She had contacted Johan shortly after leaving L.A. County, informing him that the target had moved from Nueva Vida to Pale Bone. Call me when you’re close, she had said to him, and I’ll give you the details. Johan hadn’t called her, though, which meant he’d either backed out of the deal—unlikely—or that he knew exactly where to find Luke.

Her drink arrived. A virgin Bloody Mary. She gulped half of it, then swiped to Johan’s contact information and sent a one-word text:

Status?

She waited for a response while finishing her drink. A couple of emails came through, but nothing from Johan. Tera waited a little longer, then tapped on her web browser and brought up a recent photograph of Luke Kingsley. It was a paparazzi shot of him and Kitty, taken at Floyd Tallent’s funeral—an hour or so before Tera had accosted him in the parking lot and warned him that if any harm came to Kitty, she would chase him down like a hound out of hell.

For all the good that did.

The bartender checked in to see if she wanted another drink. Tera cracked a smile. Yes, dammit, she wanted another drink. She wanted to douse herself in liquor and party with the band. That’d be a much better way to spend her evening. Instead, she shook her head and dropped a twenty on the bar. When the bartender reached to pick it up, she turned her cell phone toward him and asked, “You see this guy in here today?”

He leaned closer and looked at the photo on the screen. “That’s Luke Kingsley. Son of a bitch killed his wife.”

“Impossible to prove without a body, but yeah, son of a bitch killed his wife.” The music switched to something else that reminded Tera of being young and dangerous, as opposed to old and angry. “I have reason to believe he was here today, between three and four o’clock.”

“You a cop?”

“I used to be a cop. Now I’m a private investigator.”

“Okay, cool,” he said. “But hey, I can’t help you. I just got here. Savannah worked the afternoon shift.”

“Is Savannah here?”

He pointed across the main floor, to where a woman in a Stray Bullets cowboy hat stood chatting with a long-haired rocker who wore more eye makeup than she did. Tera thanked the bartender, then walked over to the woman. She was attractive, early thirties, with piercings through her upper lip and a star tattooed on her cheek. The muscles in her arms suggested she was quite used to throwing obnoxious drunks out into the desert night.

Tera hovered close by, waiting for her moment, then approached.

“Savannah?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Tera Montecino. I’m a private investigator from Los Angeles.” She showed Savannah the license in her wallet. “You have time to answer a couple of questions?”