Or even worse, there isn’t.

I said, “When we find him, maybe we can learn where he buried her.”

“Love your optimism.” He placed the foster form on the desk. Stared at it. Returned to the box.

Pharmaceutical bubble pack. Nine bubbles, seven of them empty. Two round, white pills, scored diagonally. Stamped “Hoffman” atop the midline, “ 1” below it.

The label on the pack said: Rohypnol, 1 mg (flunitrazepam).

“Party pills,” I said.

Milo said, “Next.”

Out came Rand Duchay’s C.Y.A. I.D. tag. The photo showing Rand looking baffled.

Last, at the bottom, a manila envelope not much larger than a playing card, fastened by a string and eyelet. Milo ’s gloved hands fumbled with the string. He cursed, finally got the string uncoiled. Brought the envelope close to the desk and shook it out carefully.

Out tumbled a tiny bracelet. Square, white plastic cubes strung on a pink thread.

Seven cubes. A letter on each.

K R I S T A L

CHAPTER 43

Like the cement cube, the converted garage had a single window. No larger than the cube, but with only two beds, it felt a lot more spacious.

I said, “Valerie, where did Drew keep his money? It’s important.”

She sat on her bed, I was three feet away in a pink plastic chair.

Real bed, not a bunk. Wood-grain headboard embossed with vines and flowers. Matching chest of drawers with the same embellishment. A threadbare gray rug covered most of the cement floor.

Particle board partitions created a corner bathroom, complete with shower, shampoo, hotel soaps, and lotions still sealed.

A host of stuffed animals on Valerie’s bed. Monica’s bed, across the room, had only a single blue teddy bear.

Clear hierarchy. Lodgings for the preferred ward and her next-in-line. What reason had Drew given Cherish? What had she been thinking?

Valerie’s black hair was shiny-wet. She played with a towel that said Sheraton Universal. Her eyes were pond pebbles.

I said, “In a box? Did he keep his money in a gray metal box?”

The pebbles rounded around the edges as she looked away. Constricted pupils. Her hands danced on her knees.

“We found the box, Valerie, but there was no money in it, so I guess Drew made all that up.”

“No! I saw it.”

“You saw the money?”

She avoided my eyes.

I shrugged. “If you say so.”

“It was there.”

“It’s gone, now.”

“Bitch!”

“You think Cherish took it.”

“She stoled it.”

“It wasn’t hers?”

“We got it! At the nonprofits!”

Fire in her eyes. Devotion. Beth Scoggins had recounted how Daney had turned off after her abortion. It had been days since Valerie’s abortion and she believed Daney still cared.

I said, “Guess Cherish found where he hid it.”

Silence.

“How do you think she found out?”

Shrug.

“No idea at all, Valerie?”

“Cleaning. Prolly.”

“Cleaning where?”

She got up, paced the length of the room, then the periphery. Passed Monica’s bed and tucked in a corner of blanket.

Playing housekeeper.

She circled the room again.

“Cleaning where?” I said. “If we’re going to find your money, we have to know where.”

She stopped. Paced some more. Said something I couldn’t hear.

“What’s that?”

Another inaudible whisper.

I walked over to her. “Where, Valerie?”

“Underneath.”

“Underneath the house?”

Silence.

“Is there really an underneath, Valerie?”

“Here!” Running to her own bed and slapping the covers. Slapping them. Pounding them. “I cleaned real good but she sneaked in! Bitch!”

I returned her to Judy Weisvogel’s custody. Milo gave me a set of gloves and the two of us moved the bed away from the corner. The cement floor bordering the garage’s northern wall had been patched years ago, some sort of grayish sealant slopped generously over cracks and crumbles. Grease spots shining through the white evoked the room’s original function. In the corner, the sealant stain was scored by four straightedge cuts. Shaped roughly like a square. Two foot square, scoring the floor.

Flush with the floor, no handle or protrusions, no way you’d notice if you weren’t looking.

Cherish Daney had noticed. There were all kinds of ways to houseclean.

Milo got down and stared at the seams. “Pry marks.”

He worked the crowbar into the spot. The slab pulled away easily. Underneath was a dark space, three or so feet deep.

“Empty,” said Milo. “No, I take that back…”

He got down on the ground, stuck his arm in, brought out a dusty wooden case.

Smith & Wesson label inside the lid. The bottom was foam with a form-fitted indentation. Revolver-shaped indentation.

His gloved finger prodded the foam. “Wonder who got lucky first.”

We left the property, now cordoned by tape. Judy Weisvogel stood by the side of the cube talking softly to Valerie. The girl twirled her hair and rocked from foot to foot. Weisvogel took a tissue and dabbed Valerie’s eyes. As I passed, Valerie’s eyes met mine and narrowed with contempt. She flipped me off. Judy Weisvogel frowned and drew her away.

What would Allison think about my technique?

What did I think?

I drove away, staying focused on a plastic baby bracelet.

Milo said, “Looks like you made a fan, back there.”

“She’s resentful Cherish entered the room. Furious at me for prying the information out of her. Another violation of her turf.”

“Turf. Like a little wife. Sick.”

“It’s going to take a long time for her to realize what he did to her.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Your job’s tougher than mine.”

I got on the freeway and pushed the Seville hard. “I think you’re clear on the search. Cherish definitely wanted someone to find the souvenirs. She left the box out for Wascomb, hoping he’d open it. Knew that even if he didn’t pry, he’d eventually call the authorities and the truth would come out.”

“Don’t think the truth means that much to her, Alex. She abandons those kids and splits with all her clothes. Maybe with the money and the gun, too, unless Drew got there first. Which, upon reflection, he probably did. Bad guy like that, his nose for trouble would be good. For all we know, he’s already partying at Caesar’s Palace, has himself a new identity.”

“Valerie said he was called away to moonlight. At a church. You could try to find out all the places he worked, see if his whereabouts can be traced. If the call was righteous.”

“If?” he said.

“There’s the other possibility,” I said. “Cherish got the money and the gun. And Cherish has a boyfriend.”

The drive to Soledad Canyon took forty minutes. I parked a ways up the road and we walked toward the campground. Milo unsnapped his gun but kept it holstered.

No ravens, no hawks, no sign of any life in a grimy gray sky flat as flannel. Despite my heavy foot, the drive had been tedious, marked by heavy stretches of silence, the gravel pits, scrap yards, and cookie-cutter houses set into dusty tracts that seemed more depressing today. Developers would chew up the desert for as long as they were allowed. Families would move in and have babies who’d grow into adolescents. Bored teens would chafe at the heat and the quiet and days that ran into each other like a tape loop. Too much of nothing would breed trouble. People like Milo would never be out of business.