The sun filled the front seats of the cab but Lillie had to look for the switches to turn on the lights in the sleeper. It was the kind of scene that would make Martha Stewart shit her pants. A bare mattress on the bunk, a half dozen plastic milk jugs filled with an indeterminate yellow mixture, dirty T-shirts and stained underwear, a tiny little TV with a cigarette lighter plug and dozens of DVDs strewn about the floor.

“Wow,” Lillie said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves and shuffling through the DVDs. “Mr. Hicks was a real cinephile. Looks like he was preparing to stick it in damn near anything that had a hole. Didn’t know they sold this shit down South. Looks like the kind of material you’d get in a Bangkok flea market.”

“Few years back I had to take a course in sex trafficking on the web,” Charlie said. “Agent leading the talk said there was something out there for everybody. One of the marshals, being a smartass, said, ‘What about rhinos?’ Took the agent about two hot seconds to find that very thing.”

“Glad to have that in mind next time I take my kid to the zoo.”

“Sorry, Lil.”

“Sorry for what?” Lillie said. “That sickos live among us? I learned that a long time ago.”

Lillie sifted through the man’s belongings, knowing the local cops took four guns out of the rig. Two pistols, a shotgun, and an AR-15, just in case Mr. Hicks decided to take the Purple People Eater into a military hot zone.

“I think local investigators missed a few items,” Lillie said.

“The duct tape.”

“Stun gun and some rope,” Lillie said. “Shit. Kind of funny to think that he messed with TJ Byrd. One of those days when you believe there really is such thing as karma.”

“Did the cop run down everything on the evidence list?”

“You mean ole Eb back there?”

“Yeah, Eb.”

“You know his name really isn’t Eb and he didn’t get the reference,” she said. “But he is the spitting image of old Tom Lester.”

“Nobody remembers the classics.”

“Damn shame,” Lillie said. “What’s wrong with America?”

Lillie grinned, toeing at a few sex toys left in the cab, trying her best to not imagine how they worked or that a man like Floyd Eugene Hicks might’ve been going to happy town while driving eighty thousand pounds down a U.S. interstate.

Something caught her eye stuck under a stack of DVDs. A thin gold chain. She bent down and found part of a broken necklace, a little gold compass dangling at the end. daddy’s little girl is never lost.

She showed it to Charlie. “Ain’t that a heartbreaker?”

“Guns, dildos, and DVDs,” Charlie said. “What could’ve gone wrong?”