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or alimony, and what guy with his psychological makeup wants to bring his twelve-year-old daughter back to his spot, have her ragging on him from dawn to dusk?”
    Detective Zebrowski shrugged. “You think d-bags like Lonnie Cullen think things through before they do them? If they did, theywouldn’t know the number on their orange jumpsuits better than their own birthdays. He did it because he’s a criminal and he’s an idiot and he has less impulse control than a flea at a livestock auction.”
    “And the boyfriend angle?”
    “Looking into it.”
    Two nights ago Dontelle said to Patrick, “But you don’t believe it?”
    Patrick shrugged. “Deadbeat dads dodge their kids, they don’t kidnap ’em, not the ones who’ve been out of the picture as long as Lonnie has. As for the boyfriend theory, she’s, what, shacked up with him for three days, they never go out to grab a bite, call a friend?”
    “All I know,” Dontelle said, “is she seemed like a sweet kid. Not one of them typical project girls who’s always frontin’, talkin’ shit. She was quiet but . . . considerate, you know?”
    Patrick took another drink of beer. “No. Tell me.”
    “Well, you get a job like mine, you got to do a probation period—ninety days during which they can shitcan you without cause. After that, you with the city, man, gotta fuck up huge and be named Bin Laden for the city be able to get rid of your ass. I hit my ninety a couple weeks ago and not only did Chiffon congratulate me, she gave me a cupcake.”
    “No shit?” Patrick smiled.
    “Store bought,” Dontelle said, “but still. How sweet is that?”
    “Pretty sweet.” Patrick nodded.
    “You’ll see in about twelve years with your kid, they ain’t too into thinking about others at that age. It’s all about what’s going on up here”—he tapped his head—“and down there”—he pointed at his groin.
    They drank in silence for a minute.
    “Nothing else you remember about that day? Nothing out of the ordinary?”
    He shook his head. “Just a day like any other—‘See you tomorrow, Chiffon,’ and she say, ‘See you tomorrow, Dontelle.’ And off she walk.”
    Patrick thanked him and paid for the drinks. He was scooping his change off the bar when he said, “You had a probationary period?”
    Dontelle nodded. “Yeah, it’s standard.”
    “No, I know, but I guess I was wondering why you started so late in the school year. I mean, it’s May. Means you started in, what, February?”
    Another nod. “End of January, yeah.”
    “What’d you do before that?”
    “Drove a tour bus. Drove from here to Florida, here to Montreal, here to P-Town, all depended on the season. Hours were killing me. Shit, the road was killing me. This job opened up, I jumped.”
    “Why’d it open up?”
    “Paisley got a duey.”
    “Paisley?”
    “Guy I replaced. Other drivers told me he was a piece of work, man. Show up with forty kids in his charge, eyes all glassy. Even the union wouldn’t protect him after the last time. Drove the bus off the side of the American Legion Highway, right?” Dontelle was laughing in disbelief. “Damn near tipped it. Gets out to take a piss. This is at six thirty in the ante meridiem, feel me? He gets back in, tries to pull back off the shoulder, but now the bus does tip. That’s Lawsuit City there, man. Forty times over.”
    “Paisley,” Patrick said.
    “Edward Paisley,” Dontelle said, “like the ties.”

    PAISLEY LIVED ON WYMAN STREET in a gray row house with fading white trim. There was a front porch with an old couch on it. Bosch drove by the place and then circled the block and went by again before finding a parking space at the curb a half block away. By adjusting his side-view mirror he had a bead on the front door and porch. He liked doing one-man surveillances this way. If somebody was looking for a watcher they usually checked windshields. Parking with his back to his target made him harder to see. Edward Paisley may