“It’s up in your room.”

“It better not be stolen.”

“You’re whining like a pussy. Look, it’s up there. You gotta play with the ears. The reception is off.”

Holman started up the stairs.

“Hey. Waitaminute. I got a couple messages for you.”

Holman immediately perked up, thinking that Richie’s wife had finally called. He one-eightied back to the desk where Perry was looking nervous.

“Gail called. She wants you to call her, man.”

“Who else called?”

Perry was holding a note, but Holman couldn’t see what was on it.

Perry said, “Now, listen, you talk to Gail, don’t tell her about the goddamned car. You shouldn’t have been driving and I shouldn’t have rented it to you. Neither one of us needs that kind of trouble.”

Holman reached for the slip.

“I’m not going to say anything. Who was the other call?”

Holman snagged the slip and Perry let him have it.

“Some woman from a cemetery. She said you’d know what it was about.”

Holman read the note. It was an address and phone number.

Richard Holman

42 Berke Drive #216

LA, CA 90024

310-555-2817

Holman had guessed that Richie paid for his mother’s burial, but this confirmed it.

“Did anyone else call? I was expecting another call.”

“Just this. Unless they called while I was off paying those goddamned fines for you.”

Holman put the slip of paper into his pocket.

“I’m gonna need the car again tomorrow.”

“Don’t say anything to Gail, for Christ’s sake.”

Holman didn’t bother answering. He went upstairs, turned on the television, and waited for the eleven o’clock news. The television was a small American brand that was twenty years out of date. The picture wavered with hazy ghosts. Holman fought with the antennas trying to make the ghosts go away, but they didn’t. They grew worse.

THE NEXT MORNING, Holman climbed out of bed at a quarter past five. His back hurt from the crappy mattress and a fitful night’s sleep. He decided he either had to sandwich a board between the mattress and springs or pull the mattress onto the floor. The beds at Lompoc were better.

He went down for a paper and chocolate milk, then returned to his room to read the newspaper accounts of last night’s developments.

The newspaper reported that three boys had discovered Juarez’s body in an abandoned house in Cypress Park less than one mile from Juarez’s home. The newspaper showed a picture of the three boys posing outside a dilapidated house with police officers in the background. One of the officers looked like Random, but the photo was too grainy for Holman to be sure. Police stated that a neighbor living near the abandoned house reported hearing a gunshot early during the morning following the murders. Holman wondered why the neighbor hadn’t called the police when he first heard the shot, but let it go. He knew from personal experience that people heard things all the time they didn’t report; silence was a thief’s best friend.

Statements made by both the boys and officers at the scene described Juarez as having been seated on the floor with his back to a wall and a twelve-gauge shotgun clutched in his right hand. A representative of the coroner’s office stated that death appeared instantaneous from a massive head wound fired upward through the deceased’s jaw. Holman knew from Random’s description that the shotgun was short, so Juarez could easily have tucked it up under his chin. Holman pictured the body and decided Juarez’s finger had been caught in the trigger guard or else the shotgun would have kicked free. The buckshot would have blown out the top of his head and likely taken most of his face with it. Holman could picture the body easily enough, but something about it troubled him and he wasn’t sure why. He continued reading.

The article spent a few paragraphs explaining the connection between Warren Juarez and Michael Fowler, but offered nothing Holman hadn’t learned from Random and Vukovich. Holman knew men serving life sentences because they killed other men for offenses much less than the death of a sibling; veteranos who didn’t regret a day of their time because their notion of pride had demanded no other response. Holman was thinking of these men when he realized what bothered him about the nature of Juarez’s death. Suicide didn’t jibe with the man Maria Juarez had described. Random had suggested that Juarez and his wife made the video the morning after the murders. If Random was right, Juarez had committed the murders, spent the next morning giving his daughter donkey rides and mugging for the camera, then fled to the abandoned house where he had grown so despondent that he killed himself. Mugging and donkey rides didn’t add up to suicide. Juarez would have had the admiration of his homies for avenging his brother’s death and his daughter would have been protected by them like a queen. Juarez had plenty to live for even if he had to spend the rest of his life behind bars.

Holman was still thinking about it when the six A.M. news opened with the same story. He put aside the paper to watch taped coverage of the press conference that had been held the night before while Holman was being interrogated. Assistant Chief Donnelly did most of the talking again, but this time Holman recognized Random in the background.

Holman was still watching when his phone rang. The sudden noise startled him and he lurched as if he had been shocked. This was the first phone call he had received since he was arrested in the bank. Holman answered tentatively.

“Hello?”

“Bro! I thought you was in jail, homes! I heard you got busted!”

Holman hesitated, then realized what Chee meant.

“You mean last night?”

“MuthuhfuckinHolman! What you think I mean? The whole neighborhood saw you get hooked up, homes! I thought they violated your ass! Whatchu do over there?”

“I just talked to the lady. No law against knocking on a door.”

“Muthuhfuckin’ muthuhfucker! I oughta come over there kick your ass myself, worryin’ me like this! I got your back, homes! I got your back!”

“I’m okay, bro. They just talked to me.”

“You need a lawyer? I can set you up.”

“I’m okay, man.”

“You kill her old man?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“I thought for sure that was you, homes.”

“He killed himself.”

“I didn’t believe that suicide shit. I figured you took his ass out.”

Holman didn’t know what to say, so he changed the subject.

“Hey, Chee. I’ve been renting a guy’s car for twenty dollars a day and it’s killing me. Could you set me up with some wheels?”

“Sure, bro, whatever you want.”

“I don’t have a driver’s license.”

“I can take care of you. All we need is the picture.”

“A real one from the DMV.”

“I got you covered, bro. I even got the camera.”

In the day, Chee had fabricated driver’s licenses, green cards, and Social Security cards for his uncles. Apparently, he still had the skills.

Holman made arrangements to stop by later, then hung up. He showered and dressed, then pushed his remaining clothes into a grocery bag, intending to find a Laundromat. It was six-fifty when he left his room.

Richie’s address was a four-story courtyard apartment south of Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood near UCLA. Since the address dated from Donna’s burial almost two years before, Holman had spent much of the night worried that Richie had moved. He debated using the phone number, but Richie’s wife had not called, so it was clear she wanted no contact. If Holman phoned now and reached her, she might refuse to see him and might even call the police. Holman figured his best chance was to catch her early and not warn her he was coming. If she still lived there.

The building’s main entrance was a glass security door that required a key. Mailboxes were on the street side of the door, along with a security phone so guests could call to be buzzed in by the tenants. Holman went to the boxes and searched through the apartment numbers, hoping to find his son’s name on 216.