10

Tom Cole’s pate tingled with the beat of the sun. Even this early the Hollywood air was stiff with smog.

He’d spent way too much time on Flip since seeing his bruised hands, but what could he do? Of all his parolees, this one disturbed him most.

Now Tom was back for another official visit. As soon as he mounted the stairs, the little men with pitchforks got busy in his knees. They jabbed with every step, and he cursed them silently, pulling himself up by the banister. His steps were slow, tired.

He’d been up since 3:41. The homicide dick had apologized for calling him at home so early, but Danton couldn’t wait until a decent hour after finding the flag Tom had placed on Flip’s information in the Law Enforcement Agencies Data System. Tom had stared at the clock, watching the digits turn as he talked to Danton, nagged by the image of Flip’s damaged hands.

A teenager. Beaten to death and dumped behind a gas station. Last Tuesday.

They had gone over the evidence. The stolen car with the teenager’s blood in it had been left three miles south of where the body had been found. No fingerprints other than the owner’s. All the blood in the car belonged to the kid. The techs were still working on the fibers recovered from the kid’s body, but the only conclusive findings matched what was in the car or the last places the kid had visited.

Nothing put Flip at the scene. Tom’s gut told him with absolute assurance that Flip had done this, but with no evidence, Danton wouldn’t haul him in just to listen to him lie. Danton knew interrogating a convict like Flip was pointless unless you had something on him, and even then he’d deny it. All Danton said they could do was watch him and hope he made a mistake.

Sure Flip was going to lie. Tom had been at this long enough to know that. But there were other potential victims out here, and maybe if Flip knew he was suspected, he’d lie low. Maybe it would keep some other teenager alive. It was worth a try. If Danton wasn’t willing to do it, Tom would do it himself.

Tom’s nostrils tingled with the dust floating in the air in the hallway. A radio played a tinny version of Tom Petty singing about refugees. Behind another door the senseless music and audience uproar of a game show blared. Finally he came to number 312. He waited for a moment, listening. No voices, no movement inside. The game show noise from down the hall reached a crescendo and was abruptly cut off by a commercial jingle.

He knocked.

The door opened and the man stood before him. Flip turned his back and marched away to collapse onto the sofa. Dust from the impact puffed into a column of light cast into the room from the window.

Flip squinted. “Close those blinds, will you?”

Tom hesitated. But Flip looked more like a hospital patient than a convict at the moment.

He entered the room and left the door open. The smell of Flip and soiled surfaces and dirty dishes rose up to meet him. The stench was sour, like something a caged animal might emit. He went to the window and tried to open it for fresh air, but it was painted shut.

“You need to talk to your landlord about these windows.”

Flip’s eyes were slits against the sunlight. “Just drop the blinds.” He brought a hand up and turned his head and let his hand fall back to the sofa cushion next to him.

Tom didn’t close the blinds. The sunlight warmed his back. The holster resting at his kidney grew warm too.

“You just going to stand there staring at me?”

“I guess you really are sick. Have you been to see a doctor?”

“No.”

“So what’s the matter with you?”

“Close those blinds!” Flip’s hair was mashed flat into his head on the left, and the sofa had left an imprint on that side of his face, where it was meshed and red like something grilled. Under his eyes, shaded circles drooped, the color of old bruises.

Flip’s mouth snarled upward. He rose from the sofa and came at Tom with an arm raised. Tom fought the reflex to reach for his weapon and stepped aside. Flip grabbed the string controlling the blinds and swung it to one side. The blinds cascaded down to angle the light away from the floor.

Flip returned to the sofa. “What do you want, anyway? I didn’t miss a meeting.”

“Just wanted to say get well soon.”

Flip snorted. “Okay, now you believe I’m sick and I didn’t skip town. You can go.” He lay inclined on the sofa with one leg extended to his side, one foot on the floor. His jeans were once black but already showed gray patches on the thighs and knees. He hadn’t been out that long; he must have been wearing them every day.

“Manny’s not going to hold that job open for you forever. You better take some vitamins, Convict.”

That brought a squinting eye open. He held the one eye wide, Popeye style, for a minute, then let it drift closed again. “I can find another job.”

“You’re out of work; that’s a violation.”

“What do you want me to do?” He started cursing and Tom let him.

“You need another copy of the conditions of your parole?”

“You think I want to be sick? I’ll go back as soon as I can.”

Tom moved away from the window and behind the sofa, toward the kitchen entrance. The dishes piled in the sink rose well above counter level now. A couple of flies pirouetted in the space above the putrid stack.

Broken glass littered the floor in the corner. A brown stain decorated the wall. It looked like a jellyfish, tentacles sagging downward.

“You need a new maid.”

“Why don’t you get out of here?” Flip’s voice, pointed in the other direction, seemed disembodied. Tom turned and looked at the back of Flip’s round, black-stubbled head propped to one side against his fist.

He wandered into the bedroom. The blinds in here were drawn to block out the sunlight. Sheets now covered the bed, or nearly covered it. On one corner the sheet was peeled back to reveal the gray stripes of the mattress. Imagining Flip making a bed brought a grin to Tom’s face.

From the other room, Flip called out, “You almost done with your search, Officer?”

He returned to the living room. “I appreciate the hospitality.”

“Like I got a choice.” Flip still rested his head against the fist of his right hand. The bicep of his bent arm was the size of a cantaloupe. Tom felt the reassurance of the holster nestled in his back.

“What’ve you been doing when you aren’t working or lying around here being sick?”

“I told you last week. Nothing. No bars. Not associating with any felons.”

“A model citizen.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” He scratched his eyelid. “A freakin’ model citizen. Why don’t you get out and leave me alone?”

“You’re going to hurt my feelings, you don’t cut that out.”

Flip shook his head. He reached for the television remote.

“Leave the TV off, Convict.”

His head rose, and a shadow passed over his eyes for an instant, then cleared. “Sure. No problem, Officer.”

“What’d you do last Tuesday night? Just stay in, glued to the TV?”

“Tuesday night . . . ? Let’s see . . .”

Come on, deny it.

“Oh yeah. Tuesday night I went out to Santa Monica. Went for a walk on the beach.”

“You do a lot of walking on the beach at night?”

“It’s kind of my new thing. You know, go out there and contemplate stuff.”

“Meditate.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Meditate.” Flip’s eyes lightened. He was perking right up.

“How’d you get out there?”

“Took the bus, of course.”

“Why didn’t you take the Metro?”

“Don’t like being underground.”

“You’ll be underground soon enough. What number bus you take?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What number?”

“I don’t remember. Down by Fairfax I had to change lines.”

“You stop anyplace? See anybody?”

“I saw about a thousand people. It’s a big city, Officer Cole.”

Enough of this. It was pointless to sweat him, but they had no evidence at all. “Why’d you kill the kid, Flip?”

It took under a second for Flip to paste confusion onto his face. The hesitation was just long enough. “What kid? What are you talking about?”

“Did he do something to deserve it? Or were you just trying to stay sharp?”

“I got no concept what you’re talking about.”

Tom eyed him.

A smile creased Flip’s face. “I am a model citizen, Officer. I don’t go to bars. Don’t associate with known felons. I go to the beach some nights. Meditate.”

Tom stepped to him. He brought his face down to his.

“You going to kiss me, Officer?”

“I know you did the kid. I know it.” He held up three fingers. “That’s strike three.”

“Get out of my face. You got nothing.” Breath like seeping garbage floated up to Tom’s nostrils. Flip’s eyes were empty holes. The emotion was flushed out of them. Shark eyes.

Tom stood away. “You’re going back in, Flip.”

“No.”

“You’re going back in. I’m going to see to it. Strike three and you’re out.”

“You got nothing. This is getting on toward harassment.”

“The parole board’ll be real interested in your side of things.”

Flip rose to face him. He said nothing. The expression on his face told Tom everything he needed to know. He measured the time it would take him to get to the Glock if he needed it.

Flip said, “You done threatening me? You done harassing me? You done?”

Tom stepped closer. Before turning to leave, he wanted to look longer in the flat pans of those eyes. Dead eyes. Hellish eyes. “Don’t get too comfortable outside, Convict.”