A man stumbles out of the back of the Town Car like he was shoved out. He’s a gawky guy with a mop of curly brown hair, muddy freckles spackled across his face. In a green T-shirt and khaki shorts, he looks like he should be manning a register at REI, not riding around in a Town Car in the Bluff. He brushes his hair out of his face and peers at us. “Are you a cop?” he says to me.

I turn to Peaches. “What is this?”

“That’s who your uncle asked me to find,” Peaches says. “Tane Kamaka. He’s all yours.”

“What?” I look at the curly-haired dude, then back to Peaches. “What do you mean, he’s all mine?”

“Because if you’re a cop,” Tane Kamaka says, “I’ve been kidnapped.”

Peaches gives me a broad smile. “Tell your uncle I delivered his package.” He nods at the tall guy with the Uzi, who gets back in the Town Car. Then Peaches turns and heads back up the yard to the porch, Billy following him. The other men start getting back in their cars.

“What the fuck is this?” I say, loudly. “Who is this guy? What am I supposed to do with him?”

“You’re welcome, Doctor Woman,” Peaches says without turning around. Billy points at me with a murderous glare, then stumps after his boss. The Town Car and the Malibu drive off into the night, leaving me standing in Mrs. Daniels’s front yard with a stranger my uncle supposedly wanted Peaches to find.

“So you’re not a cop,” Tane Kamaka says.

“No,” I say, stalking to my bike. My earlier buzz has vanished, replaced by the beginnings of a headache unfolding behind my eyes. I glance up at the porch, which remains dark. Fucking Peaches. I should have tapped him on the head with my baton.

Tane Kamaka half-runs to keep up with me. “Hey, I’m kinda hungry,” he says. “Not that anybody gives a shit, but those guys kept trying to feed me rice and Chinese fast food, which is kinda racist, but whatever. I’m not even Asian. I’d kill for a burger or fried chicken or something. Whoa, is that your bike?”

I turn abruptly to face Tane Kamaka so that he almost collides with me. “Who are you?” I demand.

Tane blinks. “I’m Tane Kamaka,” he says. “Kamakawiwo’ole, actually, but Kamaka’s easier to say. Although then everyone assumes I’m Japanese or—”

“Who are you when you’re not at home, Tane?”

“I—what?”

“What do you do?”

Tane’s eyes flick down the front of my jumpsuit and a smile gathers in his face. I can read what he’s about to say as if it’s displayed on his forehead. With both hands I grab his green T-shirt and pull him to me so our noses are almost touching.