“Landon Keene,” he said.

I jerked my eyes off the tattoo. “What?”

“Landon Keene,” he repeated. “See what you can find out about him.” He smiled reluctantly. “You find anything that interests you, then come back and see me. If you want.”

Russell Simington disappeared.

TEN

I walked out of San Quentin feeling like I’d just been sprung. The clouds had lifted, leaving a frosty haze in the sky and a chill in the air.

Or maybe it was me.

A guy across the parking lot watched me as I came out. He made no effort to hide the fact that he had his eyes on me. He was about my height, extra thin, and wore a navy suit that looked too small for him, the pants rising an inch above his shoes and the coat sleeves revealing both wrists. Aviator sunglasses, totally bald.

I took out my cell phone, called the cab company, and heard it would be about ten minutes.

The guy pointed at me and walked in my direction.

I put the phone back in my pocket and waited for him.

“Mr. Braddock,” he said as he approached.

“Yeah?”

He pulled out a badge. “Detective Ken Kenney with San Francisco PD.”

“Did you just stutter or is that really your name?” I asked.

Kenney smiled, exposing a bunch of crooked teeth. “You have a moment?”

“Not really.”

“I think you do,” he said, removing his sunglasses. “Then why’d you ask?”

“Just being polite,” he said. He nodded at the prison. “Visiting a friend?”

“No.”

“Taking a tour?”

“No. I was getting a manicure.”

“Did you visit with Mr. Simington?” His voice was precise, each syllable pronounced.

“Yeah.”

“Was he doing well?” “I didn’t ask.”

“Ms. Gill asked you to visit him?” Kenney asked.

“Yep.”

“But she didn’t accompany you?” “Nope.”

He waited for me to elaborate. I didn’t.

“Interesting guy, Simington is,” Kenney said, twirling his sunglasses by the arm. “You know why he’s incarcerated here, correct?”

“Sure. You busted him for parking tickets. You guys take that shit seriously in San Francisco. Well done.”

Kenney laughed and stopped the twirling. “Simington was rather humorous, too, from what I recall.” He looked at me, the humor gone from his eyes. “Like father like son, I guess.”

The blood rushed to my face. “Fuck you.”

“Mr. Braddock, we arrested Mr. Simington for a different crime than the one he’s currently serving time for. Unfortunately, the case was not prosecuted successfully. Nonetheless, we are very content now that he is residing here, awaiting his punishment.” He paused. “We do not wish to see that punishment changed.”

“What did you arrest him for?”

“He was hired to kill a young man approximately eight years ago,” Kenney said. “He killed the young man in exactly the same manner as the crime he was eventually convicted of.”

Russell Simington’s past got a little darker and, by default, so did mine.

“So what?” I said. “You think I went in there with a magic wand and commuted his sentence?”

“No, sir,” Kenney said, looking at his shoes, then bringing his eyes up slowly to meet mine. “I just want to make it clear that I will do everything in my power to see him remain where he is.”

“Good for you.”

“I’d hate to have to follow you around the whole time you’re visiting San Francisco,” Kenney said, with a forced smile, “just to find out what occurred in there.”

I sighed, already too tired for so early in the day. “I asked him a few questions. That was it. Darcy wanted some information. He didn’t give it to me. And I don’t think he ever will.”

“I am intrigued that Ms. Gill did not attend with you today,” Kenney said, his eyes crinkling as he said it. “That seems atypical of her.”

“What can I tell you? Don’t know where she is.” The cab pulled up outside the main entrance. “My ride’s here. See you later.”

“Will you be visiting again?” Kenney asked.

“You did a good job of finding out about me this time,” I said, smiling at him as I walked away. “Keep on detecting.”

ELEVEN

I gave the driver directions back to the offices of Gill and Gill.

The detective’s surprise visit rattled me. I was pretty sure he saw it, too. Probably what he was hoping for. I knew that Kenney’s case was most likely more complicated than what he had told me. For him to hang on to it like he was doing meant that it had hung on to him.

The cab dropped me off at the same spot outside the old building. Miranda looked more frazzled this time.

“Did she call you?” she asked as I came through the door.

“No. You?”

“No.” She gnawed on a black fingernail. “Man, she never goes this long without checking in. And I can’t believe she would let you talk to him without being around.”

“You know a cop named Kenney?”

She let go of the fingernail. “Yeah. How do you know about him?”

“He was waiting for me when I came out of the prison.”

She scowled. “Figures. Even more reason Darcy should’ve been with you. You tell him anything?”

“Nothing to tell. He was basically just letting me know he doesn’t care for Simington.”

“He’s still pissy about striking out on him years ago,” she said. “Probably has front-row reservations for the execution.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why does he care so much?”

Miranda sighed. “Simington killed Kenney’s nephew. Went ballistic, I guess, when he got off. I wasn’t around, but Darcy told me about it.”

“Did Simington kill the kid?”

“Definitely,” Miranda said. “But the evidence they had was for shit so he skipped. Kenney couldn’t work it and Simington did a good enough job covering it up that the cops who did pull it couldn’t do a thing with it. Kenney’s been sour since.”

I was trying to equate the image of a cold-blooded killer with the man I’d just met inside the prison. I was having a hard time getting the two to mesh.

“Kenney’s apparently followed his case since he was convicted five years ago. When Simington’s number came up on the row a year and a half ago, Kenney made contact with us. He’s been by several times to see Darcy, to try to intimidate her and get her to back off, I guess.”

“Hard to do,” I said.

Miranda’s black lips curled into a smile. “She lets him do his thing, talk up all the ways he can end her career and all that. Then when he’s done, she opens up the door and waves him out without saying a word.” Miranda laughed to herself. “You can almost see his aorta explode.”

If Kenney was certain Simington had killed his nephew, I had a hard time blaming him for his stance. Opponents of the death penalty were fond of saying that you can’t make the crime personal. The problem was, murder was always personal for someone. Murder left a trail of victims in its wake. In this case, Kenney was one of the victims.

The amusement died on Miranda’s face, replaced with concern. “Where the hell is she?”

“I don’t know,” I said, heading for the door, irritated by the entire situation. “But when you find her, tell her to call me.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to San Diego.”

“You’re going home?” she asked, incredulous. “You just got here.” “I did what Darcy asked,” I said. “She wants to know what he said, she knows where to find me.”

TWELVE

My return flight wasn’t until the following morning. I tried to change it and was informed it would cost me two hundred bucks, so I spent fifty on a crappy airport motel room instead. I got back to the airport in time for my flight the next morning, my mind swimming with images of Simington’s face and voice.

As we descended into San Diego, the clouds were playing tag in the sky, waiting to see which one dropped the first bucket of rain on the ground. I drove to my place, my thoughts bouncing between Darcy, Kenney, and Simington but never coming together to give me an answer about anything.

I shoved my key in my front door to unlock the deadbolt and twisted. There was no resistance, which told me it hadn’t been locked to begin with.