Tommy’s big smile starts working its magic, too. He puts an arm around Marta, easing her back, and sends some kind of invisible signal to the bartender, who takes his finger off the detonator button. The waitress tries to shrug free, but he holds her tight.

“Everything’s cool, everybody,” he says. “Hey, it’s all right.”

I owe him one, but instead of staying to chat about it, I take the opportunity to slip outside. The sun is gone without a trace, mosquitoes circling the lampposts overhead. Before I can make my escape, I hear footsteps behind me. Turning, I find Tommy and Marta, his restraining arm still around her.

She steps clear of him, standing halfway between us. “Why’d you rough that woman up? What kind of man thinks he can do that, badge or no badge?”

“You poured enough tequila down that woman’s gullet to sink a whale. When I came out here, she was just about to get behind the wheel. She was going to drive in that condition. You understand what I’m saying? I didn’t rough her up – I saved her life, and probably somebody else’s, too. At the very least, she would have lost her license, spent some quality time behind bars.”

“Oh,” she says. “So you did her a favor. Now I get it.” She plunges a hand into her tiny apron, pulling out a crushed twenty, waving it between her fingers. She balls the twenty in her fist and throws it to the ground, then turns on her heel to go.

Tommy stands there, eyes wide. “She’s kinda loco, that girl. I think when she calms down, she’ll be more understanding.”

I take out my keys and unlock my car. “You really think I care?”

He laughs. “Deep down? Yeah, I think you really do.”

CHAPTER 10

By the time I show up, the briefing’s reached standing-room-only status, with plainclothes officers and uniforms from four or five different agencies shifting for elbow space along the back wall. Near the front, Cavallo motions for me, but I shake my head and find a hospitable notch between a couple of county constables and a Sheriff ’s Department detective with a tobacco-stained brush of a mustache. He wears a nickel-plated Government Model.45 on his hip, what we call a “barbeque gun” around here, for wearing to fancy shindigs. He looks lonesome without his Stetson.

There’s a strange energy in the room, something I can’t put my finger on. A lot of hard stares shooting back and forth. Something’s happened, but I don’t know what. I turn to ask the detective, but he just shrugs, mystified as me.

Scanning the brass at the far end of the room, I get a surprise. Next to Wanda, who stands out in any crowd on account of her snow white hair, Rick Villanueva sits reviewing a stack of documents in his lap, whispering the occasional question, like he’s trying to get up to speed and only has half a minute to do it. This can’t be good.

Wanda goes to the podium, tapping the mic a couple of times to get everyone’s attention. Upwards of a hundred officers are packed into the cramped space, and it takes awhile for everyone to settle in.

“Before we get started,” she says, “I’m sure you all saw the piece on Channel 13 last night.”

A collective sigh goes up, along with some random profanity and a few choice words about Wayne Dolcefino, the investigative reporter.

“You see it?” I ask the sheriff ’s detective.

“At my watering hole of choice,” he says, his breath smelling of stale coffee, “there are better things to look at than the idiot tube.”

Wanda gives the microphone another series of taps, and Rick Villanueva eases out of his chair, standing at her elbow.

“The first thing I want to make clear,” Wanda says, “is that whoever made those statements to the press, I’m going to find out. What we say in here has to remain confidential. Am I clear? There’s a girl’s life at stake, people. Never forget that. Secondly, Lieutenant Villanueva here is joining the task force as of now. From this moment forward, all information to the press – and I mean every single detail – will be going through him. No one talks to the media without his say-so. Understood?” A few heads nod. “Come on, people, I know it’s early, but if you understand what I’m saying, raise your hand.”

Hands go up across the room. I glance at my new buddy before hoisting mine. He shakes his head and does likewise. Everybody’s craning around, like they expect to sniff out the leak here and now by spotting a telltale unraised hand.

“Okay, okay. You can put your hands down. Lieutenant, you have a few words you’d like to say?”

Rick, never at a loss for words, spends the next five minutes talking about his satisfaction in being asked to join the task force, and his determination to do everything in his power to turn this negative into a positive. While he’s speechmaking, I quiz the constables for details about the news report. One of them, a thick-necked bulldog with a tight military crew cut, cups a hand to my ear and fills me in. The lead story on the Channel 13 news last night was about trouble inside the task force. No progress is being made in the hunt for Hannah Mayhew because of interagency rivalries and a general lack of organization. “Sources inside the investigation” were credited with the scoop.

After Rick starts repeating himself, Wanda squeezes back to the mic and starts going round robin through the room, soliciting verbal reports from the team checking out white vans, the canvass of Willow-brook witnesses, and the head of the surveillance squad keeping tabs on James Fontaine. He’s a body-builder type in dark fatigues, more like a swat sniper than a binocular boy.

“Fontaine’s movements are pretty regular,” he says. “He hasn’t led us anywhere.”

No mention of Carter Robb’s stakeout of the Fontaine house, or my curbside visit with him. I try to catch Cavallo’s eye, making sure she picked up on that, but she’s busy taking down notes. Though I’m tempted to raise my hand and ask a question, I decide to wait.

After the rest of the reports are made and new assignments handed out, Wanda wraps things up and dismisses everyone. The sheriff ’s detective shoulders past me.

“That was a whole lot of nothing,” he says.

I decide to stay put, letting the room empty ahead of me. Rick Villanueva skirts the side wall. No one stops him to talk, so he makes good time. Before I can slip away, we’re face-to-face.

“Funny seeing you here,” he says. “I thought your days of exile had come to an end.”

My smirk just amuses him more. “I could say the same thing about you, Rick. Are you, like, the new press secretary or something?”

“Not by choice.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “To be honest, I’d rather be anywhere but here. In case you don’t know it yet, this is a sinking ship. But the chief himself called me. He wants me on this thing to try and turn it around.”

“With what, your winning smile?”

“Something like that,” he says.

“Any idea who talked to Channel 13?”

He chuckles. “Between you and me? I’m thinking somebody at the Sheriff ’s Department. They’re not too happy about hpd taking the lead on this.”

“Aren’t these jurisdictional things settled up front, though?”

“Sure,” he says. “But that was before this was all over Fox and TruTV. Now people are thinking this case could make a few careers – and probably end some, too. If you want my advice, get out while you can.”

I pat him on the arm. “Too late for me, pal.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

After Villanueva pushes on, Cavallo comes down the center aisle with a file box balanced on her hip. I offer to take it, expecting her to put up a fight. Instead, she hands it over. It’s heavy as bricks.

“All yours.”

“What’s in here?” I ask, peering through the gap in the lid.

“Witness interviews. All the kids we talked to at Klein High, all the kids from the Cypress youth group. That’s our project for today, looking for new leads.”