“After Maria Flores died, you tried to get Casa Madre labeled a ‘childcare center’ so you could house more kids.” I hear the edge in my own voice. “How much did you get paid per kid?”

“What is this?” Bobby Bonaroo asks. “Some sort of revenge or something? I closed that place months ago!”

“There are still kids missing,” I say. “They haven’t all been reunited with their families.”

He stares at me, incredulous. “That’s on Health and Human Services. I just ran the facility.”

“Where a child died and others were raped,” I say. “And you tried to erase all your records of everything having to do with Casa Madre so you could cover up all the shit that went down in there.”

We stare at each other for a long moment, Bobby weighing his options. Then he shakes his head again. “You stupid bitch. I know people. People you don’t want to fuck with.”

“Tough talk from a guy who profits from little girls.” I lean away and shift so now I’m kneeling by his side.

I’ll give him this, Bobby Bonaroo has balls. He sneers up at me. “Tough talk from a woman who has me tied up on the floor.”

I place one hand on his hip and the other on his shoulder, bracing myself. “You’re not on a floor.”

I shove him, hard. He rolls off the side of the catwalk, the chain rattling against the metal mesh, and drops. His scream echoes through the darkness as he falls. Then his scream is cut off as the rope connecting him to the catwalk snaps taut and pulls tight, jerking him to a stop some eight feet above the concrete floor. The catwalk shudders, but I tested it earlier this week and know it will hold. Bobby Bonaroo now hangs by a rope looped like a noose beneath his arms. He’s crying and cursing in a steady flood; the fall may have dislocated a shoulder. I walk over to a winch bolted to the catwalk and start cranking, bringing Bobby back up a foot at a time. It’s hard work and I’m starting to sweat by the time the top of Bobby’s head is level with the catwalk. My legs are already burning from having to fireman-carry his ass up here earlier.

“You’re a lot of work, Bobby,” I say.

“Fuck you,” he bawls. “You fucking cunt.”

“I’m looking for someone who was in Casa Madre.”

“Go to hell.”