ARROGANT SHOW-OFF.

That was how Abby mentally classified Luke Murphy. PIs often interacted with police, so it was no surprise she knew the name. But this guy did more than interact with the police. He was a local media celebrity. Two months ago he’d confronted a man believed to be trafficking in young runaway girls, forcing them into prostitution, and become a national sensation when a home video of the incident went viral on the Internet. Murphy claimed he had nothing to do with the filming —that he was only concerned about the girls, and missing and runaway teens were his investigative specialty.

Abby had seen the YouTube video of the altercation when she was at the academy for some training updates. Surprisingly enough, it was shown as part of an information piece on human trafficking in the city. The thug and his two bodyguards were seen advancing on Murphy in a threatening manner. Murphy incapacitated the two bodyguards without any trouble. The ringleader responded by pulling a handgun from his pocket. Murphy’s masterful gun takeaway move earned him applause from a roomful of cops. As for the rest of the smackdown . . . well, Murphy was obviously proficient at martial arts.

The video showed the PI had acted in self-defense, and it rocketed him to cult hero status because of the way he’d handled himself in the face of three attackers, one of them armed. The suspect and his bodyguards were eventually arrested and charged with sex trafficking and a host of other crimes.

All the interviews Murphy had given afterward Abby interpreted as the worst kind of showboating. She wasn’t about to let him turn her homicide into a media piece to publicize his business.

Murphy stood on the porch, facing the street. He was tall —at least a few inches taller than her five-ten —trim and fit, wearing tan cargo pants and a dark-blue Nike T-shirt. Well-defined biceps strained the short shirtsleeves.

She cleared her throat and he turned. His eyes made a bigger impression on her than the biceps. They were a kind of hazel brown with gold flecks in them, and in spite of the early hour they were sharp and alert. The video image of a braggadocio’s vigilante vanished as she took in the military posture and poise of a man who looked adept, ready for anything, and dangerous if you were on the wrong side.

Abby doubted Murphy missed much, and it surprised her that a spark of visceral attraction flared. She doused it quickly, conjuring up an image of Ethan and struggling not to feel guilty. The last thing Abby expected was to be attracted to another man, and that it was this man made it all the more disturbing.

“I’m Detective Hart. Thank you for coming back, Mr. Murphy.” Something flickered in his eyes when she said her name —recognition, maybe. She didn’t know him, but just as she’d read about him in the paper, he’d probably read about her.

His handshake was firm, his hand rough and calloused. “Sorry I called too late to help the resident.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “I know you have my contact information, but here’s my card.”

Abby glanced at the card. It read, On the Mark Investigations, Luke Murphy, Private Investigator. It was masculine in design with bold colors and surprised her with the word shamus embossed at the bottom. She knew of no one besides herself who ever used that term. It was near and dear to her because of the old detective novels she loved. Mickey Spillane, Rex Stout, and Raymond Chandler had immortalized the term. She squashed the curiosity that begged her to ask about it.

The murder, Abby thought as she looked into those sharp, clear eyes. Back to the murder.

“Tell me what you saw.”

He blew out a breath. “I’m actually looking for someone.” He handed Abby a sheet of paper, a standard “Have you seen” flyer with a picture of a smiling blonde girl and text explaining why she was considered missing.

“I got a tip my runaway was seen in the neighborhood. I’ve walked the area for the last two nights, hoping to see her or get more info. I think people down here are starting to see me as a regular.”

He pointed to the alley side of the small bungalow. “I saw a kid come out that window, and it looked wrong. I yelled; he ran. I started after him, but my partner tripped and went down. Turns out she broke her ankle. I had to stop and call medics.” He paused, rubbing his hands together, and Abby indicated he could continue.

“Medics took her to Memorial. It was a bad break.”

“If I need to, I’ll contact her later. What happened next?”

“While the medics were on the way, I knocked —” he pointed to the victim’s doorway —“and no one answered. Neighbors on either side don’t speak English, so I called 911 again. Officers arrived quickly, and they tried to pick up the kid’s trail with no luck. Officer Woods said he knew the lady who lives here and that something was wrong because she didn’t answer the door. He forced entry into the house and . . . well, you know the rest.”

Those eyes of his washed over her, and Abby saw pity, compassion, and a warmth that rattled her for a moment. For something to do, she brought a casual hand up to brush away a strand of hair that had escaped the clip.

“Did you get a good look at the kid? You think he was young?”

Murphy nodded. “His build made me think he was young. With the shadow on the side of the house, I’m afraid I didn’t see much of his face. But he was small. I work with teens, and by his size I would judge him to be about fifteen or sixteen.”

“Sure it’s a he?”

“Yeah, the way he cut and run —I’ve never seen a girl who could move that fast.” He gestured toward the telephone pole at the mouth of the alley. “Leslie tripped over the guide wire there and went down hard. I couldn’t leave her and keep running.”

Abby considered this for a moment, ignoring the rise she felt with his words. I know girls who can move quite fast.

“How close were you to the individual?”

Murphy took a few steps toward the corner of the porch and pointed to the sidewalk. “Leslie and I were about there.” He indicated a distance of about thirty feet. “I started running toward him and was in the alley gaining when Leslie went down.”

“Did he have anything in his hands?”

“I saw a backpack in his left hand. And I think he had a glove on.” Murphy closed his eyes and frowned as if trying to remember. “It happened so fast, but the movement of the pack made me look at his hand, and I think he had a black glove on.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

Hunching his shoulders, he said, “I might. He looked my way when I yelled but then turned away quickly. I thought at the least he was another runaway, and at worst he was a burglar. I never considered someone had been murdered.”

“No, that’s not a consideration anyone would make,” Abby said evenly. “By the way, who gave you the tip?”

“Excuse me?”

“The tip about your runaway.”

“Oh, a kid I know from martial arts. He works the night shift at the twenty-four-hour food mart in the truck stop.” Murphy pointed back toward Pacific Coast Highway. “He was pretty sure he saw her but couldn’t follow her to be certain.”

Abby handed him her card. “Thank you, Mr. Murphy, for calling this in. Call me if you remember anything else, and if I need to talk to you, is this the best number to reach you, the one on your card?” The card that says shamus.

“Yes, ma’am, my cell phone is my work number, but I also added my home number to the back.”

Normally ma’am bugged her because it could be patronizing, but when the term slid off Murphy’s lips, it was charged with respect. Abby’s opinion of the man began to soften. “Thanks. Do you want this flyer back?”

He shook his head. “Keep it. If you come across her, I’d appreciate a call. Her mother is worried sick.” He reached the bottom porch step, stopped, and looked back. “I’m making a guest appearance on Good Morning Long Beach in a few hours. Do you want me to tell this story and ask for help finding the burglar?”

“What?” Abby stared, as exactly what he’d said sank in. “Absolutely not. This is a police investigation, not a platform to build your business.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Some publicity might —”

“I don’t want that kind of publicity,” Abby said through clenched teeth. “Next of kin has not yet been notified. Would you like them to find out about the death of a loved one through you, on TV?”

For his part, Murphy stepped back. Abby hoped he was suitably shamed. I hate show-offs.

“Sorry; didn’t quite think that through.” He gave a cavalier tip of his head. “Thank you, Detective Hart. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need my help.”

He stepped down and walked across the yard to the sidewalk, then made his way to a pickup truck parked down the street.

At the shock of his parting statement, Abby felt her jaw drop. His help? Not likely. His strong, sure stride across the yard brought one word to Abby’s mind: cocky. He probably would have caught the killer if someone were filming.

When she realized her thoughts were dwelling on the man, she considered what he’d said and seen that concerned her victim. She needed to find next of kin and make notification, the only part of her job she disliked. Blood and guts didn’t shake her, but naked grief often did.