13

Tom Cole’s eyes held on the blackened leaves of the wreath on the door, and he hesitated to knock.

He looked over his shoulder at the U-Haul trailer. It wasn’t hitched to anything; it just rested against the cement in front, the back gaping open to reveal the flat sides of new cardboard boxes puzzled together to fit the space.

A click sounded behind the door, and he turned. The wreath pulled away with the door opening to reveal a woman. She saw him and pulled up, startled, the box bobbling.

Tom reached out as a reflex to keep the box from falling.

She regained control of it, pulled it away from him as if it were something he might steal. She stepped back. “Who are you?”

She wore a denim shirt untucked, sleeves rolled to reveal bare forearms and hands gripping a cardboard box. Her eyes were hazel with lashes so long they might brush the lenses of her glasses.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He dropped his hand, reached around for his badge wallet. “My name’s Tom Cole.” He flipped open the wallet, but she didn’t look at it. She held the box as if it would protect her.

“I work for the state. I’m a parole officer.”

The air between them didn’t move. Tom became aware of the sound of birds in the olive tree behind him.

“This is about my son.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Russell. Can I have a couple minutes?”

She seemed to see him for the first time, looked him up and down.

Tom felt out of place suddenly, more suited for convicts and jails than for this grieving mother. He straightened. “Look, let me give you a business card. This is a bad time. You can call my boss and make sure—”

“No, it’s all right.” She lowered the box to the floor and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door. To the right of the door was a small concrete bench like you’d find outside a museum. She sat there and crossed her legs, placed her palms flat on the concrete on either side of her. “What is it you want to talk to me about?”

He returned the wallet to his back pocket. “I talked with Detective Danton.”

“He thinks my son was involved in drugs. That it was a gang thing. But it wasn’t.”

Tom expected it to be denial, but it didn’t come across that way. He looked carefully at her face again, looked at her eyes. “Okay.”

Her head tilted slightly. “You believe me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. You don’t strike me as someone who makes things up.”

She brought her hands away from the bench and they came together in her lap. She wove her fingers together and looked them over.

“I know this sounds kind of strange, Ms. Russell, but I have a hunch about what happened to your son, and I wanted to see if you could help me connect the dots.”

“Hey, I’m just glad somebody believes me. What do you want to know?”

“Danton let me read his report, but there are some things I’m not clear on. Can you just tell me about that night? I’m sorry to put you through it again.”

“What kind of hunch would a parole officer have about my son?”

“It’s probably nothing. Let’s just say I’m doing some moonlighting.”

“All right. I guess if you think you might be able to help . . . Tell me if this is too much detail. I got home from work around five thirty. Greg wasn’t home, but that wasn’t unusual—”

“Sorry to cut you off, but in your statement to Danton you said you dreamed there was someone in the house.”

Her eyes cut into a frown. “It wasn’t a dream.”

“But your statement in the report—”

“That’s what I thought at first. And if nothing else had happened that night, I might have just kept thinking that. But the more I thought about it . . . it wasn’t a dream. Someone was here. A man was in the house.” She looked to the door as if the place had betrayed her.

“What did he look like?”

She held Tom with her eyes. That expression of betrayal didn’t relax. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . look, I know how this sounds. You can think whatever you want about me. I didn’t see him. It was just that sensation you have when you’re not alone and it’s not somebody you know there with you. Where you know it’s somebody . . .” She looked behind him as if the words were hovering in the air, dodging her. Then her eyes returned to his face. “Somebody evil.”

He began to think he’d been wrong about her. Without any answers, her mind was working to invent some. “So, you think this guy who was in your room had something to do with what happened to your son.”

“Greg. His name is Greg.”

He thought she might stare at him until he said it. “Okay. Greg.”

“There’s more. The sliding glass door downstairs was unlocked. Sometimes Greg did that when he snuck out at night. I guess so he wouldn’t have to bring his keys. But the power was out too. When I woke up the next morning my alarm clock wasn’t on. Nothing was on. The power was out.”

“Power surge?”

“Maybe. Sure. That’s what you’d think. If your son didn’t happen to be murdered that night. Then you start wondering. You start thinking about every little detail of the day before. You go over every word you said, every touch. Every chance you could have done something different. What you’d say if you had just an hour again. A minute with him.” Her words cracked. She dropped her head.

Tom didn’t move. He suppressed the urge to step to her and put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry.”

She waved a hand at him, the other hand drying her eyes.

“Where do you work, Ms. Russell?”

She took a deep breath. It jerked in but came out smooth. “Up off Wilshire on the west side. It’s about a twenty-minute drive.”

“What do you do?”

“Executive assistant. Up until this happened, anyway.”

“Where?”

“At Business Trust Bank for the last four years.”

“I didn’t see that in Danton’s report.”

“They never asked. Why?”

“Just fishing. What do you do there at the bank? Do you have access to the vault?”

“No.” Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. She stared at him.

“What about keys? Do you have keys to the bank?”

“I have a key that lets me in the office. But that wouldn’t do anyone any good.”

“Why not?”

“We change the locks whenever a key’s lost.”

“But you do have a key.”

“I did. I gave it back the other day. There’s a log our operations officer keeps of every key, who has it, the serial number. When somebody leaves the bank, they have to take the key back. They keep them in a locked file drawer.”

He took in her stare, returned it. “There’s probably no connection. I was just curious. You said Business Trust Bank?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay. So you didn’t see anyone that night, but you’re sure someone was in the house with you. And it wasn’t Greg.”

“Yes. I’m sure of it. Greg probably left the sliding glass door unlocked. Whoever came in turned off the power outside and found the door unlocked.”

“The junction box is outside?”

“Yes, in back.”

He nodded slowly. Then he hesitated. This conversation was about to get even harder. “The coroner’s report—did Detective Danton fill you in?”

She dropped her head and nodded.

“I’m sorry, but the murder didn’t happen where they found Greg. His body was moved. So there could be something to what you’re saying. You should talk with Danton again.”

“I will. He’s been very nice. I just think he believes . . .” Her head dipped again. “He found some drugs in Greg’s room.” She said it as if making a confession.

“Yeah, I saw that in the report.”

“But that doesn’t mean anything. That doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“It might.” He didn’t remind her of the results of the tox screen on the body.

“But it doesn’t.” That stare again. Forcing him to agree. Daring him to contradict her.

“Okay. Let’s say it doesn’t. Let’s say someone came into the house that night. They turned off the power and found the unlocked door. Maybe Greg surprised them and there was a struggle. How could you not hear that? How could you sleep through it?”

Her lips tightened. She dropped her eyes.

“Did you see anything that morning that looked like there was a fight in the house?”

“It could have happened outside.”

“Yeah. It could have.”

She rose from the bench and folded her arms. “Look, I know what it sounds like, okay? The grieving mom looking for a better explanation. Something that doesn’t make her boy look so bad. But I’m telling you, there was someone here that night. It wasn’t Greg. It wasn’t anybody I know. But he was here.”

Deny it, she was saying with every angle of every joint in her body.

Tom wouldn’t deny it. His hunch was right.

It was him. It was Flip.