Detective Vachon took the phone out of my hand before I could do anything foolish with it, and set his people to tracing it, though the burn phone went nowhere.
Braddock wasn’t running.
He was laying a trap, baiting me toward him, and Vachon knew it.
In the briefing room he laid a yellowed photograph on the table — thirty years old.
My mother, young, standing outside a defunct pharmaceutical plant near Tucson.
And behind her in the frame, a younger man: Malachi Braddock, who had been the plant’s warehouse and inventory manager.