But then didn’t parents always think they knew their kids?
Brian stood at the front door, scanning the room. They shook their heads simultaneously.
“Okay, find the manager, someone senior has to be here on a night like this,” she said. This bar would make thousands of euros tonight. Someone had to make sure the employees didn’t steal too much. In fact—
She looked at the ceiling. Yep, the place had a bubble camera behind the bar, another over the door. She pointed to the cameras and Brian nodded. They pushed to the bar. A couple of kids gave them rough looks, but Brian shook his head and something in the set of his jaw must have warned them off.
The bartenders were less accommodating, avoiding eye contact. If I just keep my head down, I’ll be safe from the oldsters. After a minute Rebecca had waited long enough. “Grab one.”
The next time a bartender walked by Brian locked a hand around his wrist, reeled him close.
“We need the manager,” Rebecca said.
“He’s busy.” The guy tugged his arm but Brian held fast. “Let go.”
“Get him,” Brian said.
“Fine. I’ll text him. His office is upstairs. There’s a door by the bathroom, locked.”
* * *
When the door to the stairs swung open, Rebecca expected a rock star, hollow-cheeked and coke-twitchy. This guy looked more like an accountant, khakis and rimless glasses. He led them upstairs to a white-walled, air-conditioned office. A cabinet stocked with energy drinks sat against one wall. The sounds of the bar were muffled in a way that suggested music-studio-level soundproofing. She didn’t see video screens or laptops, much less a safe. Those must be in the inner office.
“You have problem?” Decent English, not great. The question was directed to Brian. Rebecca answered.
“Kira—our daughter—came here to meet a guy. Now she’s missing.”
“Okay.”
“She’s nineteen. She was by herself.”
“Nineteen, legal to drink in Spain. And other things.”
“The guy’s older.”
“How much?”
Twenty-six wasn’t going to impress him. “Obviously you run a tight ship, but things happen—”
“I don’t understand.”
“Drinks get drugged. Incidents. You have cameras. All we want to do is get a look at the guy. See how they interacted.”
The guy didn’t deny the surveillance. “Maybe she doesn’t want you to know. Why don’t you go downstairs, have a cerveza. See if she comes back.”
Rebecca stared at the guy and he stared back. She felt her temper rising, the fury unexpected. After fifteen years in the bureau, she’d grown used to the power of her badge. Maybe too used to it. The people she talked to might lie to her, but they never disrespected her. “She said she’d be back by midnight.” Close enough to true.
“Then she must be busy.”
“Just take a look,” Brian said. “Please.” His voice cool, collected. His face a mask. Open anger wasn’t his style. During the bad years he’d retreated into himself, gibed at Rebecca so subtly that at times she wondered if she was imagining his feelings. Just tell me what you’re thinking, she’d said more than once.
Now she appreciated his calm.
“Show me her picture.”
Rebecca tilted her phone to him.
“We close at four,” he said. “If I have a chance, I’ll look before then. Give me your numbers.”
* * *
Downstairs Rebecca took one last survey, confirming what she already knew. Kira was gone. The bar seemed actively malign to her now, its excitement cloaking a deeper chaos. A flytrap.
Outside, they collected their licenses from the bouncer. “Not here?”
“No.” Rebecca showed him Kira’s picture. “Remember her?”
“Tall, right? She came early.”
“Did you see her leave?”
“I’m more focused on who’s coming in. Good luck.” He turned to the line.
Rebecca reached for him but Brian tugged her away. “That’s the one place we know she isn’t.”
He was right. They found a quiet doorway down the block.
“The cops”—Rebecca, thinking out loud—“they’ll blow us off.”
“At least until tomorrow.”
* * *
Tomorrow. She couldn’t imagine Kira would be gone tomorrow. In fact, some part of her wanted to believe Kira would beat them back to the apartment. She was nineteen, after all. So very young. Rebecca had made plenty of mistakes at nineteen. The one she regretted most, even twenty-five years later: Sophomore year, getting on a motorcycle after a house party maybe five miles from campus. The guy who owned it lived in the house. They’d talked for a while and then made out for a while. Nothing serious.
When the keg kicked, Rebecca realized she’d said goodbye to all her friends, waved away their protests, It’s fine, see you tomorrow. She had no way home. I’ll take