WE TURNED AS ONE.

The waitress was staring at us from among the tables, face white, lips geranium-red. Like many large animals, she could move fast when frightened. Slamming down her tray, she bolted for a door to the right of the bar.

Ollie, Ryan, and I shot after her.

The door opened onto an alley. When I came through it, the woman was doubled over and gasping from her short sprint, and bad cop/good cop roles had already been chosen. Ollie held one plump arm. Ryan had a reassuring palm on her back.

Rain was falling in earnest now, drumming the Dumpsters and the cases of empty beer bottles stacked beside them. A soggy plastic bag was moving with the wind against the back of the building, puffing up then flattening against the wet brick.

We waited for the woman to catch her breath. In the salmon glow of a streetlight, her flesh looked pale and soft with fast-food fat. Black underwear bunched out from the waistband of her overstuffed jeans.

Finally, the woman straightened. Still breathing hard, she dug Marlboros from a back pocket, shook the pack, and pulled a cigarette free with her lips.

Ryan withdrew his hand. “You all right?”

Slipping matches from the cellophane, the woman cupped her fingers, lit up, and drew smoke into her lungs, all the while keeping her eyes down.

“Why the rabbit act, sunshine?” Bad-cop Ollie. “You got something to hide? Something we should know about?”

The woman exhaled, creating a silvery cone beneath each nostril.

“I’m talking to you.”

The cigarette tip flared again, bathing the clown face in a soft orange glow.

“You got a hearing disorder?”

The woman exhaled as before, then, eyes still averted, tossed the match.

“That’s it.” Ollie yanked cuffs from his belt.

Good cop raised a “hold it” palm toward bad cop.

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Phoenix.” Barely audible.

“May I ask your first name?”

“Phoenix Miller. Everyone just knows me by Phoenix.”

“One of my favorite towns.”

“Yeah. I heard Arizona’s pretty.”

“I’m Detective Ryan. My gruff friend here is Sergeant Hasty.”

Phoenix flicked her Marlboro with a ragged thumbnail. The ash dropped and dissolved in the oil-iridescent puddle at our feet.

“We’d like to ask you a couple of questions, Phoenix.”

“About what?”

“A gentleman at the bar says he saw Annaliese Ruben with you last night.”

“Shelby Hoch ain’t no gentleman. He’s a foulmouthed slug.”

“Thanks for the insightful character analysis.” Ollie, Prince of Sarcasm. “Annaliese Ruben?”

“Why do you want her?”

“I’m her dentist, and I’m worried she’s not flossing her teeth.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Hoch says he saw the two of you at a motel. What hot-sheet palace would that be, sweetheart?”

Phoenix studied the Marlboro as if it might provide guidance. It trembled in her fingers.

“Your girlfriend still there?”

“How would I know?”

“Birds of a feather.”

“I’m out of the life.”

“Right.” Ollie snorted. “You quit rolling down your panties for twenty bucks and some flake.”

The lipsticked mouth opened, but nothing came out. In the surreal light, it looked like a round dark hole.

“We’re not interested in your personal life,” Ryan said. “We want to find Ruben.”

“She in trouble?” For the first time, Phoenix allowed her eyes to make contact with those of another.

“We want to help her.” Ryan held her gaze as he sidestepped the question.

“She’s just a dumb kid.”

“Selling poontang out of Motel Sleaze.” Ollie.

“I’m telling you. It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like?”

“I clean. They comp me a room.” As she spoke, Phoenix kept looking to Ryan for reassurance.

“You live at the motel?”

She nodded.

“Which one?”

“The Paradise Resort.”

“Hundred and Eleventh Street?” Ollie asked.

“You won’t mess me up, will you? I need that room.” Phoenix’s eyes bounced from Ryan to Ollie and back. “It’s a good gig.”

“Is Ruben still there?” Ryan asked.

“Better not be. I told her she could only stay one night.”

“Because of the dog?” The question was out before I knew it was forming. Was I obsessed?

The mascara-laden eyes shifted to me. “Mr. Kalasnik don’t allow no pets. He’s the owner. Who are you?”

“How did Ruben find you?” Ryan asked.

“Everyone’s hip that I work at the Cowboy.”

“Why you?”

“The kid don’t have a whole lot of options.”

“Is there anyone else Annaliese might contact?” Ryan asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Does she have family in Edmonton?”

“I’m pretty sure she’s not from here.”

“From where?” Ollie.

“I don’t know.”

“When did she first come to Edmonton?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m hearing that a lot.”

“We didn’t talk about her past.”

“But you were going to turn her life around.”

“I never said that.”

“You and Foxy make quite a tag team.” Bad cop was doing his best to provoke, hoping for an outburst that might be revealing. “Saint Susan and Saint Phoenix.”

“God knows I ain’t no saint. But I’ve been around a long time. Seen it again and again.” Phoenix wagged her head slowly. “I’ve had a belly full of little girls should be worrying about algebra and zits; instead, they’re off the bus and straight into the life.”

I knew exactly what she meant. Every day teens from Spartanburg, St-Jovite, or Sacramento head to Charlotte, Montreal, or L.A. to be models or rock stars or to escape abuse or boredom or poverty back home. Every day pimps cruise the bus and train stations, watching for backpacks and hopeful faces. Like the predators they are, these animals swoop in, offering a photo shoot, a party, a meal at Taco Bell.

Most of these kids end up junkies and whores, their Hollywood dreams becoming hellish realities of dealers and daily fixes and paddy wagons and pimps. The unluckiest arrive toes-up at the morgue.

Every time I see one of these children, I go numb with anger. But I have come to understand. Though I despise the human destruction, the carnage, I am powerless to stop it. Nevertheless, I care. I feel grief and always will.

I refocused on Phoenix.

“—three years go by. I figure Annaliese either got herself killed by one of these women-hating sickos, or else she got out.” Phoenix picked tobacco from her tongue and flicked it. “Two days ago she shows up looking like a train wreck, asking for a place to crash. Leaving her on the street was like throwing raw meat to wolves. If taking her in’s a crime, arrest me.”

“Is she still at the Paradise Resort?”

Phoenix shrugged.

“Annaliese needs more help than you can provide.” Ryan brought sincere to a whole new level.

“My shift don’t end until two. I gotta have those tips.”

Ryan looked at Ollie, who dipped his chin.

“We only need permission to enter your room,” Ryan said.

“You won’t take nothing?”

“Of course not.”

“Mr. Kalasnik don’t like no kind of fuss.”

“He’ll never know we were there.”

A car horn sounded. Another honked back. Down the alley, the plastic bag broke free and spiraled upward with a soft snap.

Phoenix made her decision. Unhooking a chain from her belt loop, she detached one key and held it out to Ryan.

“Number fourteen. All the way down on the end. Leave it in the room. I got another.”

“Thank you.” Ryan’s smile was damn near priestly.

“Don’t hurt her.”

The Marlboro hit the wet pavement in a shower of sparks. Phoenix crushed it with the heel of one boot.

For several years Edmonton enjoyed the dubious distinction of having the highest homicide rate of any major Canadian city. In 2010 she slid to number three. Winding through the dim post-midnight streets, I wondered if E-town’s ratings slump had caused her citizenry to question the burg’s official nickname: City of Champions.

En route to the Paradise Resort, we discussed Susan Forex. Or tried to. Mostly the men sniped at each other.

“She’s holding back,” Ryan said.

“Gee. Why would that be?”

“Probably writing her memoirs. Thinks a spoiler might lower the value of the property.”

“She’s covering her ass,” Ollie said.

“But is it that simple?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

Unsure, I thought for a moment. Didn’t help. “Susan Forex and Phoenix Miller both tried to protect Annaliese Ruben,” I said.

“Must admire her mothering skills.” Ryan’s tone was acid.

“Even hookers hate baby killers.” Ollie’s way of agreeing.

“So why help her?” I asked.

No one had an answer to that.

“Can you really get a search warrant for Forex’s house?” I asked Ollie.

He shook his head. “Slim chance. I’d have to convince a judge that I think Ruben is there, that she’s the subject of a felony investigation in Quebec, that she’s on the run, and that we don’t have time to get an arrest warrant from Quebec.”

Phoenix Miller’s home sweet home was a two-story L-shaped affair with outdoor walkways accessing maybe thirty rooms. An enormous sign proclaimed Paradise Resort Motel in mile-high letters. A flashing arrow pointed would-be guests to a covered portico. Below it, the office door was flanked by planters luxuriant with dead vegetation.

Clearly, the place offered neither of the delights promised by its name. Total Dump would have been a more appropriate moniker. Perhaps Last Resort.

A few cars and pickups occupied a swath of concrete fronting the building. Off to the left, beyond them, were several campers and an eighteen-wheeler.

Most motels, you’d hesitate before staging a stealth strike at one in the morning. The Paradise Resort was not one of them. Office dark. No security. Not a soul in sight.

We fell silent as Ollie cruised the L. Room fourteen was at the end of the arm tangential to 111th, its entrance obscured by an iron and concrete staircase shooting to the upper level. No vehicle waited out front or at the adjacent unit.

Ollie cut the headlights, pulled into the slot facing room thirteen, and killed the engine. We got out and quietly closed our doors.

Music floated from a Mexican restaurant across a small service road fifty yards beyond the motel. Traffic whooshed in a steady stream over on Highway 16.

We approached Phoenix Miller’s room in single file. Ollie positioned himself to one side of the door. Ryan took the other, gesturing me behind him with one hand.

I noted no yellow glow beneath the door or rimming the drapes, no flickering blue radiance from a TV.

Ollie knuckle-rapped to announce our presence.

No answer.

He knocked again.

Not a sound.

He pounded with the heel of one hand.

Nothing but mariachis and the whoosh of cars and trucks.

Ryan stepped forward and inserted the key.