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“Did you know your file’s flagged?” he asked.

Logan didn’t know he had a file, at least not one that could be accessed by the LAPD. He remained silent.

“Says if your name comes up in connection with any unlawful activities, a Special Agent James Hall is supposed to be contacted. Are you familiar with him?”

Logan was pretty sure his blank expression cracked just a little bit. He was familiar with Special Agent Hall all right, but it had been a while since he’d heard the name. Again, he said nothing.

“Naturally, I had to give him a call. He says you’re a sneaky bastard. Says the only reason you weren’t brought up on manslaughter charges was because they were unable to locate some key evidence. I asked him if he thought you’d be capable of burning down a house. Know what he said?”

Logan continued to stare at the detective.

“He said, yes, you’d be capable, but that you’d need a really good reason to do it. And that you wouldn’t be so sloppy as to return to check things out the next morning.”

That was a surprise. Special Agent Hall was far from Logan’s favorite person on the planet, and Logan was far from his. Hall had been the man in charge of the investigation after accusations that Logan might have been responsible for Carl’s death began circulating. Hall had made it very clear he thought that Logan was guilty, to hell with the fact there was no evidence and, therefore, never even a trial. For the first six months after Logan had begun his self-imposed exile in Cambria, Hall would call each week to let him know he was still out there, and to remind Logan that if he made a mistake, Hall would be all over him.

Logan had been sure the agent had forgotten him by now. Apparently not.

But Hall saying something that might make the police believe Logan? Definitely a surprise.

Detective Baker leafed through the papers, then looked at Logan again. “One of my colleagues also had a conversation with your friend Mr. Myat. He showed up with a man who says he’s your father about twenty minutes ago. Lucky for you, he confirmed what you told me. But that still doesn’t give you a solid alibi for around the time the fire started. And if you think for one moment I’m going to blindly believe what some FBI agent says about you, you’re mistaken.”

The detective’s frustration was showing. At first he must have thought he’d hit the jackpot, and had reeled in the arsonist without having to do any legwork. But then it turned out that Logan wasn’t as golden a suspect as he had at the start. A few seconds later the detective said, “I need you to stay in town until I tell you it’s all right to leave.”

Fifteen minutes later, Logan walked into the lobby, and found his father pacing back and forth near the front desk. The moment Harp saw his son he rushed over.

“You all right?” he asked as if Logan had been locked up in a KGB torture cell for the past month.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Logan looked around. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Outside. Tooney wanted some air.”

“Let’s go, then. I need to talk to both of you.”

Instead of moving, his dad stared at Logan’s face. “Did they hurt you?”

“No, of course not.”

“But…” He reached up and pointed at Logan’s cheek. “What’s that?”

Having no idea what he was talking about, Logan raised his hand and touched the spot. It was rough, and stung slightly when his finger brushed against it. “Just a scrape, Dad.”

“They did this to you?”

“Technically,” Logan said, remembering being knocked to the ground on the boardwalk. “But it wasn’t on purpose.”

“Wasn’t on purpose? When we get home, the first call we make is to Lloyd Falon.” Lloyd was his father’s lawyer.

“We’re not calling anyone. Now come on.”

13

After retrieving the El Camino, Logan, the members of WAMO, and their auxiliary Marine arm drove over to a café on Main Street in Santa Monica, and found a couple of tables in the back, away from the other guests.

The moment the waitress had taken their orders—coffees all around and fries for Jerry—Logan looked at Tooney, and said, “If you really want me to help, you need to tell me everything. I’ve just lied to the police for you, and nearly went to jail. That man I was running after? We both know who he was. So don’t tell me what happened yesterday’s got nothing to do with your granddaughter.”

Tooney stared at the table, his head bowed. “I am sorry, Logan. I should have never let your father talk me into involving you. It was a mistake. It’s better to just leave things alone.”

“Are you serious? Someone tried to kill you yesterday. And it’s pretty clear you were right about Elyse being missing, too. Those aren’t the kind of things that just go away if you ignore them.”

“You misunderstand me,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t want to do something. I think it may be too late.”

 “You think she might already be dead?” Logan asked, not quite sure what Tooney meant.

“No,” Tooney said quickly, shaking his head. “She is not dead. She would be no use to them dead.”

Logan leaned across the table, and asked in a very low, steady voice, “Do you know who has her?”

Tooney pressed his lips together and looked away.

Harp touched his son’s arm. “Can we…?” He nodded sideways toward the front door.

Logan glared at him, not moving.

“Please,” his father said.

Logan remained motionless for a few more seconds, then pushed himself up, and walked outside.

There was a little patio area in front for customers who wanted to eat al fresco. Currently it was empty, so Logan took a seat at the table farthest from the door. His father exited a moment later, and joined him.

Before Harp could open his mouth, Logan said, “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I do know that Toony’s making a huge mistake. For God’s sake, his granddaughter is missing! If it was your grandchild, you’d do anything you could to find her.” He paused. “We both know how I feel about the FBI, but Tooney needs to call them now. You need to convince him of that.”

His dad looked resigned as he shook his head. “He’ll never call them.”

“Then you need to do it.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I…I promised him.”

“So the hell what? This is a girl’s life we’re talking about.” Logan leaned back. “Dammit, I’ll call them myself, then.”

“You can’t, either.”

“Sure I can.”

“No. I also promised him you wouldn’t.”

“I don’t care. I didn’t promise.” Logan pushed up from his chair.

“Logan, sit back down.”

Logan looked at his father, but remained standing.

Harp sighed. “If the people who have her get even a hint that the FBI, or the police, or any other organization for that matter is looking for them, they will kill her for sure.”

“Do you know what’s going on, Dad? Did he tell you?”

“Most of it.”

“Then tell me.”

“It’s not my place.”

“Then I have no choice.”

Logan pulled out his phone, and punched in the number for information. Once the connection was made, he hit the speaker button so his father could hear how serious he was. The first automated prompt asked him for the city. “Los Angeles.” Then the name. “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Harp pleaded with his eyes for his son to hang up.

The voice gave Logan the number, then asked if he’d like to be connected. “Yes.”