“This one?” Myron asked, pointing to Kathy’s picture again.

“Yeah. One of his girls.”

Myron and Esperanza exchanged a glance. “You mean there were others?”

“Few. Half dozen, maybe more.”

Myron felt the rage consume again. “Underage girls?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

“You didn’t ask?” Myron asked.

“Do I look like a cop? Look, man, if you’re here to hassle me—”

“He’s not,” Esperanza said. “You can trust him.”

“The fuck I can, Poca. He comes busting in here with a fucking gun, scares the piss out of my model.”

“We need your help,” Esperanza said. “I need your help.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Lucy,” Myron said. “I’m just interested in the girl in the picture.”

Lucy hesitated. “All right,” she said at last. “But back off.”

Myron gave a quick nod of agreement. “Jerry brought this girl to you?”

“Yeah, when I had my other studio a couple blocks away. Like I said, he brought in a few girls over the years. He wanted their photos for all kinds of stuff. Porno mags, smut film stills, that kind of thing. Most were a cut or two above the average hosebag who comes through the door. But he usually keeps the photos under wraps until they’re a little older. Legal age, I guess.”

The rage again. Myron’s hands tightened into fists. “So Jerry asked you about this picture yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he want to know?”

“If I sold any copies recently.”

“Have you?”

Pause. “Yeah. Couple months ago.”

“Who bought them?”

“You think I keep records?”

“A he or a she?”

“A he.”

“Do you remember what he looks like?”

She took out a cigarette, lit it, took a deep puff. “I’m not real good with faces.”

“Anything, Lucy,” Esperanza added. “Young, old, anything you can remember.”

Another puff. Then: “Old. Not ancient, but not a young guy. Might have been my father’s age. And he knew what he was doing.” She looked at Myron. “Not like you. Bernie Worley. Jesus.”

Myron pressed on. “What do you mean, he knew what he was doing?”

“The man paid me top dollar under one condition: I hand over every photo and negative in front of him right now. Smart. He wanted to make sure I didn’t have time to make any extra copies or an extra set of negatives.”

“How much did he pay you?”

“Sixty-five hundred altogether. In cash. Five grand for the photos and negatives. Plus another grand for Jerry’s phone number. Said he wanted to get in touch with the girl personally. Then he gave me another five hundred if I didn’t say anything to Jerry.”

In the background there was yet another bloodcurdling scream. It went ignored. “Would you know the man if you saw him again?” Myron asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t picture him now, but if we met up face to face … who knows?” There was a pounding noise from the darkroom. “Mind if I let Hector out now?”

“We were just leaving,” Myron said. He handed her a card. “If you remember anything else—”

“Yeah, I’ll call.” She looked over to Esperanza. “Don’t be a stranger, Poca.”

Esperanza nodded but said nothing. They were quiet the entire way down. When they stepped into the hot air, surrounded by the night street, she said, “Didn’t mean to shock you in there.”

“Not my business,” he said. “I was a little surprised, that’s all.”

“Lucy is a lesbian. I experimented with it a little. Long time ago.”

“You don’t have to explain,” he said. But he was glad she told him. Myron had no secrets from Esperanza. He didn’t like thinking she had some from him.

They were about to head back to the car when Myron felt the muzzle of a gun against his ribs.

A voice said, “Stay cool, Myron.”

It was the man with the fedora hat from the garage. He reached into Myron’s jacket and took out the 38. A second man, this one with a Gene Shalit–like mustache, grabbed Esperanza and pressed his gun against her temple.

“If Myron moves,” Fedora said to the other man, “blow the bitch’s brains all over the sidewalk.”

The man nodded, half-smiling.

“Come on,” Fedora said, nudging Myron forward with the gun. “Let’s take a little walk.”

Chapter 24

Jessica parked in front of the house Nancy Serat was renting for the semester. It was more a cottage really, located at the end of a dark street about a mile from the campus of Reston University. Even at night Jessica could see the house’s salmon-pink hue, which seemed to clash with the planet earth. The landscape looked like the trees had vomited—the front yard of The Munsters. A faded 118 ACRE STREET was stenciled on the weather-beaten sign. A blue Honda Accord with a Reston University bumper sticker sat in the driveway.

Jessica headed down the broken remnants of what must have once been a cement path. She rang the bell and immediately heard a scurrying sound. Several seconds passed. No one approached the door. She tried again. No scurrying sound this time. No sound at all.

“Nancy?” she called out. “It’s Jessica Culver.”

She hit the bell a few more times, though in a house this small there was not much chance she hadn’t been heard. Unless Nancy was in the shower. A possibility. The lights, she could see through the window shades, were on. The car was in the driveway. Jessica had heard movement.

Nancy had to be home.

Jessica reached out for the knob. Under normal conditions some filter in her mind would probably have stopped her from simply trying to open the door of a virtual stranger (she had only met Nancy once). But these conditions were hardly normal. She took hold of the knob and turned.

Locked.

Now what?

She stood at the door five more minutes ringing the bell. Still nothing. Jessica circled the house, using a distant streetlight and the house’s glow-in-the-dark properties to guide her. She stumbled over a tricycle that looked like something recovered from an archaeological dig. Her feet got tangled in the high grass, the prickly ends tickling her calves. As she circled, Jessica peeked through the small openings in the window shades. She could make out rooms and spotted an occasional piece of furniture or wall hanging, but no people.