Williams looked at her, puzzled. She leaned inside the car, feeling the rough grain of his whiskers against her cheek and inhaling the leathery scent of his cologne as she whispered into his ear: ‘Give me your phone and pop the trunk. I’ll explain later.’

His phone was a standard flip model. She opened the compartment in the back, removed the battery and tossed it inside the trunk.

‘Public library on Lomas,’ Darby said as she slid into the passenger’s seat, shutting the door behind her. ‘Take a right –’

‘I know where it is.’

‘Drive fast. No sirens. Here’s what’s going on.’

33

Ray Williams came to a three-way stop; Darby leaned forward in her seat and, looking to her left and up Lomas Street, saw two vehicles parked against the kerb in front of the library: a white Toyota Camry with a moon roof and, in front of it, a black Ford Econoline van with tinted windows the colour of smoked charcoal and a sagging rear bumper held up by rope.

‘That van was parked across from the hotel this morning,’ Darby said.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive. Same rope, and it didn’t have a back plate.’

Williams turned left, on to Lomas, and, as they approached the library, a small, ranch-like building shaded by trees, she saw a mother trying to cradle an overexcited toddler against her thin chest while she fed a stack of books and DVDs, one by one, into the returns bin set up near the front doors. The building’s windows were dark.

‘You see her?’

‘I see her,’ Williams said, his gaze locked on the mother who had placed her child, a boy with blond hair like fine thread, on his feet. ‘Camry’s got to be hers. There’s no one in there.’

Darby found it difficult to sit still, and her mouth was dry. A hot wire had lit up inside her brain. She shifted in her seat and reached for the door handle as the mother gripped her son’s pudgy hand. The boy wobbled, swaying, and then he began to march forward on his unsteady legs, bringing his sneakered feet up and down, up and down, slamming them against the pavement with purpose, like a drunk assigned the task of stomping grapes for wine.

Darby reached inside her jacket. ‘I don’t see any other vehicles here,’ she said, and undid the strap for her shoulder holster. ‘I don’t want to wait for backup either.’

Williams was nodding. ‘If our boy’s in the van, he might panic, decide to come out shooting. We don’t need a hostage situation here.’

‘Agreed. Let me out and light it up.’

Williams slowed as Darby threw open the door. She got out, gun in hand, slammed the door shut and started running. Williams pulled ahead, tyres biting into the pavement and sirens blaring. The mother scooped her son into her arms, her eyes wide with terror and her face turning as white as chalk.

‘Go,’ Darby said to the woman, waving her hand. ‘Get out of here.’

The mother ran with her son clutched to her chest, the boy shrieking not from fear but from agitation at having been denied his walk to their car. Williams came to a stop directly in front of the van, parking diagonally so the van couldn’t move, boxing it in between the Camry and the cruiser. Then Williams emerged from the car gripping a Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun with a tactical light and a heat shield. Darby approached the van from her right. It didn’t have a back licence plate.

Williams placed the shotgun on the top of the car roof. He looked down the target sight and yelled over the siren: ‘Get out of the van with your hands locked behind your head.’

Darby had reached the van’s passenger door. The glass was tinted; she couldn’t see who was in there. She gripped the door handle and pulled, hearing the lock click back as Williams called out, ‘Come out of the van with your hands locked behind your head.’

The van’s front cab was empty. Darby left the door hanging open as she darted in a crouch around the front. She looked at Williams, gave him the clear signal and then crab-walked to the van’s sliding side door. She reached it, stopped. Another glance at Williams. He nodded and she put her hand on the handle.

‘Come out of the van,’ Williams called out again, and Darby turned the handle. The door was unlocked and she slid it open, her stomach clenching.

‘Down,’ Williams screamed over the sirens. ‘Down on your stomach, right now.’

A high-pitched scream came from somewhere inside the van. Darby heard movement and, still crouching, she swung around the corner, looked down the target sight of her SIG and saw a heavy-set woman dressed in black sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, her stomach swelling like a balloon behind the thin fabric. She sat on a bare mattress and the feet of her wool socks had holes in them and her dirty blonde hair looked damp. The woman’s hands were held up, her arms trembling. She didn’t have a weapon.

‘It was an oversight,’ the woman said. She had a reedy and nasal voice. ‘I meant to –’

‘Shut it,’ Darby said, her eyes roving through the van and knowing something was wrong. The interior was stacked with milk crates full of clothes. A handful of business suits hung from a ceiling rail. The cardboard boxes scattered along the floor held canned food, meal-replacement bars and bottled water. Darby saw rolls of toilet paper and paper towels and a laptop sitting on a desk made of plywood.

The woman was the only one there, and, while she wasn’t armed, Darby still had to play it safe. ‘Face down on the mattress. Do it.’

The frightened woman complied.

‘Now put your hands behind your back,’ Darby said, the adrenalin shifting into low gear.

After the woman complied, Darby moved inside the van and cuffed her wrists. Darby looked to Williams, who was still peering down the shotgun propped up on the car roof.

‘Clear,’ Darby yelled to him.

Williams pushed himself off the roof with a dejected expression on his face. He moved back inside the cruiser and killed the sirens.

34

Darby found the woman’s Coach wallet lying on the floor. She pulled it open and read the name: ‘Elisa Pike’.

The woman turned her head to the side. She had a fine web of lines around her eyes and mouth, and she had put on mascara. Her damp hair smelled of shampoo, and her skin and clothes smelled clean. There was also a faint whiff of perfume, a sickeningly sweet scent that reminded Darby of Love’s Baby Soft.

Darby looked at the date of birth printed on the licence. Elisa A. Pike was fifty-seven years old.

‘It says here you live at 123 Alabaster Lane,’ Darby said. ‘In Red Hill.’

‘I used to, until the bank took away my house.’ The woman’s face darkened.

‘And now you live in this van.’

‘It’s perfectly legal,’ she said coldly. ‘As long as I don’t have any kids or animals, which I don’t, and as long as I’m not bothering anyone, which I’m not, I can live here. I checked. You can’t arrest –’

‘Your cell phone, where is it?’

‘I don’t own one.’

‘Don’t lie to me.’

‘I’m not!’ she shrieked, indignant. Her sweatshirt had ridden up from her waist and Darby saw skin as white as a fish’s belly. ‘I had to cancel my cell three months ago because I couldn’t afford it any more. I haven’t owned –’

The Pike woman cut herself off. Her eyes widened and her small lips formed an O. Williams had stepped up to the van’s doorway. She looked at him as she said, ‘It’s not mine.’

‘What’s not yours?’ Darby asked, handing the woman’s licence to Williams.

‘The phone I found this morning,’ Pike said. Williams had moved away, back to the cruiser, to use the radio to call in the licence. ‘I woke up and found it sitting on my windshield. It was tucked underneath the windshield wiper so it wouldn’t blow away or fall when I drove off. I didn’t know why it –’

‘Stop. Let’s start at the beginning. What time did you wake up this morning?’