In a short statement Keith claimed he’d left the sheriff’s department to find true justice. When pressed about how the department lacked true justice, he sidestepped the question.
Conclusion: Keith left because of corruption in the system. Maybe not, but honestly, that’s what I hoped for. Then he took up practicing the law to defend the innocent. And then…well, then he’d quit on the system altogether.
That’s what I pieced together. That and the fact that he’d gone through a bitter divorce eight years earlier, about the time he quit the sheriff. He’d been twenty-seven years old at the time and was now thirty-five, same age as Danny.
I had my attorney, albeit one who no longer practiced law. I had my defender of the weak, righter of wrongs, and, most important, I had someone with a common enemy: Bruce Randell.
But that was only in my mind. In reality, I didn’t have him at all. He lived in the condo across the street, and for all I knew he’d moved there to get away from people like me.
The sun was long gone, and I was about to give up in frustration when a black Ford Ranger approached the condo, turned up the driveway, and pulled into the garage on the first floor. I could hardly mistake the face of the man through the windshield. The man who would help me save Danny had come home.
How he could help, I didn’t know. But that wasn’t all I didn’t know. Short of storming Basal with an Uzi—and believe me, I’d thought about it—I didn’t know how to get to Danny. I didn’t know who I could trust, who I could get to listen, who I could hire. I needed someone to help me think. To be with me, because alone I was lost.
The instant the garage door closed, I opened my car door, stepped out into the gray dusk, and headed across the street. I climbed the three steps to the condo’s landing, pushed the doorbell, and stepped back. Hoping to make a good impression, I’d washed my hair twice, blown it half-dry and combed it out so that it laid naturally. The Miss Me jeans I wore were boot cut, better than the skinny jeans I used to wear. My top was a brown BKE with dolman sleeves. I knew these things because I bought all of my clothes from either the Buckle at the Irvine Spectrum Center or from the online store, and I stick to what makes me comfortable without looking shabby. Jane had introduced me to the Buckle two years earlier, and I hadn’t found the need to switch.
I rarely wore a bra around the apartment, but out was a different matter. I’d chosen one of two padded bras that I owned. There’s no way to make B breasts look like double-D breasts, and even if there was, I wasn’t interested. Still, I was on a mission and I figured a little help wouldn’t hurt.
The door opened and Keith Hammond stood in the condo’s entry light. His short hair was blond and tossed but still somehow neat, his face was clean shaven but he still looked rough, his jeans were marked but not torn, his shirt was a blue button-front with short sleeves, but it wasn’t buttoned. How he’d gotten so casual so quickly was a bit of a mystery, but my first impression of him was hopeful.
He looked like the kind of man who wasn’t confined by the system.
“Sorry, honey, whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying,” he said.
“You’re Keith Hammond?” I replied.
“That would be me.”
“Can I come in?”
“Umm, why?”
See, that’s what I would have said. He wasn’t only outside the system, he was cautious. That was good.
“Because I have some information you might find interesting, that’s why. And I’m not selling it.”
“And who are you?”
“My name is Renee Gilmore.”
“Information, huh? And what makes you think I need any information, Renee Gilmore?”
“Because you and I have the same enemy.”
His brow arched. “Is that so? And who might that be?”
“Bruce Randell,” I said.
Up to that point Keith had worn the face of a man who is mildly amused. But when I gave him the name, the light went out of his eyes.
“I wouldn’t say that Mr. Randell is my enemy,” he said. “Our paths crossed once, but that was a long time ago.”
“Do you know where he is today?”
“Chino, last I heard.”
“He’s in Basal.”
“Basal?”
“Basal Institute of Corrections.”
“The experimental prison.”
“The inmates call it Basal.”
“And why should that concern me?”
“Because Danny’s there too.”
“And who’s Danny?”
“My husband,” I said. “Well, not technically. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Can I come in?”
“You do realize I don’t practice law anymore.”
“I’m not looking for a lawyer.”
“How did you hear about me?”
“I tracked you down. Can I come in?”
He studied me for a moment, then stepped aside. “Be my guest. But I can assure you there’s nothing I can do for you. Unless you’re looking for a drink and dinner. That I think I could manage.”
I ignored the compliment and looked around his condo. Stairs to my right descended to what I assumed was the garage and maybe a room or two. The brown carpet was lint free. Beyond the living room, a tiled breakfast bar divided the rest of the living space from a spotless kitchen, although I couldn’t see the sink from where I stood—sinks always speak the truth. By all appearances Keith looked to be a clean man who was comfortable enough in his own shell to leave his shirt unbuttoned when answering the door.
But I wasn’t here to judge his cleanliness. I wanted his help.
He stepped past me, doing up one button in a respectable show of modesty. “Look, Renee…I know you think there’s a connection between us, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” He put a hand on the stair rail and crossed one leg over the other. “You’ve obviously done your research and know that I helped put Bruce Randell behind bars, but like I said, that was a long time ago. I really don’t care what he’s doing, as long as he stays where he was put.”
“He’s trying to kill Danny,” I said.
“Your not-really-husband husband.”
“That’s right. And I can’t get into Basal to warn him.”
“What makes you think I can? Assuming I wanted to. Prisons are run by wardens who all share at least one goaclass="underline" preventing violence. You should be talking to the warden, not to a washed-up cop-turned-attorney who walked away from it all. I dabble in stocks for a living now, did you know that too?”
“That’s why I need your help.”
“Why? Because I trade stocks?”
“Because you’re washed up. Like me.”
He glanced at my name-brand jeans. “You don’t look washed up to me.”
“That’s because you don’t know me,” I said, and then I pushed the point, thinking I had to use what I could for Danny’s sake. “Would you like to?”
The light sparked in his eyes, or maybe it was only my imagination. “Boy, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you? Thank you, but no, I’m not really looking for a romantic relationship with a woman right now.”
“Did I say romantic? I just assumed by your history that you are a kind person interested in doing the right thing. Like helping a woman who has nowhere left to turn.”
“Then you don’t understand my history. I had my chance to help people and I turned my back on it. All of it. I wish I could help you, but I’m not the person you’re looking for.”
It wasn’t going well, but, considering my options, I wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily. He was like me, you see. He just wanted to be left alone to live his life in peace.