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craft on the stroll. Her delivery was as smooth as polished glass.
    “Whatever,” the husband said and walked away.
    Elisa Brook nodded her thanks but didn’t speak it. Instead she quickly got into what Behr had come for.
    “I’m out of the life. Have been for over a year. It’s apple pies and bullshit now, but it’s better for my daughter and me. Kendra was my homegirl. We were
down
. We had so much fun together—she could be a real wild child. But what happened to her—what happened to some of the other girls—it freaked the crap out of me.”
    “What happened to Kendra? What other girls?” Behr asked.
    “I don’t know. She just went gone. Others too, over the years. Plenty of ’em come and go. Lots of the time they tell you they’re leaving to try L.A. or Miami. Vegas. Other times they just pack up and go. This is different. The feeling started spreading around that girls were getting into cars and never coming back. Jonesy, and guys like Jonesy, were supposed to prevent that kind of thing, but they weren’t a broke-dick bit of good. What was I supposed to do?” She lifted her palms. “So I bailed.”
    “Where can I find him—Jonesy?” Behr asked. “I have a number and I texted him but got no response. And what’s his real name?”
    “He rolls a new number every few weeks. He won’t text you back if he doesn’t recognize your number anyway. His first name is Adam. Adam Jones. He’s got a place on Rural and Sixteenth.”
    “Rural Sherman?” Behr asked. It was one of the worst parts of the city.
    “Yeah, that’s right,” she said, and gave him the house number.
    “Thanks,” Behr said. “Good luck with that pie.”
    She just nodded and closed the door on him.

10
    The streets of Irvington are ghost-town quiet during the middle of the day, save for delivery trucks. UPS, Coca-Cola, U.S. Mail, Frito-Lay, Brown’s Fuel Oil, FedEx. The drivers are the only people he sees. They park in front of stores—small markets, gas stations, Mail Boxes Etc., a Beverage Barn—but there aren’t any people out. Only the Kroger shows signs of life as some housewives push their carts from the store to their cars.
    He rolls along the streets, feeling it start to bubble down there inside of him, the thermal geyser. The thin crust that keeps things in place breaks away inside of him under the force of the building pressure, and the hot lava starts sliding around.
Other
is up and about. He feels his breath coming shallow. An hour passes, and then another.
    Where are you, Cinnamon, where are you?
    Eventually he points the car back toward his office, but he knows it isn’t going to let him rest now. He knows it because he’s felt it like this before. He knows where it will end up. Once the bubbling starts, it’s just a question of where he points it, because it is going to blow …

11
    Jones, Adam, a.k.a. “Jonesy.”
    White male, age 32.
    Height: 6′2″.
    Weight: 290.
    Eyes: black.
    Hair: bald.
    Tattoos: multiple. See attachment.
    Arrests: Assault. Extortion. Resisting arrest. Attempted murder (charge dropped, insufficient evidence). Assault. Larceny. Promoting prostitution. Public intoxication. Possession. Parole violation. Assault.
    Time served: Four years, eight months, three separate terms. Released—overcrowding. Suspended sentence. (No credits for good behavior during time served.)
    There was a booking photo of the man: flat black eyes that radiated hate above a black goatee and mustache ringed around sneering lips. A face a mother had probably slapped.
    Elisa Brook had given Behr the full name, and with it he’d been able to run a full P-check on him. The portrait that had come back was one of what his former brother officers in the Indianapolis Police Department would call a “Radar Delta Bravo,” or Regulation Douche Bag. That was the style in which the man lived as well.
    Behr sat across from a decrepit ranch-type house on Rural and 16th. An ancient Corvair was up on blocks in the stripe of