Because of that, the boy kept his eyes down, and sensed the building more than saw it: a dark mass, rising ahead. He paid no attention until its shadow touched his feet, and he saw caulk guns and soda cans and dropped rivets. Stepping onto cool concrete, he peered up through a spiderweb of beams and cable. Moving deeper, his shoes scraped in the grit, his hands on the concrete, the rusted steel. He circled a stairwell, and saw the blood first.

After that, he saw the girl.

Detective French got the call at home. “Ken,” he said. “Good morning.”

“Not so much.” There was crackle on the line, a radio patch. “You know the empty construction site on the edge of Highway 16? The developer who went bust last year?”

“A hotel, right?”

“Was supposed to be, yeah.”

“What about it?”

“I need you here.”

“Why?”

“Body. Female. It’s bad.”

“Hang on, hang on. Shit.” French trapped the phone between his ear and shoulder. He was making eggs. They were burning. “All right, Ken. Sorry. Tell me what’s happening.”

Burklow started with the boy.

French flashed his shield at the gate, drove into the old construction site, and saw a dark shape that evolved into a small kid with his knees drawn up, and his chin pressed into the bones of his chest as if he might never look up again. Exiting the car, French looked at the building, then back at the boy, taking in the sneakers, the T-shirt, the blown-out jeans.

“You okay, son?” The boy didn’t look up or speak. “I’m a cop, okay? I’m here to take care of you.” Still nothing, not even his eyes. Thirty yards away, Burklow stepped from the structure, and waved. French said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Facing his partner, it was hard to hide the anger. “That boy should be with an adult. His parents. An officer. Someone.”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?” Burklow looked away, and French caught all the signals. “It’s really that bad?”

“Have you had breakfast yet? ’Cause it’s like that.”

“Jesus. Okay. The boy called it in?”

“Kid stumbled into traffic, and a motorist almost took him out. Older woman. Grandmother. She got him out of the street and flagged down a patrol car. New guy. Dobson, I think. That’s him at the gate.”

“It’s a school day. It’s early. The kid’s what? Twelve?”

“Maybe. Maybe younger.”

“What’s he doing out here?”

“He’s not really talking.”

“No name?”

“Not yet.”

French looked around at the weeds and dirt, the windblown litter. “It’s pretty quiet out here, Ken.”

“I need you to see it first. I need that.”