‘Mama in charge,’ Amanda said, using the colloquialism for a pimp’s right-hand woman. ‘She’s a bottom girl.’

‘Makes sense, considering her age and her sheet. All these assaults on kids, that could be her doing the pimp’s job, keeping the stable in line.’

‘What is taking these people so long?’ Amanda pressed the buzzer on the gate a second time, keeping her finger down long enough to make it clear she wasn’t going to go away. ‘Do you have a phone number?’

Faith was about to look when the gates started to open.

‘Finally,’ Amanda said.

The driveway curved to the left, leading them toward a detached six-car garage at the rear corner of the house. Amanda pulled into the motorcourt, parking beside a Tesla SUV. Striping had turned the pavement into a miniature basketball court with a goal set low enough to indicate Reuben Figaroa had built out the space for his six-year-old son.

‘Kip Kilpatrick,’ Amanda said.

Faith saw the agent standing in an open doorway. His suit was so shiny that it caught the security lights. He had a bottle of bright red sports drink in his hands that he tossed back and forth as he watched the car pull up. Will had underestimated the man’s doucheness. Faith could smell it coming off him like damp in a basement.

Amanda said, ‘Here we go.’

They both got out of the car. Amanda walked toward Kilpatrick. Faith glanced through the windows in the garage doors. Two Ferraris, a Porsche, and in the last bay a charcoal-gray Range Rover, the same type of vehicle that was leased to Jo Figaroa.

Amanda said, ‘Mr Kilpatrick, what a pleasure to see you twice in the same day.’

He looked at his watch. ‘It’s technically two days. Any particular reason you’re out this late visiting another client of mine?’

‘Why don’t we discuss that inside with Mr Figaroa?’

‘Why don’t we discuss that outside with me?’

‘I find it odd that you’re even here, Mr Kilpatrick. Are you making a late house call?’

‘You’ve got five seconds to either explain why you’re here or to get off Mr Figaroa’s property.’

Amanda paused a moment to let some of the power shift. ‘I’m looking for Josephine Figaroa, actually. She seems to be missing.’

‘She’s in rehab,’ he said. ‘Left this morning. Packed her into the car myself.’

‘Can you tell me the name of the facility?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell me when she’ll return?’

‘Nope.’

Amanda seldom hit walls, but Faith could see that she had found herself flat against Kilpatrick’s denials. She finally laid down the truth. ‘Two hours ago, a body was found that was identified as Josephine Figaroa.’

Kilpatrick dropped the bottle, which exploded against the pavement. Red liquid splashed all over the ground, his feet, his pants. He didn’t move. He barely registered the mess. He was genuinely astonished.

Amanda said, ‘We need Mr Figaroa to positively ID the body.’

‘What?’ Kilpatrick started shaking his head. ‘How did . . . What?’

‘Do you need a minute?’

He looked at the ground, noticed the spilled drink. ‘Are you sure?’ He shook his head, and Faith could practically hear him coaching himself into putting his lawyer face back on. ‘I can do the ID. Where should I meet you?’

‘We have a photo, but it’s—’

‘Show me.’

Amanda already had her BlackBerry out. She showed him the picture she had taken of the woman’s face.

Kilpatrick flinched. ‘Jesus Christ. What happened to her?’

‘That’s what we’re here to find out.’

‘Christ.’ He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Christ.’

A shadow passed over the doorway, impossibly ominous, like a monster in a storybook.

Reuben Figaroa came outside, careful not to get his shoes wet. He wore a badly wrinkled gray suit with a blue shirt and black tie. Shaved head. Dark mustache and goatee. He was shockingly tall, his head nearly brushing the door frame. He also had a paddle holster with a striker-fired Sig Sauer P320 clipped to his black leather belt. He wore the gun to the front and looked more than capable of using it.

Amanda said, ‘Mr Figaroa, could we please speak with you?’

Reuben held out his hand, which was three times the size of Amanda’s. ‘Let me see the picture.’

‘No, man,’ Kilpatrick warned. ‘You don’t want to see that. Trust me.’

Amanda gave Reuben her BlackBerry. The phone looked as small as a pack of gum in his enormous hand. He held the screen close to his face, head tilted as he studied the image. Faith was used to Will’s height, but comparatively, Reuben was a giant. Everything about him was bigger, stronger, more threatening. He had only said five words to them, but Faith felt every part of her being telling her that this man was not to be trusted. He was looking directly at a photograph of his dead wife, yet his face showed absolutely no emotion.

Amanda asked, ‘Is that your wife, Josephine Figaroa?’

‘Jo. Yes, it’s her.’ He handed the phone back to Amanda. He seemed positive about the ID, but his affect remained as flat as his tone of voice. ‘Please come in.’

Amanda could not hide her surprise at the invitation. She glanced back at Faith before entering the house. Kip Kilpatrick indicated he would take up the rear. He wasn’t being a gentleman. He wanted to keep an eye on her. Fine by Faith. She made sure he saw her clock the Ruger AR-556 propped up against the door. The rifle had every bell and whistle. Magazine grip. Flash suppressor. Rear-folding battle sight. Laser. Thirty-round magazine.

Reuben led them down a long tiled hallway. He was limping. There was a metal brace on his leg. Faith appreciated the slow pace because it gave her a chance to look around. Not that there was much to see. The house was spotless—literally. There were no photographs on the stark white walls. No sneakers by the door. No clothes piled in the laundry room. No toys scattered into every corner.

Faith didn’t care whether or not a person lived in a mega-mansion or a box, if you lived with a six-year-old child, you lived with his shit. She saw no greasy fingerprints or scuffed baseboards or the scattered sticky Cheerios that inexplicably trailed every child like breadcrumbs.

The living room was just as bare. This was not open-concept. There was no line of sight from the kitchen, just a series of closed doors that could lead anywhere. No curtains softened the floor-to-ceiling windows. No artwork or plants warmed up the space. All of the furniture was raw steel and white leather, built to a basketball player’s scale. The plush rug was white. The floor was white. If there was a kid living here, he was hermetically sealed.

‘Please.’ Reuben indicated the couch. He didn’t wait for the women to sit down. He took the chair that kept his back to the wall. Sitting, he was roughly Faith’s height. His eyes were a weird, almost Confederate gray. There was a long Band-Aid on the side of his shaved head. The bump underneath was the size of a golf ball.

She asked, ‘What happened to your head?’

He didn’t answer. He just stared at her with a look of mild disinterest, the way a lion might look at an ant.

Amanda said, ‘Thank you for talking with us, Mr Figaroa. I’m so sorry for your loss.’ She sat on the couch beside him. She had to teeter on the edge so that her feet would touch the ground. Kilpatrick was slumped into another chair, his feet dangling like Lily Tomlin playing Edith Ann. He seemed more upset than Jo’s husband. His face had not fully recovered from the shock.