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"No, a - " He caught his breath. "Woman. Young woman. She said that guy attacked her. I told the manager to call the cops, but I don't think he's going to."
"Where's the young woman?"
"Took off," the girl said.
"Is he chasing her?"
"Dunno."
"Which way did she go?"
"Dunno."
She scuffed worn sneakers against the pavement. Crossed her arms. Scowled as if she was being asked to do a chore. Finn started walking, taking out his phone to call for backup.
"My dad's right," the girl muttered behind him. "Too many foreigners in this city. Stupid lady smacked right into me. Never even said sorry."
Finn stopped and looked back. "The young woman?"
"Yeah. Mexican or something."
"East Indian, I think," the man said. "Tiny thing, but the way she threw that guy down - "
Finn didn't hear the rest. He was already running down the front sidewalk. A young couple blocked the way. They'd stopped to look at a partially open door.
As Finn passed, the young man plucked his sleeve. "You smell that?"
He caught an odor that made his guts knot, remembering a training seminar where they'd sprayed new LAPD recruits with CS gas.
Wisps of smoke spiraled from the cracked-open door. Inside, someone coughed. He pulled out his gun and eased the door open another inch. The distinct peppery smell of tear gas wafted out, mixed with another smell - whatever caused the smoke, he supposed.
The smoke had almost evaporated, and he could make out a figure on all fours, hacking. A woman. Young. Slender. Dark blond hair in a ponytail. His hand tightened on his gun, the image of Adele Morrissey popping to mind. Then the woman lifted her head and Finn saw the face that had been taunting him for three days.
Robyn Peltier.
A careful look around the empty room, then he holstered his weapon and hurried inside, grabbing her under the arms and lifting her. Once they were past the door, she staggered to the wall and leaned against it. Her head dropped forward as she sputtered and gasped, tears streaming.
Finn called for backup and an ambulance. When he gave his name, Robyn stiffened, head rising, watery reddened eyes meeting his. Then she dropped her head again, racked by a fresh wave of coughing and dry heaves.
"It's Detective Findlay, Robyn," he said when he got off the phone. "You called me last night."
She tried to nod between coughs, face still lowered.
"Paramedics are on their way," he said. "That was tear gas. It's not dangerous, just..." He was about to say something suitably neutral, as the department taught, but remembering what it felt like, what came out was: ". . . vile."
Her cough softened into a laugh. "That would about sum it up."
Finn shifted his weight, resisting the urge to take her arm.
He'd spent three days searching for this woman, and now here she was, hacking up her lungs, and all he could think was that she looked... small.
He glanced around for the ambulance. "Keep breathing. Do you feel like you're going to be sick?"
She shook her head and went to swipe her sleeve over her eyes.
Finn caught her arm. "Don't rub. You'll only make it worse. We need to get your eyes washed out. Same with your skin. Does it burn?"
"Ice," she croaked.
