He pointed out a house coming up on their left, maybe a hundred and fifty yards off the shoulder. It was a one-storey wooden building, unpainted, with a full-width porch and a barn off to one side. Two cars out front in the dirt yard.

Vincent said, ‘If you keep going, we can park farther up the road and go in on foot.’

Erin opened the glove compartment and removed the Glock. ‘I’d rather not be shot with a rifle while walking across a field. Or do you call it open terrain? Is that the official term?’

‘I’m serious. There’s actually some tree cover in behind.’

‘You can walk if you like. I’m not.’

He could hear in her tone that she wouldn’t compromise. Like she was beyond the point of accepting delays: too close to a resolution.

Vincent said, ‘You think they’re going to be pleased to have visitors?’

She slowed and turned into the driveway. A basic post-and-rail fence marked out each side, timbers as parched and warped as old bone. Like pieces of dinosaur thigh, all staked together. Vincent leaned forward in his seat for a broader view. No one in sight. No guns sticking out of windows. The house’s front door was open, but with the contrasting light he couldn’t see inside.

The cars out front were an old Buick LeSabre sedan, and a Nissan Terrano SUV, both with California plates. Erin pulled up behind the LeSabre and leaned forward against the wheel to slip the Glock in the back of her jeans.

Vincent said, ‘Just wait here a minute, keep it running.’

She shut off the engine and opened her door, got out and walked straight up to the porch.

‘Erin.’

She ignored him.

The porch timbers squeaked under their weight, and in the shade of the verandah he could see into the house. The front door gave straight into the living room. A man of about eighty with a crumpled posture and moist complexion was sitting in a wheelchair and watching a game show on TV.

Erin knocked lightly. ‘Hello, sir.’

He glanced at her. ‘Hola.’

He was in shorts and a button-up shirt open to his stomach. Iron-wool chest hair showing in the gap.

Erin said, ‘Esta Leo en casa?’

‘Si, si.’ Weak and breathless. He raised a cup of water from a holder on his armrest and sipped from a straw. Eyes shut and crinkled, he said, ‘Leo. Visitantes. Visitantes.’

Erin said, ‘It’s okay. We’ll find him.’

She smiled and pointed beyond the old man to the rear of the house, and he nodded emphatically. ‘Si. Si.’

They moved past him along a short corridor to a kitchen. Murder-scene grease marks on the stove, a small Formica table holding newspapers and a radio. The radio was playing tinny mariachi.