“Uh-huh.”

I turned on the phone and watched the display as the phone found a signal. It took me a minute to figure out how to access the call list, then I scrolled through the outgoing calls. Maybe I smiled. All the outgoing calls had been placed to the same number, and it was a number I recognized.

Pike said, “What?”

“She’s been calling the same number Debra Repko called. All the incoming calls were from the same number, too.”

“Wilts?”

“Let’s find out.”

Jonna pushed up from the chair and tried to run, but Pike wrapped her in his arms. She kicked and whipped her head from side to side, but Pike held her close and covered her mouth. He squeezed just enough to make her stop squirming, then nodded at me.

I dialed the number, then waited through the rings. I didn’t wait long.

A voice said, “Jonna? Jonna, where have you been? I’ve been calling-”

I held my breath, and wondered if he could hear the pulse pounding in my ear.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

He raised his voice.

“Do we have a bad connection?”

I turned off the phone, then took a deep breath. I wanted to push it out and blow away all the terrible feelings, but I couldn’t move.

Pike said, “Was it Wilts?”

I shook my head.

“No. Not Wilts. It was Alan Levy.”

PART FOUR. RECIPROCITY

40

PIKE TIED her wrists with an extension cord. I put her cell phones in a paper grocery bag I found in the kitchen, but we left everything else as we found it. Marx would want the scene as undisturbed as possible for his detectives and criminalists. It was Marx’s play and I should have left it to him, but didn’t.

When Pike brought Jonna out to his Jeep, I called Bastilla. The only number I had was her cell, but she didn’t answer. She was probably still angry, but she might have been working. Either way, I was glad she didn’t answer. I left a message.

“Ivy Casik’s real name is Jonna Hill. She is Yvonne Bennett’s half sister. Call Pike. She’ll be with him.”

I left Pike’s number, then locked Jonna’s house and joined them at the Jeep. I gave him the keys.

“The police will need these. I left word for Bastilla and gave her your number. They’ll be calling.”

Pike was going to hold Jonna and her mother at a safe location until we reached Marx.

Pike said, “You sure you don’t want me along?”

“I’m good. I’ll see you in a bit.”

I watched them drive away, then glanced at Jonna’s house. I studied it for a while, then considered the sky. The canopy overhead was empty of clouds or birds. I wanted something to be there, but the sky was a milky blue desert. I slipped into my car, studied the cell number Alan Levy had given to me, but I didn’t want to speak to him over the phone. I called his office instead.

“Hi, Jacob. Is Alan there?”

“I’m sorry, no. Did he ever get back to you? I gave him your messages.”

“Yeah, we spoke, but I need to find him again. He isn’t in court, is he?”

“Oh, no. He cleared his calendar when all this started about Mr. Byrd. He hasn’t been in for days.”

“Ah, okay.”

“I could page him again.”

“No need. Listen, is he working at home?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Cole. You know Alan. He might be writing a brief or doing research. He’s hard to keep up with when he gets like this.”

I hung up, then called a real estate agent I know who has access to the property tax rolls. Six minutes later I had Alan Levy’s home address and was heading toward Santa Monica. It was afternoon when I arrived. I shouldn’t have gone, but I did. I should have waited for the police, but I didn’t.

The address brought me to a large two-story Cape Cod home three blocks from the beach in a lovely residential area. It was a family neighborhood with curbed sidewalks, kids on skateboards, and a hybrid in every drive, but it was also near the beach in Santa Monica, which meant the families were rich. I parked across the street. Two kids roared past on skateboards and a woman who was probably someone’s housekeeper stood on a nearby corner. Gardeners worked at several of the houses, but the Levy residence was still. A gate across the drive hid the garage, so I couldn’t see if Alan’s car was at home or not. This time of the summer his kids would be out of school, but I couldn’t tell if anyone was home. Maybe they were away at camp, but maybe they were splashing and grab-assing in their pool, and Alan was splashing with them. Or maybe he was crouched inside the house, watching the street through a gap in the shades.

I took my gun from beneath the seat, wedged it under my shirt, then strolled up the sidewalk. My phone vibrated as I reached the curb, but it was Bastilla. I ignored her.

The front door was large and heavy as a coffin lid. I knocked politely, then rang the bell. No one came, so I climbed over the driveway gate into a spacious backyard featuring a beautiful pool with used-brick decking and a lovely rose garden. No kids were splashing. Levy’s family wasn’t enjoying the breathtaking summer day. A single leaf floated in the pool. The water was so clean it might have been floating on air.

I walked along the back of the house, rapping on glass sliders and French doors, but nothing and no one moved.

“Hey, Alan, it’s Elvis Cole. Anyone home?”

Not even a housekeeper.

I went to the garage. The garage door was down and the side door was locked. I didn’t want to waste time picking the lock, so I returned to the French doors. I broke a pane, reached inside, and let myself in. I should have been holding my gun, but I put it away. I didn’t want to scare his children. They might be inside, sleeping. Maybe all of them were sleeping.

“Is anyone here?”

I stood just inside the door, listening, but the house remained quiet. I called out still louder.

“Mrs. Levy? I work with Alan. Jacob told me he might be home.”

My voice echoed as if their home was a cave. No magazines or DVDs littered the coffee table; no toys or video games cluttered the floor. The rooms were large and beautifully furnished, but lifeless in a way that made my scalp prickle.

“Hello?”

I crossed through the family room into the living room, then crept through a formal dining room as cold as a mausoleum. The table was lovely, the chairs lining its sides perfectly placed as if they had not been moved in years.

The dining room led into the kitchen, then the pantry. You have kids, you have food, but there was no cereal, no Pop-Tarts, no snack bars. The shelves were lined with cans of Dinty Moore beef stew. Only the stew. Empty vodka bottles lined the floor. The cans and bottles had been placed in perfect rows with their labels out, each label perfectly aligned. My underarms grew damp as I backed out of the pantry.

The refrigerator was loaded with take-out containers, soft drinks, and more vodka, but no juice or milk, no peanut butter or eggs. I took out my gun and held it along my leg, but knew I wasn’t going to find anyone. Not Alan or anyone else. Not anyone alive.

My cell phone hummed again, as loud as a swarm of wasps. I didn’t check. I muffled it with my hand, trying to hear past the swarm into the hidden reaches of the house. My breath grew shallow, and I wanted to crash through the door or dive out the window. I wanted to get out of this terrible house and into the light like a boy running from bees, but I didn’t.

I trotted the length of the house. I had moved quietly before, but now I moved faster, hitting each door with the gun up and ready. I checked the master bedroom, then Alan’s home office, where the walls bristled with citations and plaques. I jerked open doors, checked closets and bathrooms, then ran up the stairs three at a time. I was terrified by what I expected to find, but pushed harder to find it.