“C’mon, buddy,” Decker said. He gave Brian a slight shove forward and prodded him down the hallway into the bathroom. When they were both inside, Decker locked the door.

The boy’s hands squeezed into tight, white-knuckled balls.

“You’re not going to try anything stupid, are you?” Decker asked.

The boy didn’t answer.

“Unclench your fists, son. I’m not about to duke it out with you.” Decker smiled. “In a john of all places.”

The boy’s fingers slowly relaxed.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Decker said, “this never existed.” He dumped the contents of the bag down the toilet and gave it a flush. “I gave you a break. Now you give me one.”

The kid stared, amazed.

“Whaddaya want?” he repeated, his tone of voice deferential this time.

“I’m looking for Brian Armor.”

“I’m Brian.”

“I want to talk to you about Lindsey Bates.”

The boy stared at him.

“Lindsey?…This is about Lindsey?”

“Yep. Your bad-ass attitude lost you your stash for nothing.”

“Aw, shit.”

“But look at it this way. I’m not gonna bust you.” Decker took out his notepad. “You wanna talk in here or you wanna go out there?”

“All my friends out there—they were friends of Lindsey’s.”

Decker grinned. He had just saved himself a mess of legwork.

“Let’s go.”

The gang was waiting, stiff and grim. When they saw Brian smile, their posture loosened.

Brian cocked a thumb at Decker.

“He wants to talk about Lindsey.”

“Why should we talk to you?” said a sulking brunette in torn clothing. He knew from Cindy what those rags cost.

“You’re a friend of Lindsey’s?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“Then maybe you give enough of a fuck about her to help me find her murderer.”

She lowered her eyes.

“What’s your name?” Decker asked the girl.

“Heather.”

Decker consulted his list.

“Heather Hanson.”

Her head jerked up.

“That’s right.”

The detective checked her name off.

“I’m going to read some names,” he said. “Answer me if it’s you.”

They were all there. Decker marveled at his good fortune.

“So what do you want to know about Lindsey?” asked a big blonde with purple lips. She was Lisa O’Donnell.

“She left home at eleven A.M. Saturday morning, September tenth. Did she call any of you earlier that day?”

“She called me,” Heather answered. “I was her best friend.”

“And?”

“And she asked me to meet her at the Galleria at 12:30. She didn’t show up.”

So she had run away or had been abducted somewhere between eleven and 12:30. Amazing that no one had picked up on something so simple.

Heather went on: “I didn’t think anything about it. We change our plans lots of times.” She twirled her curly hair. “I mean, I didn’t tell the police about her phone call the first time around.”