“Yes, it bothers me, but right now it doesn’t mean much one way or another. This guy you spoke with, the manager, is he still on the premises?”

“Yeah. In his apartment.”

“Okay. Tell him to stay put. I’ll see what the DMV has on her before we roll out.”

I closed my phone, then looked at Pike.

“They’re coming out to see Langer.”

“Cool. Let’s kick back and wait.”

I laughed, then opened the phone again and called a friend at the DMV. I read off the Neon’s plate, asked for the registration information, and had it in less than a minute. The Neon was registered to a Sara K. Hill with an address in a small community called Sylmar at the top of the San Fernando Valley.

“Does the vehicle show stolen?”

“Nope. No wants, warrants, or unpaid citations. Registration is in order and up-to-date.”

I put down the phone and told Pike.

He said, “Maybe that’s her real name.”

Sara K. Hill was listed with Sylmar Information. I copied her number, then dialed. A woman answered on the sixth ring, her voice sounding older and coarse.

I said, “May I speak with Ivy, please.”

“You have the wrong number.”

She hung up.

I called her again, and this time she answered after only two rings.

“Me, again. Is this Sara Hill?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to find Ivy Casik.”

“Well, good luck to you. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

She sounded more irritated than anything else.

“I think maybe you might. She’s driving your car.”

Sara Hill’s voice grew careful.

“Are you from the credit card?”

“No, ma’am. I’m not from the credit card.”

Her voice was still careful.

“Who did you want?”

“A tall girl, straight hair, in her mid-twenties-”

Sara Hill cut me off.

“I don’t know anyone like that! Don’t call here again!”

The line went dead again, but this time we didn’t call back. Pike went to his Jeep, I climbed into my car, and we drove north through the Cahuenga Pass toward Sylmar.

38

SYLMAR WAS a small rural community at the foot of the Newhall Pass, where the San Fernando Valley died against the mountains. The main streets were lined with outdated strip malls and fast-food outlets, but remnants of truck farms and plant nurseries were scattered across a landscape gone largely undeveloped thanks to the ugly convergence of freeways, railroad tracks, and power stations. It was the kind of area where signs offered FEED and TACK.

Pike followed me to a small house in a ragged neighborhood between the Golden State Freeway and the railroad. The yards were large the way they tend to be in rural areas, and burned dead by the heat. More than one house sported rusted-out cars and chain-link fences so old they sagged from the weight of the air. Even in that shabby neighborhood, Sara Hill’s house looked tired and sad.

The white Neon was not in her drive, so we cruised the area to see if it was parked nearby or hidden in someone’s yard. When we returned to the house, we parked on either side of the street, then Pike trotted down the drive to cover the rear. I found three letters and some throwaway flyers in the mailbox. The letters were addressed to Sara Hill. We had the right place.

I brought the mail to the door, rang the bell once, then knocked. A few seconds later, Mrs. Sara K. Hill called from behind the door.

“Who is it?”

“I phoned about Ivy Casik.”

“Go away. I don’t know anything about the credit, and I ain’t got nothin’ to say about it.”

“I have your mail.”

Her voice rose.

“Put it down. Stealin’ mail is a federal crime. I’ll call the police.”

“I’m the police. Open the door and I’ll show you my badge.”

Lying is often the best policy.

Sara Hill threw open the door. She was a large woman with angry eyes and swollen joints, and she filled the frame with her bulk. She wore a thin housedress frayed at the hem, and rested her weight on a cane. I tried to see past her, but couldn’t.

“You’re not from the credit?”

“I don’t know anything about the credit. See?”

I held up my license. It didn’t look anything like a badge, but she probably didn’t understand what she was seeing.

“You gimme that mail. I don’t like the look of you one bit. You look like your voice.”

I held up the mail but didn’t give it to her.

“The Neon.”

“You’re not from the credit?”

“No, I am not from the credit. I’m trying to find the woman who is driving your car. She may have knowledge of a crime and she might be in danger.”

The angry eyes softened into something fearful, as if she was used to bad news and figured she was about to get more.

“She didn’t have an accident, did she? I don’t think I could take that right now.”

“Do you know a young woman named Ivy Casik?”

“I don’t know any Ivy Casik. My daughter is Jonna Hill. She has the car, but I guess she could’ve loaned it out. What happened?”

I tried to see past her again, and held up my hand to indicate Ivy’s height.

“This tall. A big girl, athletic, with straight hair. A heart tattooed here on her arm.”

Her eyes fluttered with even more fear, then she pivoted on the cane and grabbed the wall for support as she headed into the house. She pointed the cane at something deep in the room I could not see, so I followed her.

The small living room was as ragged as the yard, with threadbare furniture that smelled of sour flesh and pickles. An ancient console television sat under the window, but it probably hadn’t worked in years. She was using it as a table. A small Hitachi portable was on the console, along with a couple of pictures. She jabbed the cane toward one of the pictures.

“That’s Jonna right there. Don’t you dare tell me something bad.”

The picture was yet another high school graduation portrait, the kind every school in America takes during senior year so they can sell different sizes to you and your family. Jonna was Ivy, of course, only younger, with naturally dark hair. I had seen a lot of these graduation pictures in the past week, but Jonna Hill’s picture was not the last. A picture of Yvonne Bennett was beside it.

I stared at Yvonne for a while, then looked at Sara Hill. The only part of her I saw in her daughters were the eyes. Seeds of anger were deep in their eyes.

Joe Pike stepped out of the kitchen, as quiet as air moving through air.

“She’s not here.”

Mrs. Hill staggered sideways in surprise, catching herself on her cane.

“Jesus Lord, what is this? Who are you?”

I gave her a gentle smile.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hill. He’s the police, too. We just wanted to make sure everyone was safe.”

I glanced at Pike.

“See if she left anything.”

Mrs. Hill waved the cane after him as he disappeared.

“Where’s he going? What’s he going to do?”

“Look around. It’s a cop thing. We always look around.”

She jabbed at the picture again.

“You better not be from the credit and lied to get in here. Jonna warned me the credit might send a man looking for her.”

I kept my voice gentle, just like the smile.

“Did Jonna tell you she was hiding from a collection agency?”

“She got behind, is all. You know how these kids do with the plastic. She said they were getting mean about it and if anyone came I should say I don’t know where she is and haven’t heard from her.”

Then she studied me as if realizing what she was saying.

“That isn’t you, is it? If you’re lying I’ll get on the phone right now. I’ll call the police.”

“We’re not from the credit.”

“Then why do you want Jonna? She isn’t in trouble, is she?”

“Yes, I think she is.”

Sara clumped to the couch and eased herself down.

“Lord, please don’t tell me that. She told me she had the credit problems, but now something like this.”