“You can feel empathy without wasting their time, and ours,” her father said. “I told you before, Zee spent way more time looking at that case than he should have. I feel badly for the grandmother, and the child, which is why I cut my fee. But it comes down to the fact that we just didn’t have a case. That one was a money loser. And I can’t afford to lose money if I’m going to stay in business. I’ve got a staff to pay—including you—overhead, benefits and a pension to fund. If you stay with the firm, and I hope you will, you’ll learn that every day cases are coming across the transom. Some are winners and some are losers. Jazmin Mayes, unfortunately, was a loser.”

He drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. “I know you don’t believe me, but we did all we could for Yvonne and Aliyah.”

Drue sipped her wine. “What if I could prove Jazmin wasn’t on the clock at Gulf Vista when she was killed? Would you take another look at the case?”

“That girl was savagely murdered—strangled and beaten,” Brice said sharply. “Her killer is still at large. You’re not a trained investigator. So you stay the hell away from Gulf Vista. You hear me?”

“Okay, sure. I’ll be a good little cube rat and answer the phone and do what I’m told,” Drue said. “Because you’re the one who signs my paycheck.”

“Let’s go,” Brice said abruptly. He was looking around for the waiter and their check.

“Where are you parked?” he asked.

“At the cottage.” She dreaded asking, but also dreaded the long bus ride back out to the beach. “Think you could give me a ride home? OJ’s still on the fritz.”

“On one condition,” he said. “No more shoptalk.”

18

December 1975

The green and white patrol car pulled into the Dreamland motel on Thirty-fourth Street North at 10:45 P.M.

The Dreamland was one of the thousands of motels, built during the post–World War II tourist boom in Florida, that had seen better days. Half the letters on the neon sign out front were burned out, and the colorful neon pixie who’d once sprinkled dream dust among stars and a crescent moon was barely recognizable due to peeling paint and broken tubing. The palm trees lining the curb were dead or dying.

Officer Brice Campbell parked his car outside Unit 12 and waited. The dispatch code had come in first as a noise complaint, and then as a “family disturbance.” Two minutes later another patrol car pulled alongside Campbell’s. The officer, Jimmy Zilowicz, was Brice’s beat partner. He opened the passenger door and slid inside.

“What have we got?” Zee asked.