“This isn’t gonna happen,” I said, fishing some money out of my pocket. “In order to find a person, Marilyn, I need straight answers. About everything. You’ll be better off telling this story, whatever it is, to someone you won’t be embarrassed to tell it to.”

I tossed several bills on the table and avoided looking at her. I walked away from the table and headed out of the bar. The gas fumes and salty haze were stifling in the evening air as I headed up Mission toward my place.

“Noah! She needs help!”

I slowed to a stop, listening to horns honking as cars cruised the boulevard. Kids leaned out of windows, waving at one another, their faces illuminated by the moon and streetlights. I turned around slowly.

Marilyn walked quickly to me, her face as tight as a drum. But her eyes were different than they’d been. Worry now invaded them.

“She needs help,” she repeated, clearly struggling for what to say. “I’m not sure what the problem is. I don’t know if she’s hiding. I don’t know much about her marriage, but I do know there are some things she is unhappy about.” She stopped, catching her breath, glancing at the line of cars moving slowly along the street. She looked back to me. “I need your help—to find her and to see if she’s okay.”

I shoved my hands in the pockets of my shorts, her words making me uncomfortable. If she wanted my help, there was probably a reason to think Kate might be in trouble. Marilyn probably would’ve been happy never hearing my name again. But here she was.

I looked past her at the roller coaster that dominated the Mission Beach skyline, rising high above the street. Small dots of light illuminated the tracks against the black night. Kate and I had ridden the coaster on our first date.

“Where’s Randall?” I asked.

“He’s here. He’s staying at the La Valencia,” she said, her voice relaxing at my interest. “He’s been here since Sunday.”

I nodded absently, watching the coaster cars crest the top of the tracks and dive to the bottom, the elated screams of the riders echoing down the boulevard.

“I’ll start with him,” I told her.

“So you’ll help me then?” Marilyn asked, gratefulness almost creeping into her voice.

The screams on the coaster died as the hydraulic brakes screeched and cracked in the dark, the ride coming to an end.

“No,” I said, moving my gaze to Marilyn’s eyes, wanting her to see my face. “But I’ll try to help Kate.”

3

Marilyn Crier wrote me a check for two thousand dollars on the spot and assured me she would pay whatever it took to find Kate. I assured her I would ask for more money if I needed it. I also explained to her that I would be around asking questions and if she got uncooperative, my services would come to a halt without refund. She said she understood, told me Randall’s last name was Tower, and walked to her silver BMW 530i, edging it carefully out into the traffic and disappearing into the sea of cars.

I wondered why she hadn’t contacted the police first and probably should have asked that question. But Marilyn hadn’t mentioned any danger, just that Kate was having some problems. I felt certain that she came to me first because involving the authorities would’ve meant drawing the kind of attention that families like the Criers did everything in their power to avoid.

I crossed Mission Boulevard, cut down an alley, and headed north on the boardwalk. The moon was shining on the small, gentle waves, and the sand looked bright white because of it. Couples strolled along the walk; kids hung out on the beach, smoking and feeling adult, their small bonfires dotting the shoreline.

I remembered hanging out at the beach in high school. It was a safe haven for teenagers. You could smoke a cigarette, drink a can of beer, or make out with a girl and feel like no one was watching, the ocean serving as a giant security blanket of noise and privacy.

I ducked my head under the breeze, my chin digging into my chest. Kate and I had spent a lot of nights at the beach. She always told her parents we were at the movies or shopping. They didn’t like the thought of us going to those places either, but they seemed less illicit than the sand and water. Of course, my alcoholic mother, the father I had never known, the tiny house in Bay Park, and my penchant for spending more time on a surfboard than in class provided plenty for them to disapprove of.

I hopped the wall into the small courtyard at the back of my house and slid open the glass door to the living room, shutting it behind me. My place is small, a one-bedroom bungalow built in the 1930s with wood floors and the permanent smell of wax. Four of us had lived here during college, two bunk beds in the one bedroom. Everyone had left but me. The old couple that owned it dropped the rent for me when I graduated and left me alone. It was a steal for the price, and you can’t beat eating your breakfast as you head down the sand to the early morning waves, which I tried to do most every day.

I grabbed a Red Trolley Ale from the fridge and collapsed on the sofa. A knot had formed in my stomach, and I didn’t like it. It surprised me that Marilyn hadn’t asked me how I had become an investigator, but I figured that would’ve been too much interest in me for her. She would’ve loved to hear how it took me six years to finish college, that I waited tables for two years after that until I’d spotted an ad in the paper for an insurance company looking to train an investigator. I liked the job, the freedom of the hours, the solitary environment. I didn’t like the reports, the suits I had to wear to the office, or the fact that I had a supervisor. I completed my hours, applied for my license from the state, and said adios. Not glamorous, not lucrative, but it had become my life and I had grown to appreciate it.

Marilyn probably would not, and that made me smile in the darkness of my living room as I sipped the beer.

4

I left the beer half empty on my coffee table, dug around in the piles of laundry for my car keys, and headed out to pay Randall Tower a visit.

I found my Jeep in the alley, turned down Jamaica, forced my way onto Mission, and settled in for the snaillike cruise up to La Jolla. The police had tried to crack down on the cruising by employing curfews, roadblocks, whatever they could think of. Nothing worked with any degree of success so the cops had become content with just patrolling, making sure all were behaving themselves.