“Gibby? Jesus.” Smith spoke first, his gaze moving to Sara’s face and mine, then to my arm on her shoulder. He was a small cop with soft eyes and narrow hands.

Martinez, beside him, looked harder and crueler and cynical. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing.”

It was a kid’s response, but Martinez was like my father at his worst: the cop eyes and distrust. He glanced at Smith, and cleared his throat. “Why don’t we speak separately? Gibby, will you come with me?”

“Is this about Tyra?” I asked.

“What do you know about Tyra?”

“Only that she’s missing.”

“You know her, then? Personally?”

“Yeah. Course.”

“How do you know her?”

Smith said, “Martinez…”

But Martinez ignored the note of warning in his partner’s voice. “I said, how do you know her?”

“Come on, man. It’s Bill’s son.”

“Don’t tell me to come on! You saw her, same as me.”

I didn’t know what he meant, but thought, Tyra, first, and then that it was bad. Martinez was so hot and bothered I looked for smoke in his ears. “We have questions,” he said. “Cop questions, important ones. And I expect you to answer them right here and right now, same as your little friend.”

He stabbed a finger at Sara’s face, and I saw blood on the cuff of his shirt. He followed my gaze, and saw the same thing. “Son of a bitch…”

He tried to wipe it off, and Smith took the lead, his voice softer. “You’re confused. I understand. Worried, too, I’m sure. But we need to ask the questions first. You know how this works.”

I did. I didn’t care. “Tell me about Tyra.”

“I can’t do that…”

“Gibby, what’s happening?”

I pulled Sara closer, squeezing her shoulders. “We’ll wait for my father,” I said.

“Your daddy’s not coming,” Martinez said. “Even if he did, it wouldn’t make a difference. This is happening like I said. Right here. Right now.”

Smith showed his palms. “It would be helpful…”

“You’re damn right,” Martinez said.

“Not until I know what happened to Tyra.”

“Goddamn it, kid. You don’t ask questions, and you don’t get to see your daddy.”

But a car was racing down the street, red light on the roof, the engine running hot. It was my father’s car; I knew it. So did Martinez. He stepped back, and I heard the words under his breath: Motherfucker, son of a goddamn bitch …

The car braked hard, and the doors flew wide. “Not a word, son, not a single word.”

“What are you doing here, Bill?”

“Not now, Martinez. I need to speak with my son.”

“So do we.”

“And I’m saying, not now!”

“He knows our victim.” Martinez stepped into my father’s personal space, crowding him. “Personally.” Martinez stressed the word. “He knows her personally.”