“Be interesting to see what’s in the box, Judy.”

She shook her head. “Before the warrant and the techies get here? Tsk tsk.”

“Daney’s a suspect in six murders, maybe seven. I can make a case for exigent circumstances.”

Weisvogel looked doubtful.

Milo said, “Judy, he took the girls off the property to molest them, so the house won’t be your primary crime scene, his Jeep will. We need to find him asap and there could be something in the box that gets us closer.”

“What, you think the whack job left a map?”

“There are all kinds of maps, Judy.”

“That’s pretty darn enigmatic, Milo. I’m not comfortable messing with the goodies prematurely. All I need is some defense attorney squawking about chain of evidence.”

“It’s in plain view, despite obvious opportunities to conceal,” said Milo. “Ain’t that an invitation to search?”

Weisvogel smiled. “You should’ve gone to law school. Beats honest labor.”

“I could’ve opened the box before you got here, Judy.”

“You certainly could’ve.” Weisvogel stared up at him. Her eyes were green, lighter than Milo ’s, almost khaki, with specks of blue scattered near the rims. Unwavering. “What if the box is locked?”

“I’ve got tools.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Milo smiled.

Weisvogel said, “Hell, what if it’s ticking- I know, you’ll bring in a robot. Seriously, it could cause evidentiary problems, Milo.”

“Problems can be solved. Let’s find the bastard before he does more damage, then sort out the details.”

Weisvogel looked over at the house. Clicked her teeth together. Ran her hand through her terrier hair. “So you’re ordering me, as my superior, to open this alleged box.”

“I’m asking you to be a little flexible- ”

“What I’m hearing is you pulling rank on me. Seeing as I’m merely a D-two and you’re brass.”

Weisvogel’s turn to smile. Tobacco teeth.

“I’m brass?” said Milo, as if he’d been diagnosed with a noxious disease.

“Sorry to drop it on you so suddenly,” said Weisvogel. “So am I getting this whole chain-of-command thing right?”

Still smiling.

Milo said, “Yeah, yeah. Someone bitches, it was all my idea.”

“Then I suppose I have no choice,” said Weisvogel, “Lieutenant.”

She joined her detectives in the cube and Milo told me, “Out to the car.”

“For what?”

“Tools.”

“Don’t have any.”

“You’ve got a crowbar. And I’ve got this.” Reaching into a jacket pocket, he brought out a small penlight and a ring of stainless-steel burglar picks.

“You carry those all the time?”

“Some of the time,” he said. “When I think important objects are gonna be left in plain sight.”

The house was tidy, just as it had been the first time, kitchen scrubbed, hallways vacuumed.

As we entered the master bedroom, I sighted down the hall at the windowless, converted laundry room where Rand had slept.

Milo went into the bedroom and I joined him. The desk sat to the left of the double bed. Plain and rickety, painted brown, a thrift-shop piece that barely managed to fit in Drew and Cherish Daney’s cramped sleeping chamber.

Milo gloved up and checked the closet.

“His duds are here, but hers aren’t. Looks like she packed up for the long haul.”

“And he didn’t.”

“Ain’t that thought-provoking.” He sidled over to the desk. The legs were wobbly and the top slanted downward. A jam glass held pens and pencils. The green blotter paper Cherish had used to frame her instructions was still there. One of its corners was held in place by the box.

Gunmetal safe-deposit box. Extra-large size, the kind banks offered preferred customers.

Milo examined the lock, lifted the box, and inspected the bottom.

“Columbia Savings stamp. They’ve been out of business for years.”

“Surplus, like the school lockers,” I said. “They’re parsimonious.”

He frowned. “All that county money and they’re living like this.”

“If Valerie’s right, there was a lot of conflict about money. Maybe because Drew was siphoning funds and stashing it away.”

“His secret cache. That coulda been bullshit he gave the kid to impress her.”

“I’d bet on reality. He had all the power right from the start with Valerie, didn’t need to prove himself.” I pointed to the box.

He set it down. Looked at the lock again. Examined his picks and selected one. Lifting the box, he hefted. “Kinda light. Maybe Cherish found the dough, took it, and split. The question is, Where’d he go with all his clothes still here?”

“He could’ve gotten to the money first. Picked up on Cherish’s suspicion, sensed the walls closing in and left.”

“With no clothes?”

“He travels light. I’m thinking Vegas because he told Valerie that Cherish wanted to go there.”

“The old projection game? Yeah, Vegas would fit his style, easy for a scumbag to blend in. Okay, enough conjecture. Gimme that.” Pocketing the burglar picks and reaching for the crowbar.

He wedged the point under the box’s lid and bore down. The lid popped up with no resistance and threw him off balance. He fought for equilibrium and I had to swerve to avoid being hit by the bar.

“She left it unlocked,” he said.

“There’s your invitation to search.”

First came a gray felt cloth, the kind used to keep tarnish off silverware. No money under that, but the box was half-full.

Milo removed each object and placed it on the desk.

Nothing that weighed much.

A yellowed Stockton newspaper clipping, seven and a half years old. Local coverage of Troy Turner’s murder in prison. Troy ’s name underlined in red pencil, along with a sentence connecting him to the Malley case. Kristal Malley’s name double underlined.

A pair of woman’s jade drop earrings.

“Any guesses?” he said.

“Maybe Lara’s.”

A black hard-shell eyeglass case. Inside was half a blackened spoon, a cheap lighter, and a crude syringe fashioned from an eyedropper, and a hypodermic needle. Brown gunk soiled the glass. In the red velvet lining of the case, the gold-lettered address of an optometrist on Alvarado.

Under the address, a scrap of paper taped to the inside lid.

Property of Maria Teresa Almedeira.

“Nestor’s mother,” I said. “Nestor swiped it to house his works. After Daney killed him, it became his souvenir.”

Milo reached in the box again and drew out a flimsy knit blouse, royal blue with a horizontal red stripe. Holding it aloft by the sleeves, he checked the label. “Made in Malaysia, size S. This could also be Lara’s.”

I said, “It’s Jane Hannabee’s. She was wearing it the day I met her at the jail. Brand new. Weider was trying to pretty her up.”

“And Daney deprettied her…” He examined the garment closely. “Doesn’t look like any blood.”

“He stabbed her in her sleep. She wouldn’t have worn something new. He wrapped her back up in plastic, rummaged through her stuff, took a souvenir.”

“Okay, if the earrings are Lara’s, maybe her mother can verify… check this out.”

Photocopy of a county document. Application to foster a child.

The ward in question was a sixteen-year-old female named Miranda Melinda Shulte. Drew and Cherish Daney had both signed the papers but they had never been sent in.

“Number seven,” I said.

Milo rubbed his eyes. “There’s no evidence he killed any other girls. Why her, Alex?”

“She’d only been here a week, but Beth Scoggins described her as aggressive, moving in on Beth’s queen-bee status. Daney needs them to be passive. Maybe she asserted herself too much. Or she thought she wanted his attentions, but when the time came, she resisted.”

“Not playing the game,” he said. “There could be a family out there somewhere, wondering.”