“Lockup. Yeah, I thought of that right after we talked. Stupid of me not to jump on that sooner. But, sorry, she’s not in any state penitentiary in the lower forty-eight, Hawaii or Alaska. I suppose it’s possible she’s stashed at some Federal pen, or maybe you were right about them shipping her to some nice little villa in Ibiza, sun-splashed exterior, padded walls. Know of anyone who’ll fund a fact-finding Mediterranean tour for a deserving detective?”

“Fill out a form and submit it to John G. Broussard.”

“Hey, gosharoo, why didn’t I think of that? Alex, thanks for your time.”

“But . . .”

“The whole thing is still dead-ending, just like twenty years ago. I’ve got no files, no notes to fall back on, can’t even locate Melinda Waters’s mother. And I was thinking about something: I gave Eileen Waters my card. If Melinda never returned home, wouldn’t she have called me back?”

“Maybe she did, and you never got the message. You were in West L.A., by then.”

“I got other calls,” he said. “Bullshit stuff. Central forwarded them to me.”

“Exactly.”

Silence. “Maybe. In any event, I can’t see anywhere to take it.”

“One more thing,” I said. I told him about Willie Burns, expected him to blow it off.

He said, “Willie Burns. Would he be around . . . forty by now?”

“Twenty or twenty-one, then, so yeah.”

“I knew a Willie Burns. He had a baby face,” he said. “Woulda been . . . twenty-three back then.” His voice had changed. Softer, lower. Focused.

“Who is he?” I said.

“Maybe no one,” he said. “Let me get back to you.”

He phoned two hours later sounding tight and distracted, as if someone was hovering nearby.

“Where are you?” I said.

“At my desk.”

“Thought you were taking vacation time.”

“There’s paper to clear.”

“Who’s Willie Burns?” I said.

“Let’s chat in person,” he said. “Do you have time? Sure, you do, you’re living the merry bachelor life. Meet me out in front of the station, let’s say half an hour.”

He was standing near the curb and hopped into the Seville before the car had come to a full stop.

“Where to?” I said.

“Anywhere.”

I continued up Butler, took a random turn, and cruised the modest residential streets that surround the West L.A. station. When I’d put half a mile between us and his desk, he said, “There is definitely a God and He’s jerking my chain. Payment for old sins.”

“What sins?”

“The worst one: failure.”

“Willie Burns is another cold one?”