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Brody blows out a breath. “It’s only been a few hours, man. Give him the chance to do his job.”
I want to snap back, but I clench my jaw and grind my teeth instead. A part of me is still resentful of Brody for putting us all in this situation in the first place, but then I remind myself that if Don knew Honor’s location, it only would have been a matter of time before he took her. Besides, him finding out where she was is on me.
I grip the steering wheel, tight enough that my knuckles become shiny, white balls. One thing tortures me even more than the thought of Honor with her stepfather, and that’s Honor with Pastor Wren. I tell myself that Wren would have no interest in her—after all, she’s far too old for his tastes, and she’s female—but the damage he caused me in childhood is still so fresh in my mind, it’s as though just the thought of him being with Honor is enough to make me endure it afresh.
The higher the sun rises, the more color seeps back into the world around us. The number of other vehicles we’ve passed has been sporadic, but now they’re increasing. I picture us stuck in traffic in downtown LA and want to roar with the frustration of it. But what choice do we have?
After another couple of hours, we make another bathroom stop at a gas station and I fill up the car. We still haven’t heard anything from either the PI, or Rafferty and Wilder.
It feels like a dangerously large amount of time has passed by the time we hit the outskirts of Los Angeles and merge with the city traffic. A part of me wants to dump the car and walk the rest, but it’s still too far. Instead, I endure it, and keep pushing forward, driving aggressively to push into any gap I can find. I ignore the blasts of horns that follow me, people signaling their annoyance—they mean nothing to me.
Rush hour is over by the time we reach the Los Angeles Police Department. Someone must be smiling down on us, as I find a parking spot right away.
We already know we’re not going to find Don at his precinct—a phone call the other day confirmed that he’s on vacation—but I assume he has a partner who wouldn’t be allowed to take time off as well. I have no idea if anyone will talk to me, but I do have a duffle bag filled with cash is in the trunk, and I’ll use it to get information if I have to.
“Wait here,” I tell Brody.
I don’t need to explain why. The two of us going in together will draw attention. One of my strengths is that I can slide under the radar.
I climb out of the car and slam the door shut behind me. The street is busy, and after the relative isolation of the island, it feels overwhelming. Some people are suited and walk briskly, while others are dressed in casual clothes and linger to take selfies. The imposing building opposite rises into a clear blue sky, and palm trees surrounding it flutter in the breeze. The sight of the black and white police cars put me on edge, and I have to remind myself that I’m not the criminal here.
I straighten my shirt and trot up the steps to the tall glass and stone building. Inside, the much cooler air is a blessed relief from the Los Angeles sun, and I head straight to the reception desk where a female desk sergeant is manning it.
She gives me a polite smile. “Can I help you?”
“I need to speak to someone about Don Bowen.
“Detective Bowen?” she confirms.
“That’s right.”
“Can I ask what this is concerning?”
“It’s concerning the location of his stepdaughter. I’m afraid I can’t say more than that, unless it’s to someone close to him. I believe his partner may be in today.”
“Detective Murphy,” she says. “Let me just check. Who can I say is here?”
I give a fake surname. “Ash Shanley.”
“One minute, please.”
I step back to allow her to place the call. She says a few words, her gaze flicking over to me, and then just as quickly back down to desk. Does she think I’m a criminal? I’d have to have some big balls to walk right into a police station if I was.
She ends the call and addresses me. “If you’d like to take a seat, he’ll be out shortly.”
I cross the polished floor to a bank of chairs and sit with my elbows on my knees, my spine at a forty-five-degree angle. I tap my fingers together and do my best to keep my ass wedged to the plastic chair so I don’t end up pacing. People will remember an agitated man stomping around, and I want to go as unnoticed as possible.
A man in a suit approaches, drawing my attention.
“Ash Shanley?” he asks.
I rise to my feet. “That’s right.”
Don Bowen’s partner is a black man with a shaved head and broad shoulders. I put him to be in his forties, but he could be ten years north or south from there.
“I’m Detective Murphy,” he says. “What can I do for you?”
I’m aware of how this big LAPD detective sees me. My compact frame. The glasses. The serious expression. He doesn’t take me to be anything of a threat.
