LLIE DROVE. I RODE SHOTGUN. RYAN SAT IN BACK.

A light rain had begun to fall. As we wound through the city, a kaleidoscope of blurred color and shadow slipped past my window. The wipers beat a slow metronome on the windshield.

Ten minutes out, Ollie turned onto a street lined with bars, strip clubs, and fast-food joints, all lit and open for business. Fragmented neon glistened on the pavement and splashed across signs, cars, and taxis.

A few small businesses elbowed for position: an auto supply outfit, a pawnshop, a liquor store. Their windows were dark and barred against vandalism and theft.

A handful of men in sweatshirts and windbreakers moved in both directions, heads down, shoulders hunched. Here and there smokers lingered in doorways, enduring the wind and damp for a nicotine fix.

Ollie pulled to the curb in front of a two-story brick building with XXX Adult Store painted on one side. In addition to the world’s largest collection of movies and images, the enterprise offered twenty-five-cent peep shows twenty-four/seven.

“Your heart’s desire right here, for a price.” Ollie swept a hand across the squalid scene around us. “Drugs. Women. Boys. Weapons. You want a hit man, you can probably find that, too.”

“How about Susan Forex?” I said.

“Let’s see what we can do.”

Ollie punched a number on his speed dial and put the phone to his ear.

I heard a voice on the other end but couldn’t make out the words.

“In front of the triple-X,” Ollie said after several seconds.

Pause.

“How long?”

Pause.

“Anything on Ruben?”

Pause.

“Call me the minute you do.”

Snapping the lid, he said, “Lucky break. The lady’s not having a profitable evening.”

We all got out. As Ollie wheep-wheeped the locks, I slipped on a jacket I’d pulled from my roll-aboard.

The air smelled of fried food, gasoline, and wet concrete. Muffled music pulsed from a building to our right, boomed as a patron emerged, grew muted again when the door swung shut.

Ollie led us fifty yards north to a stucco box whose sign identified it as the Cowboy Lounge. The neon cowgirl wore nothing but a ten-gallon hat.

“I do the talking.” Ollie aimed that at Ryan. “She knows me. I’m less threatening.”

Ryan said nothing.

“You good with that, Detective?”

“I’m good with that, Sergeant.”

Ollie entered. I followed. Ryan brought up the rear. We all stopped a few feet inside the entrance.

The first thing to hit me was the smell, a noxious blend of stale beer, cigarette smoke, reefer, disinfectant, and human sweat. The stink invaded my nose as my eyes adjusted to the gloom.

To the left, the crack of pool balls drifted from a room set off by swinging half-doors. The bar was straight ahead, a carved wooden affair with an ornate mirror behind and stools in front.

At midbar, a plaid-shirted man drew beer from a long-handled tap. He had moles on his face and jittery eyes that landed on us a nanosecond, then moved on.

A dozen mismatched tables filled the space to the right. Framed posters covered the walls around them—Gene Autry, John Wayne, the Cisco Kid.

Willie Nelson wailed from a jukebox beyond the tables. A player piano sat beside it, cover cracked, wooden case a battlefield of cigarette burns.

I guessed the original idea had been Wild West saloon. Instead, the place looked like a rundown roadhouse in Yuma. With lousy lighting.

Half the tables and all of the bar stools were full. The clientele was mostly male, mostly blue-collar. The few women present were definitely rough trade—brassy hair, tattoos, couture designed to advertise flesh.

Moving among the tables was a waitress in red bustier and tourniquet-tight size-sixteen jeans. Her hair was fried, her makeup cheap and overdone.

Ollie tipped his head toward a tall, angular woman at the left end of the bar. “Looks like our gal’s the pick of the litter tonight.”

I appraised Susan Forex. Her hair was long and blond, her peasant blouse artfully draped to reveal one shoulder. A denim micromini, cinch belt, and ankle-strapped stilettos completed the look.

Forex was talking to a dumpling in western boots and a thousand-gallon Stetson. Stetson had a beer. She was drinking what appeared to be whiskey on the rocks.

Leaning as close as the hat would allow, Stetson spoke into Forex’s ear. She ran a long red nail up his forearm. Both laughed.

We crossed the room, senses alert to danger.

The bartender watched, eyes bouncing from us to the door, to the waitress, to the tables, to his charges at the bar. A few other eyes rolled our way. Most didn’t.

“Hello, Susan.”

Forex swiveled at the sound of her name. When she saw Ollie, her smile collapsed.

“Friends of yours?” Stetson peered around Forex toward us, a drunken grin splitting his doughy face.

“Beat it.” Forex flicked a dismissive wrist at her would-be john.

“Darlin’, you and me are gonna—”

Forex rounded on him. “Get the hell out of here.”

Stetson’s face crumpled in confusion, tensed when he grasped that she was blowing him off. “Pay for your own drink, bitch.”

With that witty retort, Stetson shoved from the bar stool. Standing straight, including the hat, he was maybe my height.

Ollie waited until Stetson was out of earshot. Which wasn’t long. Stompin’ Tom Connors was now singing about a Sudbury Saturday night.

“We’re not here to hassle you, Foxy.”

Forex rolled her eyes and crossed her legs. Which were spectacular.

The bartender closed some distance but kept his gaze on everything but us.

Ollie got right to it. “You filed a missing persons report on Annaliese Ruben.”

Forex went totally still. Bracing for bad news? Preparing a lie to protect her friend?

“You OK, Foxy?” The bartender spoke just loud enough to be heard above the music.

“I’m good, Toffer.”

“You sure?”

“She’s sure.” Ollie badged him.

Toffer backed off and became very busy wiping the bar.

Up close I could see that Forex’s hair was dark down close to her scalp. Though yellowed, her teeth were even and perfectly straight, suggesting a childhood affluent enough to include braces. Her skin was smooth, her makeup skillfully applied. In that light, she could have been thirty or fifty.

“We think Ruben was living in Quebec the past three years,” Ollie continued. “Word is she’s back in Edmonton.”

“Good. The little punk stiffed me on her share of the last month’s rent.”

As Ollie questioned Forex, I checked out two men sitting a few stools over. Their body language told me both were listening. One guy was large, with wild black hair and dark little eyes that looked like raisins. The other was smaller, with leather wristbands on arms inked with jailhouse tattoos.

“Come on, Foxy. You know where she is.” Ollie seemed unaware of the interest our conversation was drawing. “She dimed you, right? Asked for a place to crash?”

“I love a good spring rain, don’t you, Sergeant?”

“Or did she call Scar?”

“Who?”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

Forex picked up her drink and swirled the ice. I noticed that her fingers were well manicured and free of nicotine stains.

“Help me here, Foxy.”

“Ruben was too young to be living on the streets. I took her in. Doesn’t mean I bought the rights to her life story.”

That didn’t tally with the statement of the ER doctor in Saint-Hyacinthe.

“I thought she was older,” I said.

Forex’s eyes crawled to me. For a moment she said nothing. Then, “Nice jacket.”

“Ruben self-reported her age as twenty-seven,” I pressed.

“The kid was barely old enough to shave her legs. Should have been in school. But I get why that wasn’t her thing.”

“Why’s that?”

Forex snorted. “You’ve seen her?”

“A picture.”

“So we both know she won’t be America’s next top model.” The naked shoulder rose, dropped. “Kids can be vicious.”

In the corner of my eye, I saw Raisin Eyes elbow his buddy. His face looked icy green in the glow of a neon frog shouting, Let’s party!

“Where was Ruben living before she moved in with you?” Ollie still seemed unaware of the pair down the bar. Not so for Ryan. Ever so subtly, he tipped his head left. I nodded.

“What am I, her Facebook pal?” Forex said.

“Why would Ruben lie about her age?” I asked.

“Gee.” Forex widened her eyes at me. “Why would a kid on the run do that?”

Good point. Stupid question.

“On the run from what?” Ollie jumped on Forex’s phrase.

“Hell if I know.” Forex’s tone said she’d be making no further slips.

“We’d like to get to Ruben first,” Ollie said. “Stop her from reaching out to Scar.”

“Are you listening to me? The kid was only at my place a few months. I hardly knew her.”

“You cared enough to report her missing.”

“I didn’t want trouble.”

“I know your pattern, Foxy. Ruben isn’t the only kid you’ve taken in.”

“Yeah. I’m Mother frickin’ Teresa.”

“Monique Santofer.” Ollie’s voice sounded gentler. “How old was she?”

Another shrug.

“What happened with Santofer?”

“I found her wired to the eyes and threw her ass out.”

“That your policy? No drugs?”

“My pad. My rules.”

“Let’s try again. Where’d Ruben live before she moved in with you?”

“Buckingham Palace.”

“She leave anything behind?”

“A pile of junk.”

“You still got it?”

Forex nodded.

“Might be we’ll need to take a turn through your place.” Ollie’s tone was again cop-hard. “I know you won’t mind.”

“Damn right I’ll mind.”

Ollie smiled. “Life’s a cesspool of disappointment.”

“You got a warrant?”

“You know I can get one.”

“You do that.”

“Take that to the bank.”

Forex’s eyes narrowed. “There’s more to this than you’re letting on.”

“Sounds like you’ve got some trust issues.”

“Said the cat to the mouse.”

“Squeak, squeak.” Ollie winked.

I felt my face make the same grimace as Forex’s.

Ollie pulled a card from his wallet. “Call if you hear from Ruben.”

Forex drained her glass and smacked it down on the bar. “Shit.”

“You’re a star, Foxy.”

“What I am is too old for this crap.”

With that, Forex grabbed her purse and walked out in her treacherous high heels.

Turning one shoulder, I whispered to Ollie, “Did you bring Ruben’s mug shot?”

Face neutral, he pulled the printout from a pocket and handed it to me. As Ryan and Ollie watched, I moved down the bar to Raisin Eyes and his buddy.

“I couldn’t help noticing your interest in our conversation.” I held up the mug shot. “Either of you know this girl?”

Both faces stayed pointed at their beers.

“See that gentleman over there? He’s a cop. An overachiever. Gets off on busting people. You know, just in case they might have done something wrong. Believes in preventive policing.”

Raisin Eyes swiveled on his stool, sending a tidal wave of body odor rolling my way. I waggled the printout. He made a show of studying the image.

“Word on the street is she might have worked out of here,” I said.

“Doing what, selling Popsicles? Chick looks like a fucking ice-cream truck.” Raisin Eyes laughed at his own joke. “What do you think, Harp?”

Harp sniggered. “Eskimo Pie all the way.”

“Do either of you recognize her?”

“I don’t recognize Popsicles. I suck ’em.” Oily grin. “How about you? You got a stick up your cheeks so’s I can get a good hold?”

Raisin Eyes never knew what hit him. Shooting past me, Ryan arm-wrapped the guy’s throat and hyper-rotated his elbow up and back in one lightning move. The more Raisin Eyes twisted, the more Ryan tightened the armlock.

Harp bolted for the door. Toffer started in our direction.

“Let’s not make any bad decisions here,” Ollie warned.

Toffer held position, fingers curled into fists at his sides. A few patrons headed for the exit. Others watched, pretending not to. Ollie joined us but did not intervene.

“You’re breaking my arm.” Raisin Eyes’s face was the color of claret.

“Apologize to the lady.”

“She’s the one—”

Ryan increased the pressure.

“Sonofabitch. Whatever.”

“I’m running out of patience.” Ryan’s tone was dangerous.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Ryan released his hold. Raisin Eyes flopped forward, left hand rubbing circles on his right shoulder.

“Name?” Ryan demanded.

“Who the fuck’s ask—”

“I am.” Forged steel.

“Shelby Hoch.”

“That’s a good start, Shelby.”

Ryan gestured for me to hold up the printout. I did. Ollie continued to watch in silence.

“Let’s start over,” Ryan said. “You know this lady?”

“I seen her around.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Where?”

Hoch hooked a thumb at the red-bustier waitress.

“Leaving a motel with shit-for-brains.”