Slowly Alice nodded. “Once. He came here waiting for Ruby. She never did show up.” She opened and closed her mouth. “He made an attempt to be civil. I thought that was nice.” She got misty-eyed. “Ruby…she was bigmouthed, but she wouldn’t…she couldn’t have…you know.”

They knew.

“Ernesto…he was okay.” Another sip. “He was Ruby’s flavor of the month. She was probably using him. But using people is one thing…. The other thing…she wouldn’t…” But the woman did not sound convinced. “She wouldn’t do that!”

“You mean murder?” Webster filled in.

Alice grimaced. “My daughter is not a killer!”

Obviously, the woman, as much as she was proclaiming not to care, couldn’t wipe her hands of her own offspring.

Martinez spoke in a soft voice. “You tried.”

“Yes, I did,” Alice agreed. “I tried very hard. But very hard wasn’t good enough. I tried but I still failed.”

“Any idea where she may be?”

“No, but if you find her, tell her she owes me money for junking her stuff.”

Webster said, “Mrs. Ranger, would you happen to have an old phone bill from when she was living at home?”

“Probably.”

A long pause.

“You think you can look it up for us?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now,” Martinez said.

“It could take a little while.”

“We can wait.”

Alice stared at her drink. “She’s in big trouble, isn’t she?” There was a long pause. Then she whispered, “Is she in danger?”

Martinez shrugged but didn’t answer. Alice felt herself shudder. It was always what wasn’t said that scared her.

31

The house was situated on the side of a mountain, one of those places precariously perched on concrete reinforced stilts and built by optimists who denied earthquakes happened in Southern California. It was dark outside, so it was hard to tell the color of the exterior, but it looked to be tan and white stucco spruced up with white gingerbread. Since it was a two-story split-level, most of the physical structure remained hidden, the majority of the edifice having been bolted and carved (hopefully) into the rocky hillside. The appeal of these domiciles extended beyond the thrill of danger: the homes had tremendous views of the verdant canyons and the glittering city lights beyond.

Since the house was gated, Decker had to ring to get in, but suddenly announcing himself as a police officer would ruin the element of surprise. He looked around. Behind the metal barrier was a small blip of asphalt driveway holding a lone black Mercedes. Outside the gate, resting on the fold of a mountainous curve, were an SUV and a three-year-old Mustang.

Decker rang the bell. A woman, talking through a squawk box, answered his page.

“Yes?”

“You own that orange Mustang parked outside?”

“Who is this?”

“We’re about to tow it away. It’s got four unpaid parking tickets.”