Authors: Gregg Hurwitz
"And this job?"
"Just to figure out what Alton's up to. To capture his life, report back. I'd learned that you let him come over once a week to shower and whatever.
So I set up here to show him coming and going. And for a home base, you know? It's harder than you'd think to shadow a homeless guy. All they do is lie around in the open."
"So what's going to happen to him?"
"Not up to me. I just turn in the pictures. His wife wants to come after him, that's her business."
"Isn't there a statute of limitations?" I was more upset than I should have been. "The guy's suffered enough, hasn't he?"
"A statute of limitations on abandoning your family?" She looked at me like I was subhuman. "Try that on the mom who's been working three jobs for the past decade. Or the kid."
"So he'll pay now? From jail?"
She shrugged. "Probably not. But he can't just run away from his past and expect it'll never catch up with him."
I leaned against the sink, feeling a bit nauseous.
"Why were you looking at all my film out there?" she asked. "What were you expecting to find?"
"Nothing. I. . . Nothing."
"Are you gonna call the cops?"
"No. Just-- Listen, go easy on Homer. Tell his wife and the PI or whoever. He's an okay guy. Just beaten down. Going after him isn't going to solve anything. Just. . . leave him be."
Her big light eyes were flared with what I imagined was uncharacteristic empathy. I felt more paranoid than usual as I walked out.
Chapter
19
Slotted in the driveway next to Induma's recreational Range Rover was her Jag, a nice old-school one from before all the luxury cars started looking like Camrys. Her house, a done-to-a-turn Craftsman backing on the murky Venice canals, lit up in greeting as I strolled between the waist-deep bamboo lining the walk. Less than a block from the beach, the air had a pleasing sea-dirty tint. I was a few minutes late, having driven freeway loops and parked three blocks away to make sure I wasn't being followed.
The lights, with their high-tech sensor pads, continued to illuminate my walk in segments until I was on the porch. Induma loved her technology. At the door I realized how nervous I was. I hadn't been over since we'd split, and I was looking forward to seeing her more than I wanted to admit.
Before I could knock, she shouted, "Come in!"
Stepping into a waft of humid air and layered scents, I set down the bottle I'd brought of her favorite dessert wine. Induma, like the kitchen, was a mess. Shiny hair piled atop her head, flecks of lassi on her face, dish towel crammed quarterback style down the front of her sweatpants. Lids rattled on steaming pots. Papadum disks dripped vegetable oil onto paper towels. A timer buzzed. On a sheet of tinfoil on the kitchen table sat a giant
lump of clay, shaped vaguely, bizarrely, like Chewbacca's head.
Induma kneed the oven door closed. "Out of my way. Sit here. Eat this."
She slid a dish of puliyogare across the counter, pointed at it with a dripping wooden spoon. Rice with roasted peanuts and curry leaves, flavored with tamarind. I took a bite. She was a vegetarian, but her food was excellent anyway.
"Lord," I said.
She winked at me. "I know. Handro'll be right down. He's cleaning up."
"Cleaning up?"
"He's into sculpting."
That explained Chewbacca on the kitchen table.
"He any good?" I asked.
"God-awful."
I wanted to ask her about Charlie's house, but there was a comfort to being near Induma, and I wanted to enjoy it before Alejandro descended. I took a turn around the kitchen and the contiguous living room, noting the wonderful, domestic accoutrements. A ring-stained cork coaster on the coffee table. Sheet of TV channels taped to the inside of an open cabinet door. A dog-eared fashion magazine. What I was admiring, I realized with a touch of envy, was how lived-in the house felt.
There's a kind of fear, a kind of loss, that goes into your cells. Becomes a part of you. Walls you off, keeps you from getting to the things you want the most. Nothing brought that home like the feeling I got when I glanced over at Induma.
Alejandro pattered down the stairs, pulling a T-shirt over his head leisurely enough to show off his ridged stomach. He was clearly more handsome than me. And more Latin. At the sight of me, his striking face lit up with a sincerity that made me feel guilty.
"Nick!" The suave accent turned my name into "Neek." He sauntered over and offered me an embrace that reeked of Polo Sport. He flipped his shaggy dark hair from his eyes with a practiced toss of his head, then gestured proudly at the lump of clay on the table behind us. "My latest piece. You like?"
"Wookie?"
He frowned. "Self-portrait. I still work on the nuance."
"The nuance," I said. "Right."
Putting his arm around my shoulders, he turned me away from Induma in a two-man huddle. "I need your advice. We have our year anniversary Sunday, and I want to do something special."
"Look, I don't think I'm the guy to--"
"I know you two used to, you know, but it don't bother me. Really. You friends now. You know her so well. Give me the advice for a good date."
I glanced back. Induma, busy at the stove, caught my eye, suppressing a grin.
"You wouldn't think it, but she loves action movies," I said. "Rent something with Steven Seagal."
"Really? "
"I know. Weird, right? And you know what else she digs? Chicken wings."
He eyed me hesitantly. "But she a vegetarian."
"Except for chicken wings. The ones at Hooters, especially."
Finally he got it. He pointed at my face. "Aha! You fucking with me."
"No, I'm serious." I wasn't, of course, but I figured someone who didn't know Induma at least that well didn't deserve to date her.
He slipped around the counter and gave her a soft-lipped kiss. I looked away uncomfortably but still managed to watch. She kissed him back, then hip-checked him to the side and glanced in the oven. A sandalwood Buddha laughed at me from a wall alcove.
"Baby, I take the Jag in tomorrow for the service." Alejandro jogged over and plopped down on the gargantuan sofa in the living room, clicking the remote until Telemundo soccer highlights appeared on the wall-mounted plasma.
Induma set two square Pottery Barn plates on the counter between us, and we started to eat. She had a beautiful dining room, but we always ate over the counter, me parked on a stool, her leaning so as to keep the oven in reach.
Behind us Alejandro leapt up on the couch in excitement, then groaned, his shoulders slumping. In his distress he'd yanked off his T-shirt. "How hard is the penalty kick? Twelve yard! How hard can this be?"
Induma said to me, "Rhetorical."
A curved bank of windows past the TV overlooked a strip of lawn and the imitation canal beyond, but right now the glass just reflected back the house's interior, so we saw two Alejandros leaping up and down, shouting Spanish curses at the screen and holding his head in woeful disbelief.
"That address you asked me to look into?" Induma said quietly. "It's a rental property, owned by an old Jewish broad in Encino. The last lease ended two months ago, Korean family. If someone new was renting it, they did it with cash."
So Charlie had spent less than two months there. He'd moved in to do whatever it was that had gotten him the money. Or to lie low with the bundles of hundreds.
"Given the single-digit vacancy rate in Culver City and the fact that the owner was busted for not reporting income in '05, I'd say it's likely she took cash under the table," Induma added. At my expression she blushed--a rarity--and shrugged. "It's not hard to check certain things if you know where to look. Or who to ask."
"Still. You're pretty good."
"No. Just Indian. We cultivate relationships all
over the place and can scare a computer into behaving itself most of the time." She eyed shirtless Alejandro, now pleading with the TV. "Two of my three most useful skills." She smeared some mango pickle on a wedge of papadum, popped it into her mouth, rolled her eyes with ecstasy. "Now, the late Mike Milligan was part of a few separatist groups, real bad news. Ruby Ridge survivalist stuff, mountain men who hoard guns and thump The Turner Diaries. They got him on DNA for a murder in the eighties--left a hair on the body--but he sold out some other guys in his organization and got early parole. The unofficial word is that he was the terrorist killed at San Onofre, but the government is neither confirming nor denying publicly."
Certainly didn't sound like Charlie, but I had to ask. "Was he in the army? Vietnam?"
"He was."
"Which infantry?"
"I couldn't find that. Some Vietnam-era service records are still classified, and the rest are a mess. I'm way stronger on law-enforcement databases than military stuff."
I set down my fork on the Easter-blue plate. "You're sure this Mike Milligan was the guy, not just another bullshit part of the cover story?"
"Anything's possible, but this is pretty good intel. And there are enough documents and trails for him that I doubt it's someone they just
invented. I guess a lot of these separatist types are former military. At least according to the assistant police chief."
"You went to the assistant police chief? LAPD?"
She shrugged. "When we installed my encrypted backup software at the crime lab, I was there every day for two months. I don't get speeding tickets either."
"You didn't mention me, right?"
"Oh--that's what you meant. Only by name and Social. Come on, laugh. All right, don't laugh. No, of course not. And don't worry. He has strong incentive to keep my confidence. Unless he can find someone better to call the next time his fingerprinting database decides to hang from hitting a thread-unsafe code section." Her not-so-poker face showed what she predicted the likelihood of that to be.
The doorbell rang, and I came up off the stool. "Are you expecting anyone?"
Her forehead textured. "No, but relax."
Alejandro flew by, slipping in his socks. "It's for me. It's for me." Some murmuring at the door, and then he returned with a Domino's pizza box.
I said, "You're not eating with us?"
"He doesn't like Indian food," Induma said.
Alejandro seemed upset at the prospect of having hurt her feelings, though I knew from her expression that he hadn't. "No, baby, I just in the mood for Italian, thassall."
"He thinks Domino's is Italian food," Induma said.
I hopped up and got the bottle of dessert wine from the accent table in the foyer. She snatched the bottle from my hand, glancing at the label, her face lighting up. "Olallieberry. Brilliant." She rose to her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek.
Smiling, she poured two glasses. Took a sip. Closed her smooth, beautiful eyelids as she savored the taste. We drank and looked at each other a bit. She opened her mouth to say something. Closed it. Then she said, "Why did you think you couldn't tell me about all this when we were together?"
I swirled the wine around, peering down into the glass as if it held great interest. Induma didn't say anything, but I could feel her gaze on me. I cleared my throat and said, softly, "Can you get him out of here?"
"Alejandro?" she called, not moving her stare from me.
"Yeah?"
"Give us a minute?"
"Okay, baby. I go to the gym." He came into the edge of my vision, kissed Induma, and then his footsteps padded away. The front door closed, cutting off his whistling.
She said, "Were you worried I'd think you were a murderer?"
I shook my head.
"Couldn't you trust me?"
The bareness of the question, the vulnerability in it, knifed right through whatever protective shell I thought I'd built up. "God, yes, I trusted you." A touch of hoarseness edged my voice. "But I was scared what might happen to you."
She returned my stare evenly. "So it was all for me, huh?" she said pointedly.
"Not all." I studied the counter. "I guess I wasn't used to what it was like to be . . . you know, close to someone. I never really learned that as an adult."
Induma's lips pursed. She said, "Will you tell me the rest?"
It wasn't quite a test, but there was a lot riding on my answer. A pot boiled over on the stove and hissed, then stopped hissing. I said, "Yes."
Induma's mouth tensed; she was pleased. I filled her in. When I was done, she drew back from the counter--her first movement through it all. Her back cracked. She moved the scorched pot from the burner and turned off the stove.
She asked for the torn sheet of numbers and perused it, as mystified as I was. Finally, with a shrug, she handed it back.
"I wish we had more information on the guys who arrested you when you were seventeen," she said. "Last names, anything."
I pictured Slim and the big guy. How the big guy twisted the dial with those wide fingers. Radio
sucks out here, huh?