‘Because it was broken, or lost, or stolen - any number of reasons.’

‘Jeez, I hope I never drop off the radar, and have to rely on Oceanside Police to locate my body.’

Leighton chuckled and took another drink.

‘Oceanside PD does a fine job,’ he said. ‘Part of which is discerning whether or not a crime has actually been committed.’

‘Well, Detective - sorry, former Detective - what is your professional opinion, based on the evidence, circumstantial, or otherwise?’

‘Let’s consider what we have…’ He held his hands out to her, palms upturned.

Vick nodded encouragingly.

‘There was once this girl, who, out of the blue, received an invitation from an old college friend, which she apparently accepted.’

‘Okay,’ Vicki agreed in grudging approval.

‘And - assuming she actually did accept the invitation - maybe this girl went as far as taking the bus trip down to meet her old friend. Only, at some point, she realised she couldn’t really afford the trip, or maybe, an old boyfriend or a different friend called up and gave her a better offer. So, feeling embarrassed, she stupidly gets off the bus, before it ever reaches the bus station, probably somewhere like this.’

‘But, I heard her phone ring in the station.’

‘Or - more specifically - you heard a phone ring. Even if it was exactly the same ring tone as your friend had, that is hardly beyond coincidence.’

‘So, how do you explain the fact it was picked up by the cell phone tower in Oceanside?’

Leighton looked at Vicki, gauging how to explain the possible events, without hurting her feelings. ‘It is quite possible she left on the bus intentionally, to avoid any difficult conversation. You did say it didn’t register any more calls.’

‘She'd deliberately lose her own phone?’ Vicki looked at him, incredulous.

‘Yes, that way, if she finally does get back in touch with you, she can justify her silence - the lost phone. That would explain why she missed your calls and lost your number. If you accept that, isn’t it also possible after Laurie got off the bus, somebody picked up her shiny phone?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Therefore,’ Leighton said sagely, ‘even if you did hear it at the bus depot, it is not necessarily evidence of anything suspicious.’

The former detective took a drink of coffee, then arched his hands together in front of his face. He felt confident he had addressed Vicki’s concerns, but then, she threw him a curve-ball.

‘So, how do you explain the fact she hasn’t shown up for work in the last week?’

This seemed to catch Leighton off-guard. His eyes widened slightly, and his mouth opened just a fraction, but he quickly regained his composure.

‘Maybe she planned to stay with you longer, and so left work with no definite plan to return.’

‘She took two weeks of annual holiday – that’s all she was entitled to – and she hasn’t been back, even though she has wages to collect.’

‘You know that for certain?’

Vicki nodded resolutely.

Leighton drunk his coffee and smiled. ‘There could be a number of reasons for that, too, but I guess whatever the truth is, we’ll be better placed to find out when we get to Barstow.’

10

Mark Steinberg had suspected something was wrong after two or three days, but after six weeks, he was certain. As free spirited as she was, Jo would have been in touch. He had told her several times he would accompany her down to Santa Cruz, if she would just hang on for a few more weeks. He had some holiday time due from work, but Jo was unable to hang around; she simply wanted to get playing some gigs, and The Black Cat club in Santa Cruz seemed like the perfect venue. And even though it hurt Mark to admit it, Santa Cruz probably also represented freedom.

The previous December, he had been working at the Sundowner Bar in Laughlin – it was a grubby little bar, on the edge of town. It had been in a slow decline for years, until Mark and another barman organised regular live music evenings. Initially, it had been a relatively slow burn, but by the third month, and having slashed beer prices during any performance, the bar began to gain a reputation as a credible little venue.

Jo had shown up for a Sunday night open mic session. With her rebel prom queen looks, she seemed like out of place, as she dragged her battered guitar case through the door. She approached the counter and confidently parked herself on a stool facing the tiny raised stage. She ordered a bottle of European beer, and, as she drank it, she tucked her hair behind one ear. This action revealed a neatly scripted tattoo beneath her ear which read: Sorry is so easy to tell, yet so hard to express.

Mark, who had been working behind the bar on the night she came in, had been down in the cramped cellar changing a barrel of Anchor Steam. He had volunteered to go down to escape the earnest teenager, who was murdering a selection of Simon and Garfunkel songs. When he climbed back up through the hatch in the floor, and saw Jo at the bar, he forgot all about the terrible music. She looked like she had been transported from a time when beauty was natural, and fashion was simple. He straightened his faded Ramones t-shirt, and, picking up a bar towel, moved over to where she sat.

‘Hey, is this your first time in here?’ he said, trying to sound casual, as he wiped the counter.

‘Yep,’ she said, as she kept her eyes on the singer.

'So, what do you think?' he persisted.

‘Seems an okay place.’ Jo said, and drank her beer.

‘Just okay?’ He assumed an expression of mock indignation.

‘Yep,’

‘Ah well, hey, listen, the entertainment is usually better than this.’

‘He’s not so bad,’ she said, without turning around.

‘Really?’

Mark waggled his eyebrows, causing Jo to giggle.

‘Well, I’ve heard worse.’ She glanced at Mark. ‘… but only rarely.’

‘You play and sing?’ Mark nodded towards the guitar case.

‘Yep, when I unpack this bad baby,’ she patted the guitar case, ‘I’ll knock your socks off.’

Jo had not been lying, either. That night she had patiently waited until the local singers had performed their tired sets, before she unpacked her guitar, and stepped up on to the stage.

‘Hi,’ she said, into the grubby microphone, ‘this is a lovely Marianne Faithful song for the lovely barman.’

While Mark watched in appreciative silence, Jo played a powerful version of “Ruby Tuesday.” She strummed and picked the strings with skill and style, her head tilted to the single spotlight, as she sang her heart out. The first song was followed by a couple of Cat Stevens and Lou Reed numbers. For the first time in months, the entire audience of the small venue were wholly engrossed in the performance of a stunningly good musician.

Once Jo had finished her set, she sat at the bar with Mark until closing time. She had explained she was originally from Boulder City, and after quitting her job in a dead-end shoe shop, had decided to gig her way down to the West Coast. The idea of hopping from bus to bus, and busking down to San Diego, appealed to her sense of connection with the romantic past.

Mark, who shared her fascination with the music of the past, felt he had found a kindred spirit, especially when Jo’s face lit up in discovering he spent daylight hours working in a retro record store over on the east side of the city.

After the bar closed that night, Mark walked Jo back to her motel. He had carried her guitar, and she had held on to his arm - like Suze Rotolo - as they made their way through the deserted town. After raiding the mini bar of its only two drinks, they had sat on the balcony, and raised two miniature bottles of Jim Beam bourbon in a toast to the bright stars above them. Then, they had slept together on the soft bed, where their lips and hands had moved over each other in the warm darkness.