“Any idea where he might be?”

She shook her head slowly. “No. Do you think he’s in trouble?”

“No idea,” I said, wishing I hadn’t knocked on their door. I pulled a card from my pocket and held it out. “If you hear from him or think of anything, call me.”

Dana lurched off the sofa. “Can I get one of those?”

I reluctantly withdrew another one and handed it to her.

She smiled at it, then winked at me. “Thanks, stud.”

I left before my head exploded.

I walked out to the parking lot to find a scowling, heavyset man next to my Jeep.

He was looking into the driver’s-side window, a Louisville Slugger dangling from his right hand.

“Need a ride?” I asked.

He turned around. About five-eight with more than his share of weight around his gut and his neck, rings of sweat staining the armpits of his gray T-shirt. The brown hair on his head was almost gone. Sweat beaded down his wrinkled forehead into his small, dark eyes. A flat nose and a crooked mouth didn’t improve his appearance.

“You a friend of that kid’s?” he said, raising the bat up and pointing in the direction of Linc’s apartment.

“No.”

“Then why were you at his door?”

“Why do you care?”

The small eyes narrowed. “You getting smart with me?”

“I was smart before I got here.”

He looked confused.

“I’m not a friend of his,” I told him. “I’ve never met him. I’m looking for him.”

The man relaxed and lowered the bat to his side. “You and me both.”

“I’m Noah,” I said, offering my hand.

He shook it, leaving a film of perspiration on my palm. “Sam Rolovich. Kid owes me rent.”

I casually wiped my hand against my shorts. “You the super?”

He frowned, like I’d insulted him. “Property manager.”

“Sorry. He owes you?”

He nodded, glancing up at the apartment. “Two months’ worth.” His eyes shifted and he was looking at me with suspicion. “Why do you care?”

I pulled a card out of my pocket and handed it to him. “Linc’s brother asked me to help him find him.”

He studied the card. “Hmm. A private eye. For real?”

“For real.”

“Never met one of you before.”

“Right. The rent thing—is that a regular deal for him?”

“No,” Sam said, hitching up his jeans with his free hand, exposing decade-old flip-flops on his feet. “Kid’s lived here a year and always paid ahead a time. Last month, he gave me some story about having to pay tuition, said he was gonna be late.” He shrugged. “Me, I’m a nice guy, so I let it slide. I know where he lives, you know?”

Sam looked like anything but a nice guy, but I played along. “Sure.”

“So, then when I didn’t get this month’s rent on Friday, I came looking for him. He wasn’t there. Then his brother showed up and said he didn’t know where he was, either. Promised to find him.” He frowned and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Haven’t seen the kid or his friends yet.”

I nodded at the bat. “Maybe he’s scared.”

Sam looked at the bat, then looked embarrassed. “Hey, you never know who you’re gonna run into.”

So true.

“You said friends. I thought he lived by himself.”

He made a face and the crooked mouth got more crooked. “He does, but all those fucking bangers are always hanging around with him.”

“Bangers? As in gangbangers?” I said, not sure I’d heard him correctly.

He nodded. “Yep. One of them used to live here, but I kicked his ass out. Got tired of all the bullshit.”

“Remember his name?”

A plane roared over us, headed to Lindbergh, the engines quickly fading in the distance.

He pointed toward the office. “Come on. Let’s go take a look.”

I followed him to a door just off the side of the building. The room was about the size of a small closet. An old wooden desk sat in the middle, surrounded by two metal filing cabinets and two metal folding chairs. The desk was covered in piles of paper and manila folders. A calendar with a busty woman in a bikini leaning over the hood of a car hung on the wall behind the desk. An aroma of old popcorn and stale beer clung to the air.

“Have a seat,” Sam said, waving at one of the chairs. He stood the bat up next to one of the cabinets. “Ignore the mess.”

I wasn’t sure what my other choice was, so I didn’t say anything.

He opened up the middle drawer on one of the cabinets and rummaged through it for a moment, then yanked out a thin red folder.

“Here it is,” he said, turning around and sitting down in the chair on the other side of the desk. “Fucker’s name was Deacon Moreno.” He handed the file across the desk to me.

The photocopied driver’s license photo showed a young black man with a hard face. No smile, no trace of humor in his expression. His date of birth put him at twenty-four years old. Six-foot and 185 pounds. The address listed was in Logan Heights, a neighborhood even I wouldn’t venture into alone.

“The address on the license was bogus,” Sam said. “He owed me rent. I went to collect but it’s a laundromat.”

I handed the folder back to Sam. “Why’d you kick him out?”

“Oh, man,” he said, rolling his eyes. “That guy was a problem from the day he walked in. Late with his rent, that goddamned hip-hop music booming out of his place and car at all hours, all his hotshot homeboys hanging out in the parking lot all the time.”

“How did you know they were gang members?”

He rolled his eyes again. “Come on. What am I, an idiot? Bunch of fucking black kids in tricked-out cars, wearing Raiders jerseys and gold chains, smoking weed.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “I know because I know.”

I wasn’t so sure. There was a big difference between kids who acted like gangsters and those who actually lived the life. But I didn’t want to insult Sam’s astute observations. Afraid he might show me his white hood and cross-burning tools.

“And after you evicted Deacon, he came to see Linc?” I asked.

“Yep. Couple of times. Him and some of his buddies. Usually at night.”

The picture I was getting of Linc was far from the one his brother had drawn for me. Trading sex for homework wasn’t the most ethical thing, but I could see where a guy his age would consider an offer like that from an attractive girl like Rachel. A serious kid who was trying to get his degree, though, didn’t run with a gang or store guns in his apartment. Falling in with a bad crowd was one thing. Falling in with a gang was another.

“How about the girls that live next door to Linc?” I asked.

Sam laughed. “The stoner chicks? No problems with them. One of their rich daddies pays for them. Two months at a time. They don’t bother me.”

The unmistakable sound of a gunshot outside froze us.

Sam stood up. “What the fuck?”

Tires squealed on pavement. I jumped up from the chair and shoved the door open to the parking lot.

The lot was empty save for my Jeep. I looked to the street and saw traffic moving at a normal pace. I looked back toward the apartments.

Rachel was standing outside her door. Her left hand was against the wall, bracing herself, and her eyes were wide, confused, and frightened. Her right hand was at her chest, blood spilling out over her fingers.

Sam burst out of the office behind me, the bat in his hand.

“Go call 911,” I told him.

But he didn’t move.

We both stood there and watched Rachel crumple to the ground.

Detective John Wellton said, “Braddock. What a complete and utterly unpleasant surprise.”

We were standing in the parking lot and I watched as the EMTs loaded Rachel into the ambulance, ready to take her to Sharp Hospital. She’d been shot once. There was a lot of blood and I couldn’t tell how badly she was hurt.

“I’m missing a gnome in my garden,” I said. “You’d make a nice replacement.”