“I’m not going to hurt you, mister.”
“I know,” I said, pride quickly replacing terror. The Russian mafia had not fallen on such hard times that they had sent a bag lady to kill the husband of their nemesis, the brilliant Lindsey Faith Mapstone.
The woman must have been concealed by some of the vans and SUVs nearby. I leaned against the car door and took her in: straight, dirty blond hair; broad, sunburned face; a stocky, medium-height body Throw her in a shower, dress her differently, and put her in a minivan in Chandler, and she might be mistaken for a soccer mom. If you didn’t look too closely. Someone had knocked one of her teeth out. Her tan was raw and uneven. The collar of her T-shirt was filthy.
I don’t have any money,” I said, and started to get in the car.
“I don’t go hitting up cops,” she said. But she didn’t move on. She just stood there, watching me.
She said, “You were looking for Weed.”
I stopped, gently reclosed the door, and faced her.
“They said at the shelter you were looking for Weed,” the woman said. “Two cops, a woman and a man. They said the man was tall and looked like a schoolteacher, and he drove this big yellow Olds 442.”
David Mapstone, the master of concealment.
“You know Weed?” I asked.
She folded her arms tightly around her breasts, causing them to balloon out beneath the faded purple T-shirt. “I hang out with him sometimes.”
“Around here?”
“He liked the deck park,” she said. Margaret Hance Park, which sat above the freeway a mile north of us, and was home to festivals, joggers, sunbathers, and drug dealers. “We’d sit there by the library. I like to read books.”
“Was Weed a nickname?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. It was just his name. What’s your name?”
“David,” I said. “David Mapstone.”
“I’m Karen,” she said. “You’re a cop, right?”
“I’m a deputy.” I asked her what she could tell me about him.
“He was nice to me. I’ve been on the streets four years now. He helped me find food, a place to sleep that was safe. He’d share cigarettes. We’d talk.”
“Any idea where he was from? How long he’d been living on the streets?”
“He had family in California, I think. Somebody told me he had been in the Navy. He never said much about himself.” She kept her arms clasped tightly and tilted slowly from side to side. She asked, “What are you looking for him for?”
I looked behind her into the blue-black of the western sky. We had been deprived of spectacular fiery sunsets for months. Even so, the sky seemed supernaturally large over our heads, the dry air conducting light intensely but with none of the velvety intimacy of the sky back east. Over Karen’s shoulder, the downtown towers still glowed from the last of the sun.
“Weed is dead,” I said. “He died last week. We’re trying to find next of kin, or anybody who knew him.”
Her eyes widened for several seconds. “Shit!” she whispered, stamping the gravel. “You got a smoke”
I shook my head.
Her shoulders suddenly sagged. She stared at the ground.
“He never hurt anybody.” She licked her chapped lips. “Somebody finally killed him.”
“What makes you think somebody killed him?” I asked.
“What, you live on the streets and you expect to die a natural death? I don’t think so. Not in this town. I’ve been in county hospital so many times, beaten up, robbed, raped, anything they think they can do to me. You cops figure I got it coming to me because I’m homeless. People in this town will kill you for five dollars.”
I couldn’t argue the point. After a moment, I prompted, “Tell me more about Weed.”
“Did he have his jacket?” she asked suddenly.
I nodded.
“I always thought he might get robbed and killed for that jacket.”
I asked her why.
“He had something sewn inside it,” she said, her eyes wide and gray. “I never knew what the hell it was, but he was sure protective, and secretive. He wore that jacket every day, even when it was the hottest day in August. One time, I felt something in there. Something sewn into the lining. When he caught me, he just went crazy. Slapped me down.”
“What do you think was in it?” I asked.
“Maybe jewelry,” she said. She added, “From his old life maybe.”
“Which was?”
She shook her head. “He never said. I never asked.” She rubbed her eyes. “Shit,” she said. “Poor Weed. I hadn’t seen him in days, and when I heard you were looking for him…”
“Did he ever mention the name John Pilgrim?”
She shook her head.
“What’s your last name?” I asked.
“I’m Karen. I told you.”
“Just Karen.”
“Yeah,” she said, suddenly sullen. She turned and walked away.
“Karen,” I called. “What if we need to talk to you again?”
“You don’t need me,” she said. “When I came to find you, I thought maybe if I told you about Weed, you might help me, too. Maybe you could talk to the caseworker and let me see my daughter.”
“Maybe I can,” I said, feeling uncomfortable, like a cop in the middle of a family dispute.
“Bullshit,” she said. “Weed is dead. Life is fucked up. I can’t get off the streets. You don’t care.”
I let her go. Whatever had impelled her to seek me out was now evaporated.
I called to her as she walked: “How can I talk to social services if I don’t know your last name, or your daughter’s name?”
No answer.
I watched her become a shadow against the streetlights. But then I heard her voice.
“The Reverend knew Weed,” she called. “You should talk to the Reverend.”
“Who is the Reverend?” I yelled. “Where can I find him?” She yelled back an address. It wasn’t in the nice part of town.
Chapter Ten
The next day, Wednesday, I locked the car and walked across an empty lot strewn with glass. The angle of the sun made the ground appear covered with diamonds or something precious. The glass crunched softly and dust stirred by my step covered the toes of my shoes. As I got closer to the bleached, one-story block building, I could see less an entrance than a void. In the middle of the white wall was a dark square where double doors might close. But there were no doors. I could only see the darkness of whatever lay beyond the bright sunshine of the outside. I pulled off my sunglasses and stepped inside. Under my feet, the dirt was replaced by concrete.
I stopped maybe five feet inside and let my eyes adjust. The space around me felt large and smelled of dust and sweat. A persistent breeze came from a large fan built into a far wall. The fan went to another room, or to the outside, and provided the only light source, a far moon with fan blades turning slowly. It created a foul-smelling breeze. As my vision extended, I realized the room was very large and people were all around me.
They lined the walls, and sat in clusters out on the floor of what was once some kind of warehouse. My cop side kicked in and I counted: five, ten, at least twenty people I could see, probably more. They stared at me with faces ruined by the sun and streets. Or they paid no attention. The room was very quiet. I spoke to the person nearest to me, an old woman sitting in a muddy wheelchair, her fat encased like sausage in a Phoenix Suns T-shirt.
“I’m looking for the Reverend,” I said.
She ignored me.
I looked around for anyone in charge. Any structure to the room. I only felt eyes. On me.
I remembered from my patrol deputy days how to roust someone. I remembered from my professor days how to reach a bored class of students. Neither seemed worth a damn in this place. I walked deeper into the room, asking again. Nobody answered me. They didn’t seem to acknowledge I was there. The people were Anglos, Hispanic, Indian, black, mostly older, mostly dressed in dirty thrift store castoffs.
Then I felt a rough bump from behind. When I turned I was facing an anachronism.