar.”

“Hey, is something wrong?” From within the house a man appeared. He was twice her size, all muscle and brawn, his tight T-shirt stretched over the broad span of his shoulders. His denim shorts hung low, almost falling off his slim hips. “What’s going on?”

“It’s the police,” she said, casting her husband a fearful look.

“You’re Sebastian Salazar?” Martinez asked.

“That’s right.” His accent was thick.

“We’re here to ask your wife a few questions about a car that belongs to her.”

Sebastian flinched. He turned to his wife and said something in rapid-fire Spanish that Hayes didn’t catch, but he figured Martinez might understand.

“Can we come in?” Martinez asked.

Husband and wife looked at each other, then Sebastian muttered something in Spanish before opening the door. “Please,” he said, white teeth flashing beneath a thick moustache. “Have a seat.” He waved them into matching chairs.

Remaining at the door, Yolanda peered out curiously. “Is your friend coming in?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Hayes suppressed a groan. Bentz was out of the car, standing in the pool of light at the chain-link fence, murmuring something to Rufus, who had finally stopped barking. “He’s fine out there,” Hayes said, trying to distract Yolanda Salazar. “Sorry to bother you, but if you could just—”

“Wait a minute.” Yolanda’s eyes were cold, black pebbles as her face hardened into a scowl. “Sebastian!” She motioned him toward the door, a stream of Spanish erupting between them. “Bastardo!” she hissed.

Alarmed, Sebastian crossed to the door and gaped at the atrocity his wife indicated.