I clicked on her name and opened the field to send her a text, then tapped the screen.

I miss you. I love you. Can’t wait for you to come home.

Fifteen minutes later, I laid the phone on the pillow next to me and turned out the light, deciding that trying to find sleep was far less painful than waiting for her to respond.

THIRTY

“I have an address,” Paul Lasko said.

I’d barely slept, wrestling with the covers, eventually turning the TV on and staring at it for hours until I’d finally drifted off. But I woke as soon as the sun came up, took off for my early run and heard the doorbell ring just as I stepped out of the shower. I’d pulled on my clothes and found Lasko at the front door.

We were sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of each of us, and he slid a piece of paper across the table to me. I reached for it and flipped it over.

“Brawley,” he said. “Took me awhile to go through all of the desert cities here and in Arizona, but I finally found one.”

I nodded, looking at the address. Brawley was a desert outpost, just south of the Salton Sea, about two hours away.

“I doubt it’s Brawley proper,” he said. “Probably outskirts. I didn’t have time to map it. I came over as soon as I had it.”

I picked up the mug in front of me and took a sip. “Brawley’s small, anyway,” I said. “Shouldn’t have a hard time finding it.”

“You wanna go this morning?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You got the time?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’m good.” He hesitated, rolled his shoulders a little, like they were kinked up. “One thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Word’s definitely out that I’m poking around,” Lasko said, scratching at his temple. “My sergeant checked on me yesterday. Wanted to know what case I was working extra on. Told him it wasn’t anything in our department. He didn’t much care for that, asked if I was moonlighting or whatever. I told him I was helping a friend.” He shrugged. “My point is that if he found out, someone told him. So people know I’m working on something and chances are they’ve either listened or looked and have an idea of what I’m doing.”

“My offer still stands,” I said.

He waved a hand in the air. “I’m fine. I’ve told you that. But I just figured you needed to know that other cops are probably aware. So if you’re right about your guys and word gets back to them…they could blow the whole thing up.”

I nodded. He was right. If word filtered out, tracks that I hadn’t found could be covered and destroyed and I might never be able to figure out what happened. I also knew there might be retribution.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I just want answers.”

He stood from the table. “Then I guess we’re going to Brawley.”

THIRTY ONE

Brawley was located in the Imperial Valley, a narrow strip of desert land near the California and Arizona border that extended from the southern edge of the Salton Sea all the way down to El Centro. Originally a desert wasteland of trailers and weekend fun-seekers on ATV’s, the area had grown into a full-blown, if less well-to-do, suburb of El Centro. Middle class families could find affordable housing if they didn’t mind the heat and the original inhabitants, who didn’t look fondly upon those looking to recreate suburbia in the California desert.

Lasko drove. It took us about two hours to make the drive. We didn’t talk much, the radio filling the silence. I half-listened to the sports channel as I gazed out the window at the changing landscape, from city to agriculture to desert. I let my thoughts drift back to Lauren and Elizabeth and I wondered how they were getting along that morning. If Elizabeth had read my text. And I wondered exactly what we were going to find in Brawley.

Strip malls popped up on the side of road as we left the barren desert area and came into the city. Pick-up trucks were the favored choice of transportation on the dusty roads and people drove slowly, aimlessly, as if they had nowhere to go. Fast food joints, gas stations, check cashers and liquor stores dominated the retail stores I saw and no one looked happy to be there.

“You know they spell it wrong?” Lasko said, glancing at me. We were stopped at a red light.

“Who spells what wrong?”

“Brawley. The guy who donated a bunch of the land, his last name was Braly,” he explained. “City planners wanted to name it after him, to thank him. But he refused to let them use his name.” He smiled. “So they just added a couple letters and basically used it, anyway.”

I shook my head. “That’s funny. And weird.”

Lasko nodded in agreement. “The desert is full of funny and weird.”

He punched an address into the GPS on the dash and it routed us out to the east of town, through several newer sub-divisions of homes and away from the center of the city. The further east we went, the more rugged everything got—the stores, the homes, even the road itself—and it felt like we were heading back into the desert. Lasko guided the truck into a cul-de-sac of two single-story, stucco homes that looked like they might’ve been the first two homes ever constructed in Brawley. The one to our left had boarded-up windows, a screen door that hung crooked from one hinge and notices taped to the front door. Its partner on the other side of the cul-de-sac didn’t have paper tacked on the front door and there was no screen door to hide the battered entryway. The windows weren’t boarded up, but the curtains were drawn from the inside. The front yard was a mess of gravel and weeds and an old motorcycle lay on its side in the heavily cracked driveway.

Lasko nodded toward the one that wasn’t boarded up. “That’s it.”

“We need to be worried about knocking on his door?” I asked.

“Probably,” he said with a short laugh. “He’s a piece of shit, by every account.”

I opened the car door. “Great.”

The air was warm, almost humid, thick with desert heat. The breeze kicked up and an old, fast food bag drifted through the cul-de-sac. Our feet crunched on the gravel covered asphalt as we crossed the street and went up the walk to the door. A television blared from inside.

“Hang back and cover,” I said to Lasko. “I’ll knock.”

Lasko nodded and shifted to the opposite side of the walk, just outside of view from anyone who might open the door.

I knocked twice on the door and took a step back.

The volume died inside and footsteps shuffled behind the door for a moment before it opened.

A guy in an Oakland Raiders T-shirt and long denim shorts squinted at me. He was taller than me, well built, maybe a little younger. His hair was buzzed short, but there was a scar on his forehead that gave the buzz a weird part just left of center. Almond-shaped eyes that almost looked like they were of Asian descent. A short, fat nose. Skin the color of coffee with too much creamer in it.

“What?” he asked

“Are you Mosaic Farvar?” I asked.

He leaned against the doorframe, more amused than bothered. “Yeah. Who the fuck are you?”

“My name’s Joe,” I said, then pointed my thumb over my shoulder. “This is Paul. We wanna talk to you about a girl that went missing a few years ago.”

He lifted his fingers to his mouth. They were covered in what looked like barbecue sauce and he sucked hard on the index finger, examined the now clean finger, then looked at me. “I don’t know anything about no missing girl.”

“We’d still like to talk to you.”

He sucked on the pinky finger and laughed as he did it. “Man, I don’t have to talk to no cops.”

“I’m not a cop,” I said.

He squinted harder at me. “You’re something.” He lifted his chin in Lasko’s direction. “So’s he. You both stink like cops.”

“Used to be,” I said. “I’m not anymore.”

He nodded, like he was expecting that answer. “Can’t wash the stink off of ya, even if you’re telling the truth.”

“You don’t like cops?” I asked.