“May I help you?” She was thin-boned and elegant. The diamond at her throat looked to be two carats and real.

A few more drops struck the macadam. “I couldn’t help but notice…” Hunt gestured at what she held in her hand.

“Tuna fish.” She tilted the can, embarrassed. The top was off, tuna gone bad. She gestured at the edge of the dock, where she had just placed a fresh can. “There’s a dear of a cat. I can’t abide seeing it rooting around in the Dumpster.”

“Is the cat tired of tuna?” He tipped his head at the spoiled can.

“I haven’t seen her in a few days.”

“What does the cat look like?” Her puzzlement showed, her hesitance, so Hunt offered his best smile. “If you don’t mind. I’m a cat lover, too.”

She beamed, stepping closer. “Brown tabby with gold eyes and two white paws.” She raised both shoulders, smiled brilliantly. “Just full of life.”

Hunt stepped up onto the loading dock. “May we come through your store?”

“I don’t know-”

“I have to insist.”

The store sold clothing. Hunt and Yoakum pushed through storage, then past the dressing rooms. Women looked up, startled, but Hunt ignored them, making for the escalators. “Clyde. Slow down.”

The crowd was still large, storm notwithstanding. Families, kids-a surge of color and noise.

“Clyde!”

Hunt drove through the crowd, Yoakum trailing in his wake. “This is the guy.”

“Who’s the guy? What are you talking about?”

“It’s the same cat from Johnny’s house. Brown tabby with two white paws. This is our guy.”

“Who is?”

“Whichever guard carries a gun.”

“Johnny’s cop.”

Hunt took the escalator at a run. He emerged into the food court, shouldered past a group of shoppers and made for the door marked SECURITY. It was locked. Hunt pushed the buzzer.

“Security.”

Hunt recognized the voice. “Steve. This is Detective Hunt. Buzz the door.”

“Is there a problem?”

Hunt slammed a palm on cold metal. “Buzz the fucking door.”

The door buzzed and Hunt took the stairs two at a time. Yoakum pounded concrete behind him. They rounded the landing, weapons out. Steve met them at the top of the stairs, door cracked open behind him. “Step aside, Steve.”

“Whoa. Hey.” Steve’s hands went up when he saw the guns.

Into the security office. Fat security guard at the monitors, another standing in front of the broad glass window overlooking the food court. Both were startled, scared. Neither carried a weapon. “Office,” Hunt said, then saw the closed door, the windows with slatted blinds. “You.” He jabbed a finger at the standing guard. “Sit.” The guard scurried to the nearest chair. Hunt motioned to the office door and Yoakum flanked it. Steve looked dazed.

“Anybody in there?” Hunt asked.

“Mr. Meechum? He left.”

“Who is Meechum?”

“The boss man.”

Hunt gestured Steve away from the door, then looked at Yoakum and counted down from three. The door opened easily, and they were through, into the empty office.

“I was saying-” Steve filled the open door. “Mr. Meechum just left.”

“When?”

“Five minutes, maybe.”

“Describe him,” Hunt said.

“I don’t know. Sixty-five. Skinny but strong. Thin hair, busted-up nose. Kind of a dick.”

“Does he carry a sidearm?” Hunt asked. “Is he in uniform?”

“Jeans, usually. A kind of safari shirt. But he wears a pistol on his belt. He’s the only one here that’s allowed to.”

“What kind?”

“Huh?”

“The gun. What caliber?”

“Forty-five, I think.”

Hunt met Yoakum’s eyes, and both understand. Same as the shell casing found in David Wilson’s car.

“Does he carry cuffs?” Yoakum asked.

“We all do.”

“John.” Hunt gestured to the desk in the office. It was old and scuffed, nothing special. A bank of monitors sat on its surface, tied into the mall’s surveillance system. Three of the monitors were fed by cameras overlooking the food court. Each one showed the same thing: a table of young girls, maybe fourteen, maybe less. The shots were zoomed in. Hunt could see braces, dimples, the ready laughter, the toss of hair. “This is our guy.”

Yoakum leaned in. “Motherfucker.”

“Why did Meechum leave?” Hunt asked, and there was a terrible certainty in him.

Steve did not hesitate. “He got a call from Mr. Holloway. I don’t know what they talked about, but I put the call through myself.”

“When?”

“Just now. Right before you got here.”

“Steve,” Hunt said. “We’re going to need Meechum’s address.”

“I don’t know his address, but you can walk to his house in two minutes.”

“How’s that?” Hunt asked.

“He lives behind the mall. A few weeds, a ditch or two, and you’re at his back door.”

“Show me,” Hunt said.

“Now?”

“Right this minute.”

Steve licked his lips, threw a nervous glance around the room. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Hunt’s hand fell hard on his shoulder. “Really.”

Cold rain drummed against Hunt’s face when he opened the door onto the back lot; it slashed in at an angle, beat itself to mist on the blacktop. Visibility was muted, as if light itself had been sucked from the air. A car rolled past, windshield fogged over, blades throwing water off the glass in wide, crystal arcs. “Where?” Hunt raised his voice.

Steve pointed. The heavy door clanged shut behind him. “There. Between those trees.” Hunt saw the trees, two scrubby cedars sprouting from the edge of a ditch across the lot. “There’s a trail. It’s not long.”

“I need you to show me.”

“Aw, man.” Steve looked up at the rain. “You’re going to get me wet and fired.” Nobody laughed.

“Now,” Hunt said.

They dashed across the flooded pavement, slipped between a parked Suburban and a battered Ford with plastic taped over one window. Behind the cars, the ditch was already flooded. Dark water carried fast-food wrappers, plastic bags, and cigarette boxes downcurrent. The trail began at the trees, ran narrow and straight through the tall weeds of a vacant lot. Yoakum’s hand fell on Hunt’s shoulder. “Backup?” He held up his radio.

“We’re not waiting.”

“Good.” Yoakum put the radio in his pocket and racked the slide on his weapon. “I hate waits.”

“Which house?”

Steve leaned left to see between the two scrub cedars. A line of small houses backed up to the field of weeds. Hunt saw narrow patios and busted grills, a few bikes. Steve pointed again. “See the gray house with the red bike on the back patio?”

“Yeah.”

“Third one to the left of that.”

Hunt counted left, saw a low ranch with flaking paint and a dead holly at the corner. No lights. No movement. He pointed it out to Yoakum.

“Does he live alone?” Hunt asked.

“I think so.”

“You stay here.” Hunt checked Yoakum. “You ready?”

“Right as rain.”

They hopped the ditch and slipped into the field, bent at the waist, weapons out and angled low. Weeds grew tall and put long, wet fingers on them as they moved. Thunder crashed. The trail was wet and slick.

They stopped in the last bit of cover before the bare yard that wrapped Meechum’s house. A smell hung in the air, a chemical reek that came from nowhere.

They dashed the last twenty feet, put their backs to the wall beneath the largest window. Water sheeted from blocked gutters. The chemical smell was stronger, something burning. Hunt eased up to the window. The curtains were drawn but gapped open in the middle. It was the living room, a dingy space with old furnishings and low ceilings. The carpet was yellow orange, the walls cheap pine panels. Meechum was as Steve had described him. Wiry and crooked, he bent above his computer, shirt dark with sweat. In the fireplace, computer discs were mounded and aflame. “He’s burning evidence,” Hunt said, dropping down, making for the back door. “You’re on the front door. We go in sixty seconds.”