“No, not yet. I just got up to the room. Wally took me up to Chatsworth.”

“I know. I just spoke with him. Were the officers able to tell you anything?”

“They didn’t know anything.”

“I’ve been listening to the news stories. It’s just terrible, Max. I’m so sorry.”

Holman glanced around his new room, but saw he had no television or radio.

“I’ll have to check it out.”

“Were the police helpful? Did they treat you all right?”

“They were fine.”

“All right, now listen-if you need a day or two off because of this, I can arrange it.”

“I’d rather jump on the job. I think getting busy would be good.”

“If you change your mind, just let me know.”

“Listen, I want to get to the DMV. It’s getting late and I’m not sure of the bus route. I gotta get the license so I can start driving again.”

“All right, Max. Now you know you can call me anytime. You have my office and my pager.”

“Listen, I really want to get to the DMV.”

“I’m sorry you had to start with this terrible news.”

“Thanks, Gail. Me, too.”

When Gail finally hung up Holman picked up his bag of clothes. He removed the top layer of shirts, then fished out the picture of his son. He stared at Richie’s face. Holman, not wanting to pock the boy’s head with pinholes, had fashioned a frame out of maple scraps in the Lompoc woodworking shop and fixed the picture to a piece of cardboard with carpenter’s glue. They wouldn’t let inmates have glass in prison. You had glass, you could make a weapon. Broken glass, you could kill yourself or someone else. Holman set the picture on the little table between the two ugly chairs, then went downstairs to find Perry at his desk.

Perry was tipped back in his chair, almost like he was waiting for Holman to turn the corner from the stairs. He was.

Perry said, “You have to lock the deadbolt when you leave. I could hear you didn’t lock the deadbolt. This isn’t the CCC. You don’t lock your room, someone might steal your stuff.”

Holman hadn’t even thought to lock his door.

“That’s a good tip. After so many years, you forget.”

“I know.”

“Listen, I need some towels up there.”

“I didn’t leave any?”

“No.”

“You look in the closet? Up on the shelf?”

Holman resisted his instinct to ask why towels would be in the closet and not in the bathroom.

“No, I didn’t think to look in there. I’ll check it out. I’d like a television, too. Can you help me with that?”

“We don’t have cable.”

“Just a TV.”

“Might have one if I can find it. Cost you an extra eight dollars a month, plus another sixty security deposit.”

Holman didn’t have much of a nest egg. He could manage the extra eight a month, but the security deposit would bite pretty deep into his available cash. He figured he would need that cash for other things.

“That sounds steep, the security deposit.”

Perry shrugged.

“You throw a bottle through it, what do I have? Look, I know it’s a lot of money. Go to one of these discount places. You can pick up a brand-new set for eighty bucks. They make’m in Korea with slave labor and damn near give’m away. It’ll be more up front, but you won’t have to pay the eight a month and you’ll have a better picture, too. These old sets I have are kind of fuzzy.”

Holman didn’t have time to waste shopping for a Korean television.

He said, “You’ll give back the sixty when I give back the set?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, hook me up. I’ll give it back to you when I get one of my own.”

“That’s what you want, you got it.”

Holman went next door to the convenience store for a Times. He bought a carton of chocolate milk to go with the paper and read the newspaper’s story about the murders while standing on the sidewalk.

Sergeant Mike Fowler, a twenty-six-year veteran, had been the senior officer at the scene. He was survived by a wife and four children. Officers Patrick Mellon and Charles Wallace Ash had eight and six years on the job, respectively. Mellon was survived by a wife and two small children; Ash was unmarried. Holman studied their pictures. Fowler had a thin face and papery skin. Mellon was a dark man with a wide brow and heavy features who looked like he enjoyed kicking ass. Ash was his opposite with chipmunk cheeks, wispy hair so blond it was almost white, and nervous eyes. The last of the officers pictured was Richie. Holman had never seen an adult picture of his son. The boy had Holman’s lean face and thin mouth. Holman realized his son had the same hardened expression he had seen on jailbirds who had lived ragged lives that left them burned at the edges. Holman suddenly felt angry and responsible. He folded the page to hide his son’s face, then continued reading.

The article described the crime scene much as Levy described it, but contained little information beyond that. Holman was disappointed. He could tell the reporters had rushed to file their story before press time.

The officers had been parked in the L.A. River channel beneath the Fourth Street Bridge and had apparently been ambushed. Levy told Holman that all four officers had holstered weapons, but the paper reported that Officer Mellon’s weapon had been drawn, though not fired. A police spokesman confirmed that the senior officer present-Fowler-had radioed to announce he was taking a coffee break, but was not heard from again. Holman made a soft whistle-four trained police officers had been hammered so quickly that they hadn’t been able to return fire or even take cover to call for assistance. The article contained no information about the number of shots fired or how many times the officers were hit, but Holman guessed at least two shooters were involved. It would be difficult for one man to take out four officers so quickly they didn’t have time to react.

Holman was wondering why the officers were under the bridge when he read that a police spokesman denied that an open six-pack of beer had been found on one of the police cars. Holman concluded that the officers had been down there drinking, but wondered why they had chosen the riverbed for their party. Back in the day, Holman had ridden motorcycles down in the river, hanging out with dope addicts and scumbags. The concrete channel was off limits to the public, so he had climbed the fence or broken through gates with bolt-cutters. Holman thought the police might have had a passkey, but he wondered why they had gone to so much trouble just for a quiet place to drink.

Holman finished the article, then tore out Richie’s picture. His wallet was the same wallet that had been in his possession when he was arrested for the bank jobs. They returned it when Holman was transferred to the CCC, but by then everything in it was out of date. Holman had thrown away all the old stuff to make room for new. He put Richie’s picture into the wallet and walked back upstairs to his room.

Holman sat by his phone again, thinking, then finally dialed information.

“City and state, please?”

“Ah, Los Angeles. That’s in California.”

“Listing?”

“Donna Banik, B-A-N-I-K.”

“Sorry, sir. I don’t show anyone by that name.”

If Donna had married and taken another name, he didn’t know. If she had moved to another city, he didn’t know that, either.

“Let me try someone else. How about Richard Holman?”

“Sorry, sir.”

Holman thought what else he might try.

“When you say Los Angeles, is that just in the three-ten and two-one-three area codes?”

“Yes, sir. And the three-two-three.”

Holman had never even heard of the 323. He wondered how many other area codes had been added while he was away.

“Okay, how about up in Chatsworth? What is that, eight-one-eight?”

“Sorry, I show no listing in Chatsworth by that name, or anywhere else in those area codes.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Holman put down the phone, feeling irritated and anxious. He went back into his bathroom and washed his face again, then walked over to his window where he stood in front of the air conditioner. He wondered if the water from its drain was falling on anyone. He took out his wallet again. His remaining savings were tucked in the billfold. He was supposed to open savings and checking accounts to demonstrate his return to the normal world, but Gail had told him anytime in the next couple of weeks would be fine. He fished through the bills and found the corner of the envelope he had torn from Donna’s last letter. It was the address where he had written her only to have his letters returned. He studied it, then slipped it back between the bills.