“Now you’re really scaring me.”

Shane strokes, strokes thoughtfully at his carefully trimmed beard. “Whatever happened, we can know that Manning has been contacted. Demands have been made. He admitted that much.”

“Yeah, but what kind of demands?” I want to know.

“That’s the billion-dollar question.”

I’m grumbling at the stalled traffic when a light goes on over my dim, undercaffeinated brain.

“Give me your hat,” I say, snatching the ball cap off his head. “Take the wheel.”

I put the car in Park, engine idling. In a moment I’m out the door, dodging bumpers. Horns honk at me, but so what? Let ‘em honk. Let ‘em shoot me the digit, who cares?

In a few strides I’m clear of traffic and on the crowded sidewalk, giving a thumbs-up to a very startled Randall Shane as he tries to get his long legs behind the wheel, take control of the vehicle.

Pulling down the brim on the oversize hat, I head for the Hum Job.

14. Planet Ricky

Four miles to the south, more or less, in the gated enclave of Cable Grove, Myla methodically gnaws the glitter off her fingernails and wonders what should she do about Ricky. Munching nails in the cabana because that’s where she’s been hiding for the past five hours. Okay, not hiding, exactly, that’s the wrong word because Ricky hasn’t exactly been trying to find her. More like she moved her butt to the pool cabana because the house is simply too scary to share when Ricky Lang starts conversing with invisible people.

Talking with ghosts or whatever.

It began at three or so in the morning, with Myla sound asleep, snuggled under the covers because the AC is on frosty, just the way she likes it. Hot as a bug outside, where she left Ricky on a lounger by the pool, lying with his enormous forearms crossed under his head, staring up at the stars. Talking about how the stars hold stories of the ancient days, the days when the animal gods roamed the world and spoke to men in their true voices. Which was sort of romantic, until the clouds came rolling in and the rain started and Ricky would not stir from the lounger. Telling her the rain was good for her soul, if she had one.

If she had one. What did he mean by that? Everybody has a soul, right? You get it when you’re born. It comes with. So, feeling a little petulant, a little put out, she’d left him there in the spattering rain and gone to bed. To be awakened hours later by a weird, high-pitched yowl that sounded like a raccoon caught in trap. She was instantly awake, ice water in her veins, skin crawling. Because she knew it was Ricky making the noise.

She found him in Tyler’s bedroom, curled up on the little race-car bed. Hanging off the sides, actually, because he’s way too big. Eyes closed, his high cheekbones glistening with tears. And when he opens his eyes, responding to the light she switches on, he roars, shut that fucking off you bitch! and leaps to his feet, as agile and jumpy as some cougar on bad crank. Brushing her aside with a shrug of his powerful shoulders. Slamming her into the wall—although he didn’t mean to—it was as if she didn’t exist. As if he didn’t know who she was.

Right after the incident in Tyler’s room he starts talking, and not to her. Yakking and gesturing with someone who isn’t there. Pausing for the voices only he can hear, and then arguing with himself.

Myla has no idea what he’s talking about because he’s speaking what he calls pidgin. Nakosha words and phrases mixed with English and then stirred with a Spanish swizzle stick, is how he once explained it to her, bragging about the private language of his clan, understood by less than a hundred people on planet Earth. A planet no longer occupied by Ricky Lang, apparently.

Having no experience or understanding of active psychotic episodes, Myla assumes he’s on drugs. Eating mushrooms or buttons or whatever Indians do. All she knows is that he’s scarier than usual, and that’s when she decides to hang in the cabana for a while, until he calms down.

Hours go by. He never shuts up. Raging and laughing, crying and pleading, mostly in his own private language. Meanwhile Myla makes a nest for herself in the chlorine-smelling cabana, tries to nap on some deck-chair cushions but she can’t get comfortable. She thinks about calling someone—she has her cell—

but who would she call? His family? Not an option. The cops? Ricky would kill her, really and truly kill her to death.

Truth is, Myla has no ideas, no options, other than to wait for whatever happens next.

Last thing she expects is a gentle knock on the cabana’s flimsy door. “Myla? Time for breakfast, honey.”

The door opens and there’s Ricky, showered and wearing a change of clothes. The tight black Calvin Klein muscle shirt she likes, the one that shows off his amazing pecs. Loose khaki cargo pants cinched with a leather belt at his narrow waist, bare feet with his brown toes splayed. What a guy. His eyes are deep, dark and haunted, but he looks so powerful, her own personal Incredible Hulk. Like he’s ready, willing, and able to leap into the air and fly to the ends of the earth, if that’s what it takes to make things right.

At the moment, making things right means breakfast.

“Scrambled eggs and toast,” he says, smiling and showing his strong white teeth.

Myla isn’t sure if he wants her to prepare the food or if he’s already made it just for her. Not that it matters. Either way is okay because it means they’ll be together.

She takes his arm, tracing her fingertips over his taut bicep. “Did you sleep okay, baby?” she wants to know.

Stuck in rush-hour gridlock, Shane blames it on sleep. If he wasn’t still groggy from his unplanned nap, no way would his client have managed to slip out of the vehicle before he stopped her. Instead he sits here like a goof, watching in astonishment as Jane Garner flips the bird to at least three honking drivers, then strides up the sidewalk with a purpose. He powers down the window so he can see better. She’s moving fast, dodging pedestrians. Medium height but she’s got long legs when she wants to. Great legs, come to think, and a nice look in those trim linen slacks. A little rumpled for having nodded off in a chair, but on her, rumpled looks … sexy.

He puts on the brakes, the mental brakes that stop this kind of salacious thinking. Reminds himself that Mrs. Garner is a client, experiencing tremendous stress and anxiety over a missing child. No matter how attractive, she’s vulnerable and therefore off-limits.

Don’t go there, don’t even think about it.

Having taken an icy shower, mentally, he concentrates on keeping her in view. Not easy because at this time of day, in this part of the city, the sidewalks are loaded. Folks on their way to work, or out to the shops, or intent on grabbing a flaky, guava-filled pastelito. A strolling mix of business suits and guayaberras, because it’s one those high-traffic areas where everything comes together, the various ethnicities and business interests, from international banking to hand-rolled cigars, from hole-in-the-wall con leche stands to bright new Starbucks. Old men play dominoes at social clubs while their children congregate in Wi-Fi cafés. Past, present and future, all sharing the same space, feeding off the same energy.

In other circumstances it might be fun to explore the neighborhood. Grab a stool somewhere and watch the world go by. But given the circumstances, the doomsday clock counting down on the missing girl, all he wants is Mrs. Garner back in the vehicle where he can keep her safe.

“Espresso, señor?”

Smiling mischievously as she hands him a little paper cup through the open window. And then, her timing immaculate, slipping into the passenger side just as the traffic starts moving. Knocking back her own shot of black, heavily sugared Cuban coffee, she holds up the empty cup and says, “These are like those hospital cups, where they put your medication. Or those shots of vodka Jell-O at the bars? Do they still do that at the bars, serve shots of vodka Jell-O from trays? I haven’t been for ages. And by the way, confirmation on Manning being in the Hummer. He’s on the phone, very intent. Maybe he’s talking to the kidnapper? Is that possible?”