He searched the rest of the room. The magazine posters were the closest thing to personal possessions. No diary or date book or photographs of friends. If Janie had ever called this dump home, she’d changed her mind sometime ago. He wondered if she had some other place of refuge—a crash pad, a sanctuary, somewhere she kept stuff.

He checked under the bed, found dirt. When he extricated himself, his neck killed and his shoulders throbbed.

Schwinn and Ingalls were back in the front room, and Milo stopped to check out the bathroom, compressing his nostrils to block out the stench, examining the medicine cabinet. All over-the-counter stuff—painkillers, laxatives, diarrhea remedies, antacids—a host of antacids. Something eating at Bowie Ingalls’s gut? Guilt or just alcohol?

Milo found himself craving a drink.

When he joined Schwinn and Ingalls, Ingalls was slumped on the couch, looking disoriented, saying, “What do I do now?”

Schwinn stood away from the guy, detached. No more use for Ingalls. “There’ll be some procedures to go through—identification, filling out forms. Identification can wait till after the autopsy. We may have more questions for you.”

Ingalls looked up. “About what?”

Schwinn handed Ingalls his card. “If you think of anything, give a call.”

“I already told you everything.”

Milo said, “Was there anywhere else Janie mighta crashed?”

“Like what?”

“Like a crash pad. Somewhere kids go.”

“I dunno where kids go. Dunno where my own kid goes, so how would I know?”

“Okay, thanks. Sorry for your loss, Mr. Ingalls.”

Schwinn motioned Milo to the door, but when they got there, he turned back to Ingalls. “One more thing: What does Melinda look like?”

Basic question, thought Milo, but he hadn’t thought to ask it. Schwinn had, but he orchestrated it, timed everything. The guy was nuts but miles ahead of him.

“Short, big tits—built big—kinda fat. Blond hair, real long, straight.”

“Voluptuous,” said Schwinn, enjoying the word.

“Whatever.”

“And she’s Janie’s age?”

“Maybe a little older,” said Ingalls.

“A sophomore, too?”

“I dunno what she is.”

“Bad influence,” said Schwinn.

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a picture of Janie? Something we could show around?”

“I’d have to have one, wouldn’t I?” said Bowie, making it sound like the answer to an oral exam. Pulling himself to his feet, he stumbled to his bedroom, returned moments later with a three-by-five snap.

A dark-haired child around ten years old, wearing a sleeveless dress and staring at a five-foot-tall Mickey Mouse. Mickey giving that idiot grin, the kid unimpressed—scared, actually. No way to connect this child to the outrage on Beaudry.

“Disneyland,” said Ingalls.

“You took Janie there?” said Milo, trying to imagine that.

“Nah, it was a school trip. They got a group discount.”

Schwinn returned the photo to Ingalls. “I was thinking in terms of something more recent.”