"Where is she?" Miles shoved a door open and the room froze. "You don't get to shout in my place," Ace said, stepping forward with one hand on his holster. "Tell me." Miles didn't ask again. A skinny thug on a folding chair clacked his gum. "We already told you. We don't know—" "You told who?" Miles took two steps and snapped his fingers. The thug flinched like someone had slapped him. "I told Ruben's boys, okay? I told them she was a problem. They said they'd handle it." The thug's eyes were pinpricks. "Who from Ruben?" Miles leaned so close the man could taste his breath. "Marco. Marco Gavotti. He was at Mariner last week. He said they'd send her to a 'house' to make her forget." The man swallowed. "I swear." "Which house?" Miles pushed him until the chair tipped. Instruments clattered on concrete. Ace watched, face unreadable. "We already checked two safe houses," he said. "Both empty. Marco's clean." "Marco's never clean." Miles grabbed the man's collar and slammed him back into the metal locker. The room sang with the noise. "Okay, okay!" the thug shouted. "They brought her to the docks. The Blackwater side. Night shift. They threw her in the lake." Ace's hand tightened on his cigarette. "Do you know which pier?" The thug's mouth quivered. "Pier K-7. Two men. A wet truck. I saw the tailgate. I didn’t see a face