A slight hesitation, then she nodded, barely moving her head. “Why are you here?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?” In that instant her anger fled, to be replaced by fear. “Fernando? Is it my brother? Oh, Dios, don’t tell me he’s hurt or in trouble.” Without thinking she made a quick sign of the cross over her chest.

“No, nothing like that,” Hayes assured her. “We need to ask you about a car that you own, a 1999 Silver Chevrolet Impala, registered to Ramona Salazar.”

“Hey, is something wrong?” From within the house a man appeared. He was twice her size, all muscle and brawn, his tight T-shirt stretched over the broad span of his shoulders. His denim shorts hung low, almost falling off his slim hips. “What’s going on?”

“It’s the police,” she said, casting her husband a fearful look.

“You’re Sebastian Salazar?” Martinez asked.

“That’s right.” His accent was thick.

“We’re here to ask your wife a few questions about a car that belongs to her.”

Sebastian flinched. He turned to his wife and said something in rapid-fire Spanish that Hayes didn’t catch, but he figured Martinez might understand.

“Can we come in?” Martinez asked.

Husband and wife looked at each other, then Sebastian muttered something in Spanish before opening the door. “Please,” he said, white teeth flashing beneath a thick moustache. “Have a seat.” He waved them into matching chairs.

Remaining at the door, Yolanda peered out curiously. “Is your friend coming in?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Hayes suppressed a groan. Bentz was out of the car, standing in the pool of light at the chain-link fence, murmuring something to Rufus, who had finally stopped barking. “He’s fine out there,” Hayes said, trying to distract Yolanda Salazar. “Sorry to bother you, but if you could just-”

“Wait a minute.” Yolanda’s eyes were cold, black pebbles as her face hardened into a scowl. “Sebastian!” She motioned him toward the door, a stream of Spanish erupting between them. “Bastardo!” she hissed.

Alarmed, Sebastian crossed to the door and gaped at the atrocity his wife indicated.

Hayes ground his teeth together, knowing what this was all about. Bentz.

Yolanda wheeled on Hayes and Martinez. “Get out of my house! You bring a baby killer into my home? The hombre who killed my brother? Shot him dead?” She pointed an accusing finger to the street. “He is the cop who shot Mario, a twelve-year-old boy! An innocent.” Her upper lip curled into a snarl of distaste. “Leave now,” she insisted. And then, to Hayes’s horror, she flew out the door.

Pacing along the chain-link fence, Bentz was on the phone. “…I think her name was Judd. Yolanda Judd,” he said to Montoya as Yolanda herself burst out of the house. Bare feet flying, she cut across the yard and lunged toward him. “Baby killer!” she accused. “What are you doing here?”

Hayes and Martinez were on her heels with a big guy, most likely her husband, following.

“I’ll call you back,” he said to Montoya and hung up.

“Can’t you leave us in peace? Isn’t it enough that you killed my baby brother and ruined my mother’s life?” she said as Bentz swung around to face her.

She spat then, hitting him square in the face.

Bentz’s hands clenched into fists. Crazy bitch! He could barely contain his fury.

“Back off!” Hayes shouted. He waved Bentz toward the car, motioning for him to return to the backseat in a feeble attempt to defuse the situation. “Mrs. Salazar, we just need to ask you some questions about your car,” he insisted to Yolanda.

“Then why is he here?” She hooked a finger at Bentz as he wiped his face.

Certainly not to endure your abuse, Bentz wanted to say.

“Do you know where your car is now?” Hayes stepped between Yolanda and Bentz.

“With Fernando…oh, Dios. Fernando. Where is he?” Her anger appeared to morph into genuine fear.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Salazar. But we have your vehicle.”

“Where?” She seemed stunned.

“At the police lot. We’re looking through it for evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“It could be linked to three homicides.”

“What?” She glanced at Bentz, but some of her hostility had evaporated. “Homicides?”

“That’s right. Who usually drives the car?”

“I-I do.”

Hayes looked at the driveway where a pickup with a canopy was parked beside a shiny Lexus. “Who drives those?”

“The Nissan truck is mine,” the husband said and Yolanda sent him a withering look. “Yolanda drives the Lexus. We use the Chevy as an extra car, bought it from Carlos because it was a good deal. Lately Fernando has been borrowing it.”

“He lives here?” Martinez asked.

Yolanda’s lips pinched in disapproval, but Sebastian nodded and answered, “Most of the time.”

“Does he have another vehicle?” Martinez had taken out a small notepad and was jotting down the information.

“His Blazer is in the shop; needs a new transmission. He hasn’t decided if it’s worth it yet.”

“Where’s Fernando now?” Martinez asked, risking a look at the dog, who was now standing on his hind legs and digging at the meshed steel of the fence.

“I don’t know.” Yolanda shot a nervous glance up the street, as if she expected her brother to appear at any second.

“Is he at work?” Martinez asked.

“School,” Sebastian said, wrapping a big arm around Yolanda’s shoulders. “He takes night classes at the junior college. Like my wife. He usually comes home after work at the restaurant, The Blue Burro, but today he didn’t. Called and said he was going straight to school.”

“You got a phone number for him?”

“No!” Yolanda said, obviously scared, but Sebastian placed a hand on the back of her neck and rubbed it as he gave Martinez the number.

“Damn it, Sebastian!” Yolanda said, pushing his hand away.

Her husband wasn’t put off. “If he’s in trouble, we need to know about it.”

Hayes tried a different tack. “Does Fernando have a girlfriend? Anyone he would loan the car to?”

“No one serious,” she said.

Sebastian scowled. “Fernando, he knows lots of girls. But I don’t know about loaning the car to any of them. He should know better than that, you know? The car, it belongs to my wife.”

Hayes asked, “Do you know a woman named Jennifer Bentz?” When Yolanda shrugged, he continued. “Come on back inside, I have some pictures I’d like you to see.”

Yolanda shot Bentz one last hateful glance, then begrudgingly returned to the house.

Still seething, Bentz climbed into the back of the Toyota, leaving the door open so that a breeze slid into the car.

He wondered about Yolanda and the damned car.

She hadn’t been driving it earlier today.

Nor had Fernando.

But Fernando Valdez was the next person on Bentz’s list to interview.

Despite Hayes’s warning, he put in a call to the phone number, but Fernando didn’t pick up.

Bentz leaned against the seat, wondering if Yolanda was telling the truth. Something he doubted. He watched a bicyclist in reflective gear whiz past while a cat in a neighboring yard slunk through the shrubbery, hunting.

Meanwhile, Rufus had settled down to whining and pacing.

Bentz used his cell phone to reserve another rental car. He also called the So-Cal Inn, hoping against hope that Olivia might have slipped through the cracks and come looking for him there.

No such luck, of course.

He rented another room, one facing the interior pool this time, and gave Rebecca specific instructions to phone him if she heard from his wife. It was a long shot, of course, but he had to cover all his bases, even the most obscure.

Twenty minutes later, Hayes and Martinez were emerging from the house when Bentz’s phone rang. He picked it up, hoping to see Olivia’s number on the screen. Instead he saw Montoya’s.