“Forget that reward bullshit, Holman. I tol’ you, I’ll give you money, you want it.”

“I’m not looking for a loan.”

“Then what?”

“One of the officers he killed was my son. Richie grew up to be a policeman, you imagine? My little boy.”

Chee’s eyes went round like saucers. He had met the boy a few times, the first when Richie was three. Holman had convinced Donna to let him take the boy to the Santa Monica pier for the Ferris wheel. Holman and Chee had hooked up, but Holman had left Richie with Chee’s girlfriend so he and Chee could steal a Corvette they saw in the parking lot. Real Father of the Year stuff.

“Ese. Ese, I’m sorry.”

“That’s his mother, Chee. I used to pray for that. Don’t let him be a fuckup like me; let him be like his mother.”

“God answered.”

“The police say Juarez killed him. They say Juarez killed all four of them just to get the one named Fowler, some bullshit about Juarez’s brother.”

“I don’t know anything about that, man. Whatever, that’s Frogtown, ese.”

“Whatever, I want to find him. I want to find out who helped him, and find them, too.”

Chee shifted in his chair, making it creak. He rubbed a rough hand over his face, muttering and thinking. Latin gangs derived their names from their neighborhoods: Happy Valley Gang, Hazard Street, Geraghty Lomas. Frogtown drew its name from the old days of the Los Angeles River, where neighborhood homies fell asleep to croaking bullfrogs before the city lined the river with concrete and the frogs died. Juarez being a member of the Frogtown gang wasn’t lost on Holman. The officers had been murdered at the river.

Chee slowly fixed his eyes on Holman.

“You gonna kill him? That what you wanna do?”

Holman wasn’t sure what he would do. He wasn’t sure what he was doing sitting with Chee. The entire Los Angeles Police Department was looking for Warren Juarez.

“Holman?”

“He was my boy. Someone kills your boy you can’t just sit.”

“You’re not a killer, Holman. Tough motherfucker, yeah, but a man would do murder? I never seen that in you, homes, and, believe me, I seen plenty of coldhearted killers, homies stab a child then go eat a prime rib dinner, but that wasn’t you. You gonna kill this boy, then ride the murder bus back to prison, thinking you done the right thing?”

“What would you do?”

“Kill the muthuhfuckuh straight up, homes. Cut off the boy’s head, hang it from my rearview so everyone see, and ride straight down Whittier Boulevard. You gonna do something like that? Could you?”

“No.”

“Then let the police do their business. They lost four of their own. They’re gonna take lives findin’ this boy.”

Holman knew Chee was right, but tried to put his need into words.

“The officers, they have to fill out this next-of-kin form at the police. Where they have a place for the father, Richie wrote ‘unknown.’ He was so ashamed of me he didn’t even claim me-he put down that his father was unknown. I can’t have that, Chee. I’m his father. This is the way I have to answer.”

Chee settled back again, quietly thoughtful as Holman went on.

“I can’t leave this to someone else. Right now, they’re saying Juarez did this thing by himself. C’mon, Chee, how’d some homeboy get good enough to take out four armed officers all by himself, so fast they didn’t shoot back?”

“A lot of homies are coming back from Iraq, bro. If the boy tooled up overseas, he might know exactly how to do what he did.”

“Then I want to know that. I need to understand how this happened and find the bastards who did it. I’m not racing the cops. I just want this bastard found.”

“Well, you’re gonna have a lot of help. Over there outside his house in Cypress Park, it looks like a cop convention. My wife and daughter drove by there at lunchtime just to see, a couple of goddamned looky-loos! His wife’s gone into hiding herself. The address I gave you, that place is empty right now.”

“Where’d his wife go?”

“How can I know something like that, Holman? That boy ain’t White Fence. If he was and he killed your son, I would shoot him myself, ese. But he’s in with that Frogtown crew.”

“Little Chee?”

Witnesses at two of the bank jobs had seen Holman get into cars driven by another man. After Holman’s arrest, the FBI had pressured him to name his accomplice. They had asked, but Holman had held fast.

Holman said, “After my arrest-how much sleep did you lose, worrying I was going to rat you out?”

“Not one night. Not a single night, homes.”

“Because why?”

“Because I knew you were solid. You were my brother.”

“Has that fact changed or is it the same?”

“The same. We’re the same.”

“Help me, Little Chee. Where can I find the girl?”

Holman knew Chee didn’t like it, but Chee did not hesitate. He picked up his phone.

“Get yourself some coffee, homes. I gotta make some calls.”

An hour later, Holman walked out, but Chee didn’t walk with him. Ten years later, some things were the same, but others were different.

HOLMAN DECIDED to drive past Juarez’s house first to see the cop convention. Even though Chee had warned him that the police commanded the scene, Holman was surprised. Three news vans and an LAPD black-and-white were parked in front of a tiny bungalow. Transmission dishes swayed over the vans like spindly palms, with the uniformed officers and newspeople chatting together on the sidewalk. One look, and Holman knew Juarez would never return even if the officers were gone. A small crowd of neighborhood civilians gawked from across the street, and the line of cars edging past the house made Holman feel like he was passing a traffic fatality on the 405. No wonder Juarez’s wife had split.

Holman kept driving.

Chee had learned that Maria Juarez had relocated to her cousin’s house in Silver Lake, south of Sunset in an area rich with Central Americans. Holman figured the police knew her location, too, and had probably even helped her move to protect her from the media; if she had gone into hiding on her own they would have declared her a fugitive and issued a warrant.

The address Chee provided led to a small clapboard box crouched behind a row of spotty cypress trees on a steep hill lined with broken sidewalks. Holman thought the house looked like it was hiding. He parked at the curb two blocks uphill, then tried to figure out what to do. The door was closed and the shades were drawn, but it was that way for most of the houses. Holman wondered if Juarez was in the house. It was possible. Holman knew dozens of guys who were bagged in their own garages because they didn’t have anyplace else to go. Criminals always returned to their girlfriends, their wives, their mothers, their house, their trailer, their car-they ran to whatever or whoever made them feel safe. Holman probably would have been caught at home, too, only he hadn’t had a home.

It occurred to Holman the police knew this and might be watching the house. He twisted around to examine the neighboring cars and houses, but saw nothing suspicious. He got out of his car and went to the front door. He didn’t see any reason to get dramatic unless no one answered. If no one answered, he would walk around the side of the place and break in through the back. He knocked.

Holman didn’t expect someone to answer so quickly, but a young woman threw open the door right away. She couldn’t have been more than twenty or twenty-one, even younger than Richie. She was butt-ugly, with a flat nose, big teeth, and black hair greased flat into squiggly sideburns.

She said, “Is he all right?”

She thought he was a cop.

Holman said, “Maria Juarez?”

“Tell me he is all right. Did you find him? Tell me he is not dead.”

She had just told Holman everything he needed to know. Juarez wasn’t here. The police had been here earlier, and she had been cooperative with them. Holman gave her an easy smile.