Page 57 of The Bone Hacker

“So is mine,chica.And I have two DOAs waiting at the morgue.”

Several seconds passed. Then Flores lips drew up on one side.

“You know where she lives?”

“I do.” Sort of. Musgrove had once mentioned the name of the complex.

“Okay.” Flores stood. “The lady better have one righteous excuse.”

16

“How did we ever find our own asses before these navigation apps?” Flores asked, not really wanting an answer.

“Rand McNally and gas station attendants,” I said.

“What’s a gas station attendant?”

In one thousand feet, turn right.

I did as the Google Maps lady instructed. Turned again when she directed me two minutes later.

You’ve arrived at your destination. Your destination is on the left.

She was correct. Lettering on a low stone wall saidLeeward Townhomes, the info I’d entered into the program. We were on Walnut Road, a quiet, palm-shaded street unfashionably far from the ocean.

Leeward was technically a gated community. But the wrought-iron barrier stood wide and unlocked.

“Tight security,” Flores snorted.

I entered the property and followed an oyster shell drive to the townhomes. There were eight in all, faded avocado stucco, strung together in a single row. The roof was blue metal, the hurricane shutters a dirty white.

“Which is her pad?” Flores asked, unbuckling her seat belt.

“I don’t know the number.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Look for a bright red Taos.” Already scanning for Musgrove’s VW.

“That it?” Flores indicated a vehicle to our right.

“Good eye.”

I drove to the end of the shells and parked beside Musgrove’s SUV. We both got out.

Rain was falling now, a persistent drip that made me think of a leaky tap. A drip that looked like it might continue until someone called a plumber. Or got a wrench.

While passing the Taos, I peeked through the windshield. Saw the potted plant air freshener jutting from the AC vent.

Noticing Flores lay a hand on the hood, I raised both brows in question.

“Cold,” she said. “This puppy hasn’t gone anywhere for a while.”

We walked a smaller oyster shell path bisecting a dolefully dry patch of grass. Stepped onto a low concrete stoop covered by the same blue material topping the complex.

The front door, a perkier green than the walls, had a brass knocker shaped like a conch. I lifted the corroded shell and tapped three times.

Nothing.

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