“You realize that we look like fools,” said Sanchez as the car sped past us. “The windows are tinted. They can‘t see us.”
“They especially can’t see you,” I said.
“Is that a comment on my darkish skin?”
“Your dark skin.”
“I’m proud of my dark skin.”
“Good for you,” I said, peeking up and looking in my rearview mirror. Dawson was heading south, probably home. I flicked on the lights. “And away we go.”
58.
I followed four car lengths behind the Jetta. Judging by Dawson’s preoccupation with his newly acquired passenger, I probably could have followed directly behind him with my brights on, with little fear of being made.
“She just disappeared,” said Sanchez.
“In his lap,” I said.
“You think she’s inspecting the quality of his zipper?”
“She’s inspecting something.”
The Jetta swerved slightly to the right. Dawson over-compensated and swerved to the left. He finally regained some control, although he now drove more toward the right side of the lane and even on the line itself.
“Seems distracted,” said Sanchez.
“Yep.”
“How old do you think she is?”
“No way of telling yet,” I said.
“In the least, gonna nail him for statutory rape.”
“Got the camera?”
Sanchez reached around and grabbed a nifty piece of equipment. It was a high resolution camcorder with night vision capabilities.
“So you know how to work this thing?” he asked.
“No idea. But we should figure it out fairly quickly.”
The Jetta braked and made a right into a massive condo complex. I pulled immediately into a maintenance parking spot near the trash dumpster.
“Okay,” Sanchez said, “I’ve got it rolling.”
“Zoom in on the car.”
I heard the whir of the zoom feature, and watched the lens stretch out like a probing eye. A green light feature indicated that the night vision capability was currently being used.
“Keep it steady,” I said.
“That’s what your mom told me back in high school.”
“I didn’t know you back in high school. Plus, my mom was killed when I was ten.”
He pulled away from the camera. “No shit? How was she killed?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He shrugged, lifted the camera back up to his eye. “Fine.”
I said, “Here they come.”
“Nice choice of words.”
The girl emerged from her position in his lap. We both hunched down. The doors opened. I peaked through the steering wheel. Although the windshield was tinted, it was not as dark as the door glass. Someone looking hard enough could still spot us.
“You need to get a van. This is bullshit.”
“When you talk the camera moves. So don’t.”
They headed our way, laughing and holding hands. Dawson’s shirt was untucked. They continued toward us. Sanchez turned in his seat and followed them. As if on cue, Dawson stopped next to Sanchez’s door, turned the girl around, planted a big kiss on her lips, and felt her up.
“You getting this?” I whispered.
“Oh, yeah.”
“How old do you think she is?” I asked.
They continued up a flight of stairs and disappeared. Sanchez pulled the camera away from his eye.
“Too young.”
I said, “Goodbye, Pencil Dick.”
59.
I was in my office, feet up on my desk, fingers laced behind my head, a classic detective pose. Of course I had just finished doing two hundred military push ups. Let’s see Colombo do that.
When the burn in my arms and chest had resided, I did some tricep dips along the edge of my desk. I’ve been doing these tricep dips every day since I was fifteen. I could do them all day long. I was at two hundred and seventy-one when my fax machine turned on. I cranked out another twenty-nine, because I like things neat and tidy, finishing in a flourish just as the fax machine stopped spitting out its image.
The fax machine sat on top of a short bookcase. The bookcase was filled to overflowing with philosophy textbooks and modern philosophical works of particular interest to me, along with all of Clive Cussler’s novels, my guilty pleasure.
In my fax tray was a grainy photograph. A grainy police photograph, courtesy of Sanchez.
My stomach turned; I felt sickened all over again.
I carefully put the faxed photograph in a manila folder, grabbed my car keys and wallet from the desk’s top drawer and left the office.
Huntington Beach was paradise. The best weather on earth. Few people would argue with me on that point. I drove south along the coast. Something must have been brewing off the coast, because there were some amazing sets crashing in. Alert Huntington surfers, or, rather, those with no life to speak of, were capitalizing on the gnarly waves. Dude. Their black forms, looking from this distance like trained seals, cut across the waves.
Two miles up the coast I turned left and headed up a small incline and parked in front of Huntington High. My home away from home.
It was 3:16 p.m., school was just out.
I moved up the central artery, past hundreds of yellow lockers, searching down row after row, until I spotted a janitor’s cart parked outside a classroom.
Mario and I were sitting opposite each other in student desks that were entirely too small. My knees almost touched my ears. Desks seemed bigger in my day.
Mario was studying the photograph, not saying much. The scent of after shave, sweat and cleaning agents came from him.
Finally he looked up at me. “Yes,” he said slowly, enunciating clearly. “That is him.”
“You’re sure?”
He nodded. “You killed him?”
I said nothing. He said nothing and looked away.
“He was a motherfucker,” said Mario. “I am glad he is dead. He said he would kill my whole family.”
“I know.”
Mario pointed with a thick finger. “Someone shot him four times in the chest. I would have shot him in his fucking face, too.” He spat to the side. His lower lip was quivering. His accent was thick and heavy, his words now even more difficult to discern. “Why did he threaten my family? He is in hell. Straight to hell.”
The thought of me sending Fuck Nut to hell was a bit burdensome. I decided to change the subject, somewhat.
“But the person who hired him is still free, Mario. We need to find him next. Do you understand?”
Mario nodded.
“Mario, what did you see on the night Amanda was murdered?”
I waited for him. His lower lip continued to quiver, and he seemed briefly unable to speak, but soon he regained some control of himself, and once he did, he told me everything.
And I mean everything.
60.
At 8:00 a.m., on a slightly overcast morning, I was driving south on the 5 Freeway with the windows down. My head was clear and empty, which was the way I preferred it. I had stayed off the booze for over a week and felt pretty good about it. I had had a good week of workouts, even though my leg hurt like hell, even at this very moment.
To me the pain was worth it to play football.
The traffic out to San Diego was heavy but steady. At the rate I was going, I would be in San Diego in two hours.
Two hours.
Despite my desire to keep my head clear, I thought about this aspect of traffic, and realized again I may have to move to San Diego if I made the team. If so, then I would see less of Cindy.
Not a good thing.
All to chase a dream I had given up on. A dream that had been taken away from me. It had been the dream of a young man, a twenty-two year old man.
I was now thirty.
For a fleeting instant the need to pursue an old dream, to re-hash what I had put aside, seemed sad and silly.