And Now She's Gone(20)

“Women don’t dump this guy.”

“Yeah, that’s part of my problem with your friend. And why I’d asked not to be assigned male clients.”

“You hate him cuz his ego’s the size of my dick.”

Gray rolled her eyes. “Low-hanging fruit, Nick.”

“Hanging all the way down to my knees, baby. To my knees.” He hopped up from his chair. “How can you sit there when free fucking beers are, like, six feet away?”

“They aren’t free,” she said, speaking to his back. “You’re paying for them.”

He darted out of her office to join the mob at the breakfast bar.

How was she gonna say this? That Ian O’Donnell—Nick’s friend—was a wife beater?

She pulled the beaded cord on the window blinds until only a slice of sunlight cut across her notepad. She rubbed her temples, pushing at the new headache pinging behind her eyes. Came from not wearing her glasses around Dominick Rader. Came from old injuries that worsened in air-conditioning and high humidity.

Nick returned to her office, clutching two bottles of Flat Tire.

“What part of ‘I don’t drink beer’ don’t you understand?” she asked.

He snorted. “These aren’t for you, sweetheart. This one”—he held up one bottle—“is my To Go. You been to Kauai before?”

“Not recently.” She hadn’t left the continental U.S. since 2008.

“That’s where I’m taking her. Booked us a suite, and I even got a rental car.” He flicked off the cap of his Right Now beer and guzzled half the bottle.

“She must be a genius in the lab and in the sack to get you to rent a car.”

“So, your first big case. Cool, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Thought you’d be happier, being sent out into the field, looking for people.”

She blinked at him. “This is my happy resting bitch face.”

“You can handle this, right?” No cockiness in his question. “And yeah, you told me that you didn’t want to help jerks find women…”

Gray smiled. “It’s fine. I help jerks all the time. How many times have I helped you?”

“I’m being serious.”

Gray’s eyes skipped around her office—the crimson orchid, the Ruscha prints of “Idea,” floating in gray, and “The Absolute End,” floating in blue. “What if…” She found Isabel Lincoln’s text message on her phone, then read it to Nick.

He grunted.

She blinked at him. “That’s it?”

“Ian isn’t that guy.”

Her nostrils flared. “Because he’s one of your homies, he can’t be an asshole?”

“An asshole and a wife beater are two different creatures.”

“I know that.”

“I thought you did, which is why I gave you this case.” He pointed at her. “You need to take two steps back, all right? In this business? Everyone lies. Everyone leaves something out of the narrative.”

“Our job—”

“Is to do what we’re being paid to do, and in this case, our job is to what?”

She didn’t respond.

“To what?”

“To find Isabel Lincoln. To have her sign a statement saying that she’s okay. To have her answer three security questions. To take a picture of the tattoo on her left thigh and of her holding USA Today, then hand the picture and statement—”

“And the dog,” Nick interrupted. “You’re finding the dog, too.”

“And if she’s scared of him? What, then?”

“Maybe this case is too much for you.” He said this more to himself than to Gray. “Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe—”

“I can handle it,” Gray said, her words hard. They stared at each other until she sighed and said, “I think he wants the dog back more than he wants the girl.”

“I think you’re right. Just … listen to your gut. Get her to sign the damned statement.”

“And if she needs our help?” Gray prodded.

He pushed out a frustrated breath. “Then we’ll help her.”

She scowled. “You sound so dismissive.”

He drained his beer. “And you’re making this more dramatic than necessary.”

“Dramatic,” she said, drawing out that one word dramatically.

Like when “missing” turned into “she’s hiding and doesn’t want to be found”? And if Isabel Lincoln didn’t want to be found, it may have been because the searcher—Ian O’Donnell—had hit her, kicked her, or strangled her. If she didn’t want to be found, it was because maybe he would kill her. Dramatic? Indeed. Possible? Indeed as fuck.

Gray and Nick strolled to his black Yukon. Her eyes burned—the mountains surrounding the Basin were still on fire. That white sun was now the top layer on the City of Angels’s five-layer dip of sun, ashes, smog, humidity, and cracked earth.

A Jeep Patriot trailed them to snag Nick’s soon-to-be-abandoned parking space. Nick and Gray eyed the woman driving the Jeep, who was now rolling on their heels. The driver saw something dangerous in their faces, and she sped ahead to find another parking space.