They’re next to the coffee maker, which is not where Luke needs to be right now. He’s already had five cups. And after extensive testing, it’s clear that caffeine highs don’t make the waiting game any easier. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Charley.” Henricks fills his mug, then slides the pot back inside the coffee maker. “No one’s seen her for weeks. People think maybe she skipped out on you.”

“People, huh?”

“Look, I notice stuff is all. That’s my job.”

“And skipped out is code for what exactly?”

“Left your sorry ass. I don’t speak in codes, pal.”

“She’s visiting family,” Luke says.

“Family?” Henricks says the word like it’s a slur. His implication is so obvious Luke can feel it in the back of his throat. Does he think she went to Haddock Penitentiary to visit the woman who killed her mother? She’s got some actual family, for Christ’s sake, even if you don’t count Martin Cahill, her grandmother’s former boyfriend, who’s probably the best family she’s ever had.

Henricks is twice Luke’s height, with a flop of brushed-forward blond hair that screams toupee, but he’s about a fourth of Luke’s width, so when Luke fantasizes about shoving the guy off his feet, it’s not hard to imagine him going over backward like his legs have been ripped out from under him.

“Why are we talking about Charley?” Luke asks.

“Well, we were talking about patrols, but you keep looking at your phone so I figured we might as well address the elephant in the room. Not that I’m saying she’s an elephant or anything, but you get my—”

“We need to do patrols together, Henricks.”

“Why? You like shitty music and wear too much cologne.”

“Because we got about five times the nightlife crowd we used to, thanks to all the new business the construction is drawing to town.”

“Which is all good when you get down to it.”

“Sure. It’s also good for drunk and disorderly arrests. Domestic abuse calls. And DUIs. The kinds of calls we shouldn’t be handling alone.”

“Oh, cool your jets. You just don’t know this crowd yet. Come out to the Gold Mine sometime and just hang out, Luke. They’re good people, and they’re spending money hand over fist. The resort. The tunnel. It’s what we’ve dreamed of for years. Why are you acting like it’s a punishment?”

Because I know who’s paying for all of it, and I still don’t know exactly why he’s doing it.

“Be that as it may,” Luke says, “we should still up our patrols. Especially on Friday nights.”

“OK. Well, we would be upping our patrols if you and I did them separately, because then we’d cover more area. That’s how math works.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you, Henricks? But if we don’t patrol together, you usually don’t patrol at all. That’s how you work.”

Pete’s holding his coffee cup close to his chest, as if he’s preparing to hurl its contents in Luke’s face. But his expression’s blank, lifeless. “We have a boss, Luke, and it’s not you.”

No way is he letting Henricks in on the secret of what’s been calling their boss away from the station so much lately. Staying quiet about it means he can’t tell the guy just why Mona Sanchez has repeatedly asked Luke to cover during her absences.

Before he can respond with some misdirection, Henricks goes rigid, staring at something over Luke’s shoulder.

Luke spins.

At the sight of the woman who just walked into the station, his stomach lurches and then he feels as if he’s been struck across the back of the neck. He’s seen her around town, but she looks so different, he’s sure she’s wearing some sort of mask. The swollen cheeks and eyes, the bruised lips—they give her face a rubbery lifelessness that reminds him of the grotesque masks a psychopath named Frederick Pemberton left on statues throughout Southern California a few months before.

But this woman’s very much alive, and she’s shuffling toward the reception desk, where the night dispatcher, who’s so new Luke keeps forgetting her name, is rising out of her seat.

“Jordy . . .” the woman manages, then she grips the edge of the front desk to keep from falling to her knees. And that’s when Luke and Henricks take her arms and guide her through the waist-high gate into the bull pen.

“Jordy . . .” she manages again before they settle her in the nearest empty chair.

And that’s when it connects. She’s the girlfriend of Jordy Clements, the project supervisor for the new tunnel they’re getting ready to blast through the mountains on the west side of town, all thanks to Cole Graydon.

Luke can’t tell if she’s asking for her boyfriend’s help or blaming him for her current condition. She smells of dirt and wild things, and her T-shirt’s got something on it that might be dirt stains, but there are no leaves or twigs in her long, slightly curly hair. It looks like she brushed it. If human fists did this to her face, Luke hates the thought that she felt obligated to stop and pretty herself up before going to the authorities.

He hates most of the thoughts he’s having right now.

The new night dispatcher pushes a plastic cup of water toward her, but she shakes her head, lips trembling, nostrils flaring. “Get Jordy.”