After
a crappy night’s sleep, Nick spent the next morning talking to Sandi Walters’
neighbors. No one had seen Lugino the night she was killed. But Wendy Mayes had
sworn Sandi was picked up at the house that night. Who the hell had the gall to
pick her up from her home and then take her off and kill her? It was possible
that Lugino had been here and the neighbors just hadn’t seen him. But his
Skylark had a loose muffler, and it would be hard for everyone to miss the
noise.
One
neighbor said she’d heard the motorcycle that belonged to the neighbor two
doors down from the Walters. “Justin Rapozo’s the kid’s name,” she explained.
“Runs that thing at all hours.”
“You’re
sure it wasn’t a car?” he asked. A cracked muffler might make Lugino’s car
sound a lot like a motorcycle.
She
shook her head. “I saw it whiz by. Same thing every time. Likes to rev the
engine right at my house. Show off to whatever chicky he’s got on back,” the
woman had said.
The
case should’ve been closed. They had their man. They had his semen, evidence
he’d been with Sandi that night.
But
Nick hadn’t come up with a drop of evidence of motive for James Lugino as the
killer. Sandi had no money, so it wasn’t greed. She was seeing only Lugino, so
it shouldn’t have been a jealous rage. He had a history of drugs, but no
history of violence. Why the hell would he strangle her? Nick just couldn’t get
it to add up.
And
then there was the matter of the one thumbprint they had found on her shoulder.
It wasn’t Lugino’s. It was possible it was the first cop’s. He might have
touched her to see if she was alive. It was a common rookie mistake. Nick had
touched evidence he shouldn’t have on more than one occasion.
Or
maybe the print belonged to someone who had happened by. They were running the
print against the cop’s now. If it wasn’t his, they might never find out whose
it was.
Nick
drove down A Street in Antioch and crossed the railroad tracks, turning down
Railroad Avenue and up to the familiar dive. Alf’s all-night diner. The chipped
off-white paint had streaks of yellow from the rusted gutters that lined the
dilapidated roof. The windows were clouded and streaked after years of kitchen
grease layered on without washing. A faded chalkboard resting against the
inside window displayed specials that never changed. The inconspicuous
appearance of the diner made it a good meeting place, though Nick had never
ordered anything other than coffee. Even the water seemed strangely brown. He
tried not to think about that water in his coffee.
Pulling
his car to the curb to park, Nick carefully avoided the biggest of the
potholes. He looked down at the dash clock. He was right on time. He hoped his
contact didn’t no-show. Guy should’ve learned after last time. Civic duty and
all that.
Nick
took his last clean breath of air and walked inside, wishing he had a filter to
breathe through. A full-bodied black woman in a short dull-yellow gingham dress
pointed him toward the back of the restaurant. “Wherever you want, Sugar.”
Nick
scanned the room for his contact. When he didn’t see him, he made his way to a
back booth under a fan and carefully scanned the table’s surface for residue
from someone’s meal before putting his elbows on it. The waitress brought
coffee and left him alone. He doubted that she remembered him from the last
time, but maybe there was something in his expression that said “only coffee.”
Three
minutes later Dougie Harris came through the door. Deep blue shadows beneath
his eyes, and he was thinner than the last time Nick had seen him. He wore
unhemmed cords that dragged under the heels of a pair of battered Vans. His
button-down was untucked, the cuffs hanging over his thumbs. He walked stooped
over, one hand dragging at his side, the other latched onto his belt buckle to
hold his pants up. He was nineteen years old, but he had the posture of someone
about seventy. Nick wondered if he had AIDS.
Dougie
slid into the booth and nodded in his direction.
“You
okay?”
Dougie
nodded his head in affirmation. “Hungry,” he said, the word barely a whisper.
Nick
signaled to the waitress. He didn’t want Dougie dying on him right here at the
table. It would be difficult to explain what Nick was doing with a dealer on
his day off, especially a dead dealer. “Bring him four eggs scrambled,
hashbrowns, a short stack of pancakes, and a double side of bacon,” he told the
waitress.
Dougie
made an attempt at a smile and settled back against the cushion. From the look
of it, he’d lost another tooth, too.
“You
been tested lately?”
Dougie
closed his eyes and shook his head.
“You
should, you know. You’re sick.”
Without
opening his eyes, he said, “Fine.”
Nick
wanted to ask his questions and get out of there, but Dougie didn’t look strong
enough to answer them yet. Nick settled for watching the door and sipping his
toxic coffee to save himself from boredom.
Dougie
finished the food Nick had ordered and then, in a more energetic voice, told
the waitress to bring him apple pie à la mode for dessert. Nick wasn’t sure
where Dougie put all that food, but watching him scarf it down had given Nick
indigestion.
When
the waitress returned with the pie, Nick took the check and pushed his coffee
aside. “Enjoy the breakfast?”
“Yeah,
man. Thanks.”
“I’ve
got some questions.”
Dougie
nodded.
Nick
pulled Lugino’s picture from his pocket. “You sell to him?”
Dougie
took the picture and stared at it. “I see him around.”
“What’s
his poison?”
Dougie
gave the picture back and took a bite of pie, dipping the end of it into the
ice cream before shoving the whole thing in his mouth. “Crank,” he said with
his mouth full.
Nick
got an eyeful of melted ice cream and chewed-up pie. “That it?”
“Some
Mary Jane.” He shrugged. “That’s it.”
“You
deal any heroin?”
“Naw,
man. That shit’s bad news.”
“Don’t
bullshit me,” Nick snapped.
“I’m
telling you straight, man. I don’t do Horse.”
“You
know someone?”
Dougie
looked at him and nodded. “I know someone.”
Nick
slid Lugino’s picture back to Dougie, face-down. “I need to know if my man
bought some. I need the information fast.” He pointed to his cell phone number
written on the back of the photocopied picture. “You call me here.” Nick took
the check and stood up. “You find anything out and there will be a little
something for you. But I need someone I can talk to. Confirmation, you know?”
Dougie
tucked the picture in his pocket and returned his attention to dessert.
Nick
paid the check at the register, leaving a generous tip for the waitress. As
soon as he got outside, he realized he didn’t have his keys.
He
ran back to the table where Dougie was still eating. The keys were nowhere in
sight. Nick put his hand out. “Keys.”
Dougie
looked at him and then grinned, pulling the keys out from under the table. “I
thought it was a gift. I could use a ride.”
“Yeah,
right.” Nick left again, tossing his keys. There ought to be a better way to
keep track of the damn things. Maybe he’d get one of those cars with the
security access code. He would be able to remember a code. It was just keeping
track of the damn keys that made him crazy.
Dougie
should be back to him within a day or two, but probably not sooner. Nick had
somehow hoped that Dougie would say he sold Lugino the heroin. It was stupid
thinking on his part, but he would’ve liked to be able to go back to the
station with something.
He
headed for Mt. Diablo, intending to have another talk with the neighbors
closest to the scene. He flipped on the radio and heard an old Miles Davis
song. “Damn.” His plan for the day had been to do anything to keep himself from
thinking about Sam. It had worked up to now.
He
didn’t need the kind of aggravation Sam presented. She wouldn’t tell him what
had happened in her past, but it didn’t take a Ph.D. to guess. She’d been raped
or abused. He knew she’d been married once. Maybe it was that guy. It was hard
to picture her letting some guy beat her up, but wasn’t it always?
And
marriages took a toll no matter how they ended. He knew all about that. He’d
told himself he wouldn’t fail Sheila. He would protect her from whatever came
their way. But it turned out she’d found a better protector. He hadn’t been
good enough or available enough or sensitive enough or some damn thing. She
wanted children and he couldn’t support the kind of life she wanted. That was
her last argument. He had wanted children, too. Too damn bad. She was divorcing
Nick so she could marry Stephen and have his kids.
Was
he doing it all over again with Sam? Trying to protect her when she didn’t want
his protection? He should walk away. He needed to walk away. Instead, he found
himself picturing the sprinkled freckles across her nose, her full lips, the
glimpse of her legs whenever she wore a skirt. All of it was torture. Plus,
there were Rob and Derek.
He
loved those kids. Hell, Derek was quiet, but he knew every damn Van Morrison
song by heart—the album, the words, the year. And he had collected some
unbelievable albums. And Rob was a great kid, too. He loved baseball almost as
much as Nick did. He knew the stats, the players. Why wasn’t it easier? Where
was the boy likes girl, girl likes boy? Gone before puberty. And if life didn’t
confuse everything, Sam Chase certainly liked to add to the complication.
Now,
from a hill near the crime scene, Nick watched the sky fade to scarlet and then
orange and pink and finally dark. After the show was over, he started his car
again and drove around, trying to clear his thoughts—on the case, on Sam. None
of it had become clearer—in fact, it was more jumbled, if anything. His lights
caught the reflections of families driving home together in minivans and sport
utility vehicles. He should be home too. But he didn’t want to go home. There
was nothing for him there.
Sam
entered her office, ready to settle in. She had too many thoughts spinning
around in her head and she was praying for a day of only work. She pulled her
Glock from its holster, unlocked her top drawer, and set the gun inside before
relocking it. Shivering, she stooped down and flipped on the space heater under
her desk. A buzz cracked and a burst of electrical heat shot through her
finger.
“Shit.”
She jumped back as sparks flew from the machine, then flames. Smoke funneled
out from under her desk, and she ran for the wall where the extinguisher was
kept. It was gone. “Damn it!” she yelled.
Moving
quickly, she kicked the plug from the socket and turned toward the door.
Aaron
was perched on his chair.
“The
damn heater exploded, and my extinguisher’s gone.”
“I’ll
get the hall extinguisher.” Aaron spun around and took a fire extinguisher off
a wall hook outside her office. Pulling the plastic tab, he motioned Sam to
stand back as he sprayed thick white foam under her desk. The fire dissipated
quickly, but not before setting off the overhead alarms. Sam waited for the
sprinklers to start, but they didn’t.
No
one on the floor headed for the exits, though. Instead, a crowd gathered in
front of Sam’s office door. Ignoring them, she cursed and moved to open the windows,
hoping to clear the smoke.
Aaron
waved his arms at the crowd. “Party’s over, folks.”
“The
invincible Sam Chase,” someone said.
Sam
spun around, furious, thinking of the message slip someone had left in her
office. “Who said that?”
Several
people turned back, but no one took credit. Instead, the crowd moved away in a
thick pack like the smoke streaming from under her desk.
She
turned to Aaron. “Who said that?”
Aaron
shrugged. “It’s a nickname. They all call you that.”
“Why?”
Aaron
glanced at the empty doorway.
“Why
do they call me that?”
Aaron
slouched a bit. “Sam, you’re a tough personality. You demand a lot from
people—some would say nothing less than perfection. Not me. I love working with
you. But a lot of people think you’re full of yourself, that you think you’re
perfect.”
“But
invincible?”
Aaron
smiled. “Among other things. Don’t take it too hard. Everyone’s got a nickname.
You should hear what they call Williams.”
Sam
picked up the notes on her desk and used some tissue to wipe the thick white
foam into the trash. She worked with brisk, hard strokes, trying to funnel her
anger into something more useful and failing.
“Here,
let me clean that up.” Aaron returned with some paper towels and rags and began
to clean off her desk. “Facilities is coming up with someone to clean the rug
and clear away the heater. I’ll order a new one.”
“I
don’t want another one. And I don’t want facilities taking this one. I want
someone to look at it.”
“It
probably just shorted. It can happen.”
She
nodded, not mentioning her missing extinguisher, but she wasn’t convinced.
* * *
At
almost five-thirty, Aaron rolled into Sam’s office and stopped in front of her
desk.
“Hey,”
Sam said, forcing a smile.
“I
haven’t seen you this glum since Williams beat you in the annual gun tests.”
Sam
frowned. “Well, I’m ten times better than he is.”
Aaron
smiled. “You haven’t said much all day. Something I can help with?”
Sam
looked around the office she had once felt so confident in. She shook her head.
“Just busy with this case. You should get out of here. Don’t you have some
training to do? You’ve got what, three weeks?”
“Twenty-five
days and counting. I’m training six days. I swam this morning. I use a float on
my feet and I do the butterfly—for about thirty minutes twice a week. Builds
the arm muscles fast.” He flexed.