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Didn’t you listen to what I told you? When you go into her office, stick to business. Say nothing more, nothing less. In and out quick.”
    “The meeting was quick.”
    “Liar. You were in there for over half an hour. Debriefings for idiot cases never take more than ten, fifteen minutes. You made small talk. You got personal. ”
    Koontz spat out the word as if it were a communicable disease. Mike didn’t comment. He’d learned long ago that responding to Rusty’s tirades just added fuel to the fire. It was easier to let him burn out on his own.
    “Mike! I was there the first time, remember? I watched the whole thing unfold like a damn train wreck. I know what I’m talking about.”
    “Look,” Mike said, “Three monikers that start with V. Write them down.”
    Koontz growled at him. Mike ignored the look and grabbed a pen. He didn’t want to talk about Sandra right now. He wanted to work, he wanted to escape from all the confusion a simple thirty-minute meeting could bring. Besides, he had a rule: He never discussed Sandra with Rusty, and he never discussed Rusty with Sandra. Their mutual dislike was their problem, not his.
    “One V-dubb,” Mike read off to his partner, “one Vavoom, and one V-Vex. Vavoom is really Cheryl, so we’ll count her out.”
    Koontz finally looked at the names. “Vavoom, huh? Wanna bet what her occupation is?”
    “She’s fourteen. Maybe not.”
    “Hah. Fourteen is prime age out there. I double my bet that she is.”
    Mike shrugged. Koontz was probably right.
    A long time ago, Mike had figured out that the trick to understanding Rusty was that for him, the world was actually a simple place. There were good people—cops—and bad people—everyone else. Which meant that, despite Sandra’s claims, Rusty was an equal-opportunity cynic. There wasn’t a person he met whom he didn’t assume the worst about, and not a man, woman or child whom he didn’t suspect. If he ever met Sandy’s well-groomed dad, Koontz would assume money laundering. If he ever met Sandy’s pristine mother, Koontz would assume plastic surgery and Valium. That was just his way.
    “Try known associates,” Koontz said.
    “I’m gettin’ there.” Mike typed in the search field and the ancient database whirled. The computer made an unhealthy sound, then coughed up an answer.
    “Criminy,” Koontz said. “We gotta get some new hardware around here.”
    “We did. White Collar grabbed them. Said they needed them more. All good fraud these days is on computer.”
    “Ha, more likely all good computer games. What kind of caseload does WC have these days anyway? I say we wait until dark, then steal the computers back.”
    Mike glanced over at his partner. It was always hard to tell when Koontz was joking.
    “Zero matches found,” he said. “Your turn. On to NCIC.”
    Koontz grudgingly traded places with Mike. Rusty was the most familiar with NCIC and already had the national crime database whirling as Mike rolled the first kink out of his neck.
    “It’s odd that Vee doesn’t even appear as a known moniker,” Koontz grumbled.
    “Unless he doesn’t actually belong to a gang.”
    “The kid is thirteen. You don’t get to be thirteen on the east side without someone jumping you in.”
    “A holdout? Maybe outta respect for his brother.”
    “Do we got a name for the brother?”
    “Nope.”
    “Damn. Dead end here, too.” Koontz pushed back from the computer, frowning harder. “He’s gotta be in the system.”
    Mike agreed. “Known family associations with gangs. Street name, claims of being a straight shooter. You’d think we’d find a record.”
    “Maybe it’s fake. Whole letter’s just a hoax to yank our chains. Someone out there likes toying with the men in blue.”
    “Or maybe Vee’s a new moniker. Vee for vengeance.”
    “Huh. It’s possible. Don’t know why these kids have to make up new names, though. It’s not like anyone in the east side is naming their son Bob