Her birthday was in March. She lived with her mother in a small house. She knew that house was in Arizona, but she couldn't remember the town's name. Her mother's phone had been taken away by Dale.
When Morales asked about the man, June said his name was Dale Rusk.
The sergeant's pen stopped moving.
"Rusk?" she repeated.
June nodded.
"Do you know whether that's his full name?"
"No."
"Did your mother ever mention him?"
June shook her head.
Then she looked at the floor.
"He used to work at a place where Mommy worked."
Morales wrote something down.
"Do you know what place?"
June's lips moved silently as she tried to remember.
"Desert Haven."
The sergeant looked up.
For the first time, I saw unmistakable alarm cross her face.
"What did you say, sweetheart?"
"Desert Haven. Mommy said it was a bad place."
Sergeant Morales slowly capped her pen.
She asked June whether she wanted a break, and the girl nodded.
When Morales stood, I followed her a few steps away from the table.
"What does that name mean?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"Desert Haven Family Services is a private child-welfare contractor," she said finally. "They manage several supervised visitation programs and temporary placements across three counties."
"Is Dale Rusk connected to them?"
"I'm not ready to make that conclusion."
"But you've heard the name."
She looked toward June.
"A few months ago, a woman filed a complaint alleging irregularities in the way Desert Haven handled emergency placements. The complaint went nowhere. Then the woman stopped answering calls."
"Who was she?"
Morales took out her notebook and checked something she'd written.
"Elena Calloway."
The desert seemed to turn colder around me.
"June's mother."
"Possibly."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"I'm not."
"Why wasn't there a missing-child alert?"
"That's what I'm trying to establish."
Her answer was professional, but she sounded angry now. Not at me. At the situation.
She continued in a lower voice.
"Desert Haven has connections with several local agencies. Some of the records are confidential. Some are sealed. If Elena Calloway was involved in an active investigation, the information may have been handled through another department."
"And if somebody inside that department wanted the complaint buried?"
Morales met my eyes.
"Then we have a serious problem."
Outside, I heard Cole calling my name.
He stood near the door with his phone in his hand.
When I joined him, he showed me a message that one of our riders had received from a friend who worked at a gas station farther west.
A black pickup had stopped there about forty minutes earlier.
The driver had asked whether anyone had seen a motorcycle club heading toward Kingman.
He had also asked if a little girl had been traveling with it.
My stomach tightened.
"Who sent this?"
"Ricky's cousin. He works the night shift at the station."
"Was the driver alone?"
"According to him, no. Another vehicle was following."
I looked toward the highway.
The black pickup had disappeared, but it hadn't gone far. Whoever was driving it was trying to learn what we were doing.
I returned to Morales.
"We may have someone watching the diner."
She listened carefully, then contacted the other officers and requested a check of the surrounding roads. The second patrol car left to investigate.
For several minutes, nothing happened.
Then Pike came back inside.
He walked straight toward Morales, his face pale and his jaw clenched.
"Sergeant, I need to speak with you outside."
Morales didn't move.
"Whatever you have to say, you can say here."
Pike glanced at June.
"It's not appropriate to discuss police business in front of a child."
"Then step over there. I'll join you when I'm ready."
He hesitated.
I watched him closely.
There was sweat along his hairline despite the air conditioning. His right hand kept brushing the radio at his shoulder, and every few seconds he looked toward the windows.
He was frightened, too.
But his fear wasn't the same as June's.
June feared what would happen to her.
Pike feared what might happen to him.
He stepped away, pretending to study his phone.
Morales leaned toward me.
"Can I ask you a question, Mr. Rourke?"
"Of course."
"How many of your riders are here?"
"One hundred and eighty-seven, including me. A few more are catching up farther down the highway."
"Can I ask them to remain nearby?"
"You can ask. I expect they'll agree."
She looked almost relieved.
Then she glanced toward June.
"We need to get her to a safe location. Somewhere away from this diner, but not far enough that we lose contact with witnesses."
I understood what she meant.
She didn't trust every person who might receive the call if she used the normal channels.
Neither did I.
"There's a small community center about six miles east," I said. "One of our members helps maintain it. The place has rooms, a kitchen, and a fenced parking area."
"Is it open?"
"For our ride coordinator, technically. He arranged for us to stop there tomorrow."
Morales considered it.
"We'll have to coordinate with child protective services."
"Of course."
"And I'm arranging for a state investigator. Until then, the girl stays with us under an appropriate emergency safety plan. No one is taking her anywhere without my authorization."
That was the first sentence anyone in uniform had spoken that afternoon that gave me confidence.
"Good," I said.
Morales turned toward the counter.
"Mr. Mercer?"
Cole approached.
"I need you to help Mr. Rourke coordinate the riders. I don't want a convoy of nearly two hundred motorcycles following a patrol car down the highway. We'll keep the child in one vehicle and have a small number of riders escort us. The rest can leave in their scheduled groups, provided we know where they're going."