Mendoza led the way to where Andie Jeffries had tucked herself into a corner booth. Her long fingers were busy shredding the paper from the straw that was stuck into a tall glass of what appeared to be cola. Her gaze was fixed on the glass, as if she were studying the bubbles rising between small ice cubes. So lost in thought was she that she nearly jumped out of her skin when they approached.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said as they slid into the booth opposite her.

“Doing what?”

“Risking everything . . . I mean . . . it’s . . . it’s probably nothing anyway.” Dressed in faded blue scrubs beneath a navy jacket, she was a pale, impossibly thin woman, not yet thirty, her eyes a light brown, her dishwater-blond hair secured at her nape by a leather thong. And she was nervous as hell, still tearing the tiny strips of white paper.

A waitress swung by with a pot of coffee and filled two of the four cups waiting on the table. She asked brightly if they wanted to see a menu, but they declined.

“Okay. Sure. Sugar and cream are on the table,” the waitress said, nodding, red curls bouncing. “Let me know if you need anything else.” And she was off, coffee pot in hand, swinging toward a booth closer to the door, where three men in heavy jackets had settled.

“So what’s so important?” Mendoza asked, her iPad and phone already on the table, ready to record.

Andie blinked as if she were going to cry, then looked through the plate glass of the window. “It’s Megan. I mean, I should have called you earlier, but I was so scared, and I didn’t believe anything had happened to her, and—” She hiccupped, placed the back of her hand to her mouth, and tried to steady herself. “Bruce would kill me if he knew I was here, talking to the cops.”

“You know where she is?” Rivers asked, thinking this might finally be their break.

“No.” She was shaking her head and sniffing, looking scared.

Rivers felt his pulse tick up.

“Who’s Bruce?” Mendoza asked.

“My boyfriend . . . Bruce Porter . . . he . . . um, he had a little trouble. Drugs. But it’s all over now. He’s been through rehab, and he’s clean. Has been for six, no, almost seven months . . . well, anyway, he works for James Cahill, out at the shop. He . . . um . . .” Her voice squeaked. “James gave him a chance once he proved he wasn’t using. Just janitorial stuff at first, y’know, sweeping up and keeping track of the tools and . . . well, anyway now he does more, helps out now putting up Sheetrock or laying subflooring or whatever.” She sniffed, on the verge of tears. “And he needs the job, y’know. We both do.”

She looked absolutely miserable.

“Did something happen?” Mendoza prodded.