Payton was twenty-two; Rennell barely eighteen. Monk already knew the rhythms of Payton's days and nights—constantly changing his meeting places; packing a gun or bringing along his brother for protection; searching for dealers among juveniles effectively immune from law enforcement, indifferent to the fact they might get killed; telling would-be snitches that he'd burn down their mamas' houses if anything in his life went bad; keeping cash under the bed or at some woman's or anywhere but a bank; stealing cars because he couldn't buy one, then beating the rap by saying he'd borrowed the car from some other dude without knowing it was stolen. The elements of a life built around loud music, sex, cars, and guns bought out of the back of a stranger's trunk, spent in a world where bus drivers cruising down Third Street called in robberies in progress, and the corner store sold glass pipes or one cigarette at a time so you could hollow it out to smoke a rock you'd just bought on the street. A life spent living—or dying—in the moment.
At this particular moment, it was Payton Price's bad luck to be home.
* * *
The house was a shabby Victorian on Shafter Avenue owned by Payton's grandmother. He stood in the doorway, lean, well-muscled, and more handsome than his picture, with seen-it-all eyes which held surprising flecks of green and, in their absolute determination to give nothing, perhaps the faintest hint of fear.
Blocking the door, he looked from Monk to Ainsworth to Monk again. "You got a warrant?" he demanded, hostility etched with disdain.
Caught doing your home chemistry, Monk thought. "We just dropped by to talk."
"What about?"
"The Cambodian girl who washed up in the bay."
A split-second glance at Ainsworth. "Don't know nothing about that," Payton said flatly.
"Then there's no problem with talking to us, is there?"
Payton turned his stare on Monk. "Only problem's my time you'd piss away."
Monk held his gaze. "Then maybe we'll talk to your brother."
This time Monk was certain he saw fear. After a moment, Payton shrugged. "Let's get this over with, man."
"First," Monk answered, "you can tell me where to find Rennell."
* * *
They stuck Payton in a bare room with bare walls in the bowels of Robbery and Homicide, a videocam staring down from one corner and a tape recorder on the laminated table in front of him, the two cops letting him think for a while about the sullen hulk of the brother who waited in the interrogation room next door. Leaning forward on the table, Payton propped his chin on one cupped hand, elaborately bored. But his body was rigid; Monk sensed a perpetual vigilance, perhaps never more than now, though it was hard not to wonder when this man had last enjoyed a dreamless sleep.
Monk slid a photo of Thuy Sen across the table. "Ever seen her?"
Payton made a show of studying her face, his squint a parody of concentration. "Don't know," he said, pausing to gaze back up at Monk. "Pretty much all look alike, don't they?"
Monk summoned a faint smile. "You see that many little Asian girls?"
The glint of irony vanished. "Not saying I saw this one."
Monk sat back, hands clasped behind his head. "I'm only asking," he said amiably, "because we hear she was at your house the day she disappeared."
The incredulous smile this summoned did not change Payton's eyes. "That's bullshit."
Monk appraised him. In a casual tone, Rollie Ainsworth interjected, "That's just what someone said."
"Who?"
Now it was Ainsworth's turn to smile. "Can't say. You know how it is."
"Well, they're fucked up, man."
"Because she wasn't there?" Monk asked. "Or wasn't there that day?"
Payton sat up, folding his arms, glaring straight at Monk. "What would I want with some Asian kid not old enough to bleed?"
That the disclaimer carried sexual overtones only fed Monk's suspicion: at his request, Liz Shelton had suppressed the sexual aspects of Thuy Sen's death. "What would anyone want with a nine-year-old girl? But someone did."
"Not in my house," Payton answered with a trace of arrogance. "Got all the grown-up pussy I need, whenever I need it. For whatever I need."
Monk gave him a slow-building smile. "Good for you, son," he answered in a tone of laconic amusement, and then placed one thick forefinger on the Asian girl's picture. "So this girl was never in your house."
Payton paused briefly before answering with calm conviction, "If she was, man, I sure as hell didn't know about it."
No, Monk thought, you're not stupid. Maybe just smart enough to fuck up. "Any idea where you were last Tuesday afternoon?"
Silent, Payton gazed at the tape spinning on the table between them. "If I'd known it was so important," he said after a time, "maybe I'd have noticed."
"We know you're a busy man," Ainsworth said in his most pleasant voice. "But please do take your time."
Payton's face went blank again. "Don't have that much time."
"We're going to give you some," Monk assured him. "While we visit with your brother."
For whatever reason, Monk sensed, this worried Payton more than what had gone before. "Rennell and me got to go," their quarry insisted.
"We'll try to keep that in mind," Monk said. He did not wait for an answer.
* * *
Arms resting on the table, Rennell Price made the room seem smaller. His face was fleshy, his features flat and indistinct, as though nothing was quite in focus. There was a gap between his two front teeth, both stained a dull yellow, one edged with a bright gold crown. Unlike his brother, he stared at the girl's photograph with a stony blankness.
"Remember her?" Monk asked.
The silence stretched with no sign of an answer; again, unlike Payton, Rennell seemed indifferent to the impression he made on Monk and Ainsworth, or even to their presence. "Yeah," he finally said. "I think maybe I seen her."
Monk reined in his surprise. "Where?"
The same pause occurred, Monk was noting, before each answer—silence did not seem to trouble Rennell Price. "Maybe at a store."
"What store?"
Silence.
"You don't remember?"
Lazily, the big man shook his head. Though he no longer stared at the picture, he did not look up at Monk.
More sharply, Ainsworth asked, "She ever at your house?"
This time his silence was followed by a single stubborn word. "No."
You, Monk decided, are the weak link. He could almost smell Payton's fear through the wall between them.
Learning forward, Monk spoke quietly. "Because someone says you took her inside your house the day she disappeared."
For the first time the dead zone which was Rennell Price's eyes showed defensiveness and a veiled hostility. "No way."
"What about last Tuesday, Rennell?"
"No."
This time the monosyllable had come quickly, as did Monk's next question. "Where were you last Tuesday?"
The big man shrugged, indifferent once more. "Most days I sleep."
That much Monk believed. "Were you sleeping last Tuesday afternoon?"
"Probly." Rennell said this with a lassitude which seemed to have seeped into his bone and brain, bespeaking days that were endlessly the same. To Monk, he seemed so divorced from humanity as to be beyond reach.
This same thought seemed to have struck Ainsworth. With a quiet, lascivious undertone, he inquired, "When you saw her at the store, Rennell, did you think that she was pretty?"
This time Rennell did not move or speak.
"Her name was Thuy Sen," Monk said in an even tone. "Is there anything else you can tell us about her?"
To Monk's surprise, Rennell Price gazed up at him, though his face held no emotion. Then, very softly, he answered, "I didn't do that little girl."