The whole time, Lucy stood nearby. She tried to radiate friendliness and understanding so he might open up. He was climbing back into the cab when Lucy said, “How much do I owe you?” He stopped, half hanging out the door, looking at the floor of the cab. Lucy put her hand on his arm. “Let me buy you a beer,” she said. He surprised her by nodding.

They sat away from the bar at a small table. She saw Nathan at the bar chatting up a blond girl. Tonight he was wearing black jeans with a black T-shirt and a different pair of combat boots but the same spiked collar.

Across the table from her, Manny took off his gloves. His hands were callused and cut. It was probably an occupational hazard when you worked with metal and steel and horsepower.

“So tell me about your work” was all that Lucy said. The first rule of journalism was to start with open-ended questions. Nothing yes or no.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Usually . . . it’s fine.”

“And what about it isn’t fine?” she said, her voice going up at the end of the sentence to make it a question. The waitress came by, and Lucy ordered two Coronas.

“Just some stuff,” he said, staring at the table.

Lucy sat back and looked at him. He wanted to confess. He wanted to tell her about how he was preying on people. She just needed a way to tell him it was okay without actually saying anything. She needed him to trust her.

“Are you married?” she asked.

“I was, but she cheated on me,” he said. Lucy quickly saw the minefield there and took another path.

“Do you have any kids?” she asked, hoping the question wouldn’t blow up in her face.

“Yeah, two,” he said, still downcast.

“Really?” she said with lots of enthusiasm. She would have to carry all the emotion of the conversation until he took up his part. “How old are they?”

“One is five and the other is seven months,” he said, ever so slightly showing signs of coming back to life.

“Those are such great ages. Are they boys or girls?”

“I got one of both,” he said, almost expressing some interest in the conversation.

“That is fabulous. Do you have pictures?”

He reached into his back pocket and took out a leather wallet slick with grease. He pulled out two pictures, both showing the same tiny girl, who looked about ready to start kindergarten, and a little smiling baby.

“They are beautiful,” Lucy said, looking up at him. He nodded slightly. “He has your eyes.”

Manny smiled a little and asked, “You think so?”

“Absolutely,” she said as their cold beers arrived.

They were out of the conversational woods and headed into more open territory. All she needed to do was ask a few more questions about his family. Maybe a couple about his mom and where he went to high school. Then, maybe, if the time was right, she would ask him again about Gladys.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Saturday Night

Gil stood by himself in front of the whiteboard in the conference room. On it, he had started to write a timeline of Brianna’s adoption. So far, all he had written was Brianna’s birth date—May 5—and the day she disappeared, July 18, two years later. His goal this morning had been to find Brianna’s father so he could prove the blood on David Geisler’s samurai sword belonged to the little girl. Now it was almost 6:00 P.M., and he was no closer to figuring out who her dad was.

He had called Dr. Santiago on the way back to the station to check if Ashley had delivered the baby. He left a message for the doctor, who called him right back, saying, “I am sorry, but you won’t be able to talk to Ashley until after she delivers. She can’t even form a sentence right now . . .” Dr. Santiago didn’t finish the statement. Instead, she said, “Look, I can’t give you any additional patient information, except to say that that Ashley is completely effaced. She should be delivering soon.”

He had to talk to Ashley. It could not be put off any longer. He thought about interviewing her over the phone, between contractions, but whereas that might have been possible yesterday, today they simply had too many blanks for her to fill in. Plus, how do you ask a woman who is giving birth to identify the father of her first baby, a baby who is now dead? There was no proper etiquette for that conversation.