She gave him a little salute as he turned to say good night.

“And thank you,” she said sincerely. “For stopping to check on me, and for listening to me rattle on.”

“That’s okay,” he said with half a smile. “That’s a nice switch for me. In my line of work, most people don’t want to talk to me.”

“Too bad. You’re a good listener.”

An awkward little tension sprang up between them. It was like the end of a first date. Who should say what? Should he kiss her? No. Absolutely no.

“Thanks. Well, good night,” he said abruptly, and he turned and walked away.

He should have taken her up on the coffee, he thought two hours later. His eyelids felt like they were lined in sandpaper, and his mouth tasted like a dirty sock. He ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced.

Finally a set of headlights turned onto the street. Steve Morgan’s black Trans Am. Mr. Midlife Crisis: driving a teenager’s sports car and cheating on his wife.

Mendez remembered interviewing Peter Crane during the investigation into the murder of Lisa Warwick—before Crane himself had taken the spotlight as See-No-Evil. Crane had tried to make excuses for his friend’s behavior.

Steve is a complicated guy ... Steve comes from a tough background—single mom, not much money, desperate times ...

Sara had given him the same out for being an asshole.

Boo-fucking-hoo, Mendez thought. He came from a tough background himself, but he didn’t use it as an excuse for bad behavior. And his mother raised him to treat women with respect, not lie to them and cheat on them.

He didn’t wait for Morgan to pull into the driveway. He got out of the car and walked across the street with purpose, coming up alongside the Trans Am as Morgan turned the key off.

Mendez smacked his badge up against the driver’s side window then shoved it back in his coat pocket. He stepped back just enough that Morgan could get the car door partially open to get out, only to find himself trapped between the door and the car.

“Is there a curfew law I’m unaware of?” Morgan asked calmly. He smelled just vaguely of alcohol.

“Where’ve you been all night?” Mendez asked without any preamble of false niceties.

“Working.”

“I’ve been past your office ten times tonight. You weren’t there.”

Morgan raised his eyebrows. “Ten times? That sounds like harassment to me.”

“Where were you?”

“I had a dinner meeting with a client.”

“Oh? Did you take her to that nice out-of-the-way little place in Los Olivos?”

Morgan looked annoyed. He worked his jaw a little back and forth like he was grinding his teeth.

“You spoke to Mark Foster,” he said and nodded. “Yes, I sometimes meet clients out of town. People here can get the wrong idea if I take a woman out to dinner.”