He found the Maverick in a narrow driveway, five houses up on the west side of the block. It had bald tires. Spots of primer dulled the paint. A flashlight through the glass showed trash on the floor but nothing illegal. Approaching the house, French saw movement through the curtains, heard music and laughter. He knocked, and a pretty girl opened the door. She wore bell-bottoms, a tube top, and blue eye shadow that glittered in the light. She was drunk, but friendly. Small freckles crossed the bridge of her nose.

“Hey, come on in. Booze is in the kitchen. Charlie’s around here somewhere.”

She turned, and left the door open, so he went inside. A dozen people filled the first room, and he saw more down the hall and in the adjacent room. Blue smoke hung in the air. Some of it was weed. Moving into the house, French caught a few unhappy looks, but ignored them. Everyone else was blissful and vague. A couple was making out on the stairs. A few girls were dancing in the corner as “Brown Eyed Girl” spun on the turntable.

In the narrow hall, he turned sideways to fit his large frame past a good-looking kid and a group of women in their twenties. “Jason French?” he asked the first one to catch his eyes, but she shook her head. At the end of the hall, he peered into the kitchen. Two beer kegs sat in tubs of ice, and open bottles ran the length of both counters. The men there were older, with mustaches and sideburns. “Anybody here seen Jason French?” No one answered, so French picked the one who looked most out of place and uncertain. “How about you? You know Jason French?”

The young man glanced at his friends. “Uh, upstairs, man. But he’s not exactly looking for visitors.”

“What room?”

“Uh…”

“Shut up, dude. We don’t talk about Jason ’less Jason says.”

After that, the group closed ranks, a common reaction. To certain men, Jason held a near godlike appeal. He’d enlisted to avenge a dead brother, done three tours, and kicked ass. He had the scars and attitude, the prison time, done clean. The aura of it still hung on Jason, but French was tired of it, all of it. He rolled back the edge of his jacket, exposing the shield, the holstered weapon. “I said, what room.” After thirty years of cop, he was good at this kind of thing. He could deliver a beating; take a beating. It gave him confidence that went beyond the badge and gun. “Come on, boys, it’s a simple question. No? No one? All right. That’s fine, too. But I’m going upstairs to look for Jason, and if I find any of you boys behind me on the stairs or in the hall or anywhere else near me, I’ll take it personally. Understand?”