It was Tuesday evening by the time McMichael and Paz were granted an audience with Malcolm Case. The port commissioner didn't live in San Diego at all, but in an expensive village northeast of the city.
Case's secretary, Allen, had been apologizing over the phone for the last six hours and sketchily tracing his boss's whereabouts for McMichael: He travels by helicopter to save time, Detective, he's got a ten o'clock in Newport Beach, then lunch in Beverly Hills with state senator Rothrock, then up the mountain to Big Bear at four. Now, he's eager to meet with you and he proposes a six P.M. meeting at his winter home. He has one hour and will have to excuse himself for dinner at seven sharp. Does six work for you?
It did work, in giving McMichael time with Barbara Givens and Hector, who'd done some digging into the dizzyingly prosperous life of Malcolm Case. And into the dramatically poignant life of his large sidekick, Alex Dejano.
But it didn't work, in that his time with Johnny- moved from Wednesday to Tuesday this week by Stephanie- would be short.
McMichael sat on Case's backyard patio and watched the twenty-something Allen build fires in two huge, beautifully tiled chimineas. Allen chattered away about how beautiful Case's property was, how it was within the covenant of Rancho Santa Fe, but still bordered wild and undevelopable land, how it was just an occasional winter home for Mr. Case because port commissioners had to reside in either Imperial Beach, Chula Vista, National City, Coronado or San Diego.
A brindle Staffordshire terrier sat next to McMichael, nosing her enormous head under his hand every time he stopped petting her. Her name was Gidget.
Beyond McMichael a stand of palms divided the sunshine and shadow upon a deep green lawn. The eastern hills lay still in clean orange light. Hector sat across from him, sullen all day, clipping his nails with a Swiss army knife.
The helicopter landed at three minutes after six. Case ducked and trotted through the gale of the blades, overcoat lifting, tie flapping back across his shoulder, black shoes aglimmer in the softening evening light. He plopped a stainless steel Halliburton case onto the blue tile patio table and gave his dog a big hug and a kiss on the back of her head before offering a hand to McMichael.
"Sorry it took so long," he said. His handshake was strong and his smile welcoming. Dark-haired, compact, thirty years old but looked twenty-five. "I just closed an eighteen-million dollar ski resort deal in Big Bear. It'll be the jewel of the mountain. I think the thirty inches of new snow convinced them."
"That and your shoeshine," said Hector.
"Finally, a smartass," said Case. "I could use a little humor after dealing with those hayseeds in the mountains. Drinks, please, Allen. And tell Christine to come out and say hello."
Allen got their orders and went inside.
"Sit, gentlemen." Case tossed his overcoat over the stainless case, then pulled one of the steer-hide chairs closer to the chiminea. "What can you tell me about Pete?"
"What can you tell us?" asked Hector.
"Anything you want," said Case. "Aim me, men. I need a place to start."
"You and Pete and a new airport," said McMichael.
"Excellent. Five of the seven port commissioners wanted to keep Lindbergh Field operating and under Port Commission control because it's a moneymaker and it's fun. We're one of the only port commissions in the world that gets its own airport. Every time we need more money, we slap a rental car surcharge or a runway fee. It's easy. But Pete and I thought differently. We saw ahead. We figured San Diego needs a new airport because Lindbergh is small and dangerous. We figured San Diego also needs a sea cargo terminal. Do you gentlemen know that San Diego Harbor isn't even rated as a cargo terminal? So, we proposed to the commission to support a new airport in return for certain concessions from the new Airport Authority. Simple. Well, nobody liked the idea at first- trading a cash cow for a greasy cargo port. But you know, when nobody likes your ideas, that's when things get interesting."
"You want Pacific Transfer to build a cargo terminal on the Lindbergh site, after it closes," said McMichael.
"Yes, I do," said Case.
"And you own Pacific Transfer," said Hector.
"I own fifty-five percent of it. It's public. Pete bought in for fifteen thousand shares. The stock hasn't done squat since I formed the company and took it public three years ago. But when we get the commission to see our wisdom, it's going to go through the roof."
"That's a conflict of interest," said McMichael.
Case shrugged. "We'll float a bid. So will ten other dredging outfits. It's up to the commission to decide."
"Upon which you sit," said McMichael.
"Yep. Commissioners are encouraged to excuse themselves from votes concerning issues in which they have an interest."
"How often you do that?" asked Hector.
Case laughed. "Whenever even a whiff of conflict arises, Mr. Paz. Of course, our votes are not public so you don't have any idea what I really do. It's possible that I've never abstained due to conflict of interest. It's possible that I can abstain without worry, knowing that my fellow commissioners will do the right thing and vote my way. What are friends for? That's one of the beauties of the commission. That's why, when one of our esteemed brethren resigned from the commission last year, thirty applicants were standing in line the next morning for a job that doesn't pay any salary at all. Commissioners have a way of doing whatever they want. There wasn't even an ethical standards section in our charter, until late last year. And mind you, those are just, well, guidelines."
"I liked the way Pete Braga Ford got the leases and sales for Port Commission vehicles," said Hector.
"Me too," said Case. "But he never overcharged- not that I know of. In fact, Pete always made them a very good deal. That's what makes the commission go 'round, gentlemen. That's what makes Western capitalist democracies go 'round, in case you haven't noticed."
"Nice little gravy train," said McMichael.
"Isn't little," said Case. He rose, tossed some more logs into the chimineas, then knelt and petted Gidget. "Pete was a good man. Last week we talked about the terminal, tomorrow I'm going to his funeral. That's life, I guess. But what's it got to do with murder?"
"You answer the questions," said Hector.
"Or we'll go downtown and do this," said Case. "Come on, guys. I've never broken a law in my life. I've never had a speeding ticket. I donated one hundred thousand dollars to the Police Fund last year and I'll do it again this year. I'm trying to help you out because Pete was my friend and I think killers should get death."
The fires in the chimineas roared and threw fresh orange heat onto the patio. Gidget groaned and stretched in the warmth. Case smiled at the dog, his face a jack-o'-lantern of light and shadow.
Allen arrived with two beers and a dramatically large martini with a twist. McMichael could smell the gin from across the table.
"She'll be right out," said Allen.
"Is she making dinner?"
Allen nodded and Case rolled his eyes. "Give her a hand, please."
The secretary walked back into the house with an air of helplessness. A distant pack of coyotes suddenly burst into a yipping chorus and McMichael saw Case look in the direction of the sound.
"What were you and Pete doing to sway two more commissioners your way?" asked McMichael.
"Nothing," said Case. "We already had them. We just hadn't voted yet, made it official."
"How?" asked Hector. "Cut them in on Pacific Transfer?"
"That and more. In fact, you two might consider an investment. It's going to be big, and we'll lock up similar contracts with the Port of Ensenada by June. And better profit down there, because of the labor pool."
Case raised his glass by the stem and sipped. "Wow," he said. "I got the recipe from a bartender in the Clift up in San Francisco. First one of his I ever drank just about knocked me off my stool. There's almost five shots of gin in here."
"How did you bring the other votes your way?" asked McMichael.
"With Pete's railroad idea." Case smiled, sipped again. "Don't know about it? That's okay, nobody really does. It's the other condition of having a cargo terminal instead of an airport. It completes the value. Maybe you didn't know that we have a San Diego inland railroad already in place. Come on, admit you didn't."
"I didn't," said McMichael.
Hector stared into the darkness.
Case smiled proudly. "That's right, gentlemen- one hundred and forty-six beautiful miles of track from the city all the way to the rich cropland of the Imperial Valley. It was built by Adolph Spreckels in nineteen nineteen. And guess what? Nobody uses it. Why? Because it dips down into Mexico – another huge plus from my point of view- and the chickenshit Feds were afraid the cartels would go wild with it. So the tracks sit, gorgeous and gleaming and empty. Actually, they need a little work. But Pete found a way to get it done."
Case sipped again, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "The local politicians' best friend," he said. "Redistricting. It's where political parties trade pieces of property, like in a Monopoly game. The railroad used to be in one congressional district, overseen by a man of low vision and high gutlessness. The demographics were changing in a way that did not favor his party. We couldn't move the railroad, so we all got together and moved the district. The new representative is all-systems-go to get the railroad up and running. That's thousands of tons of cotton and other crops coming into port from the east, thousands of tons of cars and raw materials and electronics unloaded in our new cargo terminal, bound by rail for points east. Perfect, or what?"
McMichael heard a door slide shut, saw Case look toward the sprawling home. "Talk about perfect, here's Christine."
She was a petite blonde, very pretty, her hair all bouncy cornsilk curls. She wore black velvet trousers and a matching waistcoat buttoned halfway up. A black lacy blouse. She set down a tray of appetizers. Up closer, McMichael saw that her mouth and nose were small and graceful, her eyes blue and large.
He stood and shook her hand, as did Hector. Her eyes went to the Band-Aids on his fingers but she said nothing. Case made the introductions, then turned the appetizer plate his way. "What we got here, honey?"
"Mushrooms stuffed with crab, inside some wontons," she said, smiling. Her voice was sweet. "Brushed a little olive oil and garlic on them. Enjoy, gentlemen."
She popped one into her mouth with a wink at her husband, then walked back inside.
"Not the best cook in the world," said Case absently, hoisting a wonton and examining it. "You ever see her?"
"Chrissy Barns," said Hector. "One time we got a tip that her production company was shooting out in El Cajon without a business permit. Turned out to be some other smut outfit."
"Good for you, Sergeant Paz," said Case. "A lot of guys, they've seen everything she ever made and they act like they never heard of her. She was actually raised on a farm- so they went with Barns for a screen name. She had that almost wholesome look that married couples went for. The directors liked to do her up barefoot with cutoff jeans and blouses tied across her tummy. Not that they stayed on very long. Anyway, she shot in Woodland Hills and Van Nuys, the usual Valley stuff. Did three B science fictions and a horror, but you can't go from that to straight pictures. No way."
"Pretty woman," said McMichael. He also thought the mushroom wonton was good.
"Once I got her off the dope, she was perfect. Except for the cooking, which she insists on doing. So I suffer, but I do it valiantly."
"You're real impressive," said Hector.
Case smiled and shrugged. "Okay, so I'm a thankless, smartmouth, near-billionaire punk married to a former adult-content actress. Doesn't mean I don't want to help you with Pete."
McMichael heard the coyotes yapping in the near distance, out beyond the helipad. Case cocked his head in that direction and listened intently. Gidget growled softly but didn't move.
"How did the proposed railroad sway the port commissioners to endorse the new airport?" asked McMichael.
"Not proposed," said Case. "Actual. They realized they'd have total control over a cargo port and a railway. Fewer Fed regulations than Lindbergh and a lot less visibility. Visibility- don't want that. Then, you know, some individually tailored incentives- food and beverage concessions to Ray's brother's company, permitting and fee schedules per Charlie's aggressive desires, Longshoreman for Ed because he's on their pension board- things like that. Those names are fictitious, by the way, but names aren't the point here."
"The usual side deals and insider trading," said McMichael.
"Call it what you want," said Case. "But all of it- as I explained earlier- is one hundred percent legal. And expected."
"You commission guys think you're pretty smart, don't you?" asked Hector.
Case thought about this. "Smart, no. But we're not afraid to think for ourselves. Pete did. I do. That's why we're appointed. To get things done. With all respect, gentlemen, you police aren't in that position. You can't be, or the law would mean nothing. You're the guardians. You enforce. You're given guns and taught to kill. That's why you went into your line of work, isn't it, the power you get? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to have you on my side."
"I'm not on your side," said Hector, cheerfully.
"No," said Case. "Not personal sides. But in the big scheme of things, I need you and you need me."
"What do I need you for?" asked Hector.
"I'm your employer. I'm a citizen. That's all I mean."
"What about Pete's new cannery," asked McMichael, "where the Tunaboat Foundation is now?"
Case shook his head and smiled. "The foundation guys were bright enough to realize the tuna industry isn't coming back to San Diego. Pete was dreaming. Pete tended to get overly romantic at times. Although, if you think about it, a cannery, a fleet, a commercial cargo harbor and a railroad would produce hundreds of millions of dollars over the years. Literally tons of money for jobs, families, civic improvements- the whole socioeconomic structure."
The coyotes burst into a frenzy of snarls and howls and high-pitched whines. It sounded to McMichael like there were fifty of them, just a couple of hundred yards away. Gidget lifted her head, but that was all.
"I hate those things," said Case. "Animals with no natural enemies get out of hand. Parasites. Animals need enemies. Keeps them in check."
"Same with people," said Hector.
"Exactly my point," said Case. "Listen, I've got a fenced pasture down there because Chrissy wants a horse. Beyond the pasture there are thirty-two buildable lots of two acres each, and three hundred acres of water district land that will never be developed. It's wild, unimproved scrub. I bought every lot, and I'll sell them someday and make tangible money for doing nothing but paying a little tax. Anyway, the pasture's got wildflowers and the rabbits love flowers, so they dug under the fence. They're all over the pasture around dusk, scores of them. Then the coyotes figured it out. Let me tell you about the coyotes. There are hundreds, thousands of them out there past the fences. This whole city is overrun with them. You can't shoot them. They have no natural enemies. They're everywhere. The fruit falls off all these trees and the rabbits and ground squirrels get fat, and guess what? In come the coyotes and they clean up. Biggest, heaviest coyotes you'll ever see. They'll look at you like you're in their way. They're living off the fat of the land, right here in the covenant."
"Covenant or not," said Hector, "they have to make a living."
"And that they do, Sergeant Paz. They dug the rabbit holes bigger and started coming under the fence at night. You wouldn't believe the sound of coyotes killing rabbits. It sounds exactly like the massacre that it is- wild and crazy and without any restraint. Well, I got sick of looking at the mess the next morning because a coyote will kill six or eight rabbits, take one and leave. Just leave the corpses behind. I wonder if they kill them for the fun of it."
Hector shrugged.
"So one night," Case said, "after the coyotes crawled in and started their slaughter, I walked down and rolled some rocks into the opening. Then I let Gidget here through the gate to see what would happen. That's sixty-five pounds of Staffordshire terrier, if you know the breed. It's the main ingredient of the pit bull. Her and four coyotes- big ones."
At the mention of her name Gidget lifted her bowling-ball head, then clunked it back to the patio.
Case sipped again. "I turned on the pasture floods and watched. Gidget trotted out there and took one look at those animals, then looked back at me. You should understand, Gidget's the sweetest, most easygoing animal I've ever seen. She's like she is now, all the time. But she took off after them, with this whole new posture. It was as if a thousand years ago her ancestors had learned something and she still remembered the instructions. Like she'd been waiting her whole life to show me what she could do. I figured, well, four on one ought to be interesting. But the coyotes didn't think so. They scrambled back to the hole under the fence but there was no hole. They split four different ways as fast as they could. Like they'd remembered some ancient bit of wisdom. But Gidget's fast, too, and she caught the fattest one by the leg, dragged it down, got it by the throat and did that pit bull thing. Their whole body shakes back and forth and their jaws wrench the opposite way so there's this awesome torque at the end of each shake, and she killed that coyote in less than ten seconds. Had a big slab of something in her mouth when she came up. Dropped it and took off after the next one. Five minutes later she'd killed them all. When I called her back she sat there with blood all over her, panting and wagging her tail at me. That taught me something."
The screen door opened again and McMichael saw Christine and Allen coming toward them, each with a tray.
"What did it teach you?" asked McMichael.
Case frowned and sighed. "To watch out for people who do what they're trained to do. Nothing scarier in the world."
"Like us?" asked Hector.
Case shrugged. "You two guys come to my home and ask if any of my business associates might have beat an old man to death. Fine- I can keep from laughing and try to help. But the commission, we're not the watchdogs. We don't take orders. We don't murder people. We make things happen for the good of San Diego first, and the good of ourselves second."
"I think you're more like the coyotes," said McMichael.
Case nodded amicably. "There's a better chance that one of your guys killed Pete than one of mine. That's my opinion. Do what you want with it. Now, will you excuse me and my wife to dinner? It won't be any good, but dessert is like nothing you've ever had."
Johnny pulled open the tremendous wooden door of his La Jolla mansion at quarter to eight. He was sweet from his bath and wearing his pajamas, dwarfed by the entryway behind him. McMichael stepped inside and picked him up and swung him gently around, then set him down and checked his cheek.
"Healing up well," he said.
"Mom put goop and a bandage on it."
"How are things?"
Johnny shrugged. "Okay. I got a piano. Come see it."
McMichael smelled the cooking and his dinnerless stomach gurgled. He looked down the long entryway. It had an arched ceiling and rough white plaster with inset tile. The chandelier was a brawny wrought-iron design that looked very old but ran on electricity. The rug runner was Persian, he had learned. Stephanie had described the home as "Moroccan modern." It looked to McMichael like a hotel he couldn't afford a night in.
Stephanie walked toward him with her no-nonsense tilt of head. Her dark brown hair was short now. She wore white jeans and a black knit tank, socks. She was back in her pre-Johnny shape, curvy and inviting.
"Hi, Stephanie," he said.
"Hey, Miker. When you're done with John, I'd like to talk to you. How about a drink?"
"I'm fine," he said.
McMichael beheld his son's new piano. It was placed, naturally, in the music room, amidst Dr. Clay Blass's guitar collection. The guitars stood up in their stands like the museum pieces they were, each signed- Johnny had shown him early on- by the pop musician who had once played it.
McMichael stepped between the Jimi Hendrix and the Tom Petty and ran his hand over the dark rich wood of the baby grand.
"It's for my birthday but I got it early," said Johnny. He sat at the instrument and lifted the fallboard. He tapped a few keys without apparent purpose or interest. "Got lessons, too."
"That's a nice gift. Your grandmother could play a little."
"Yeah," Johnny said, flipping down the door and sliding off the bench. "Want to see my room?"
"Absolutely."
Johnny's spacious room had its own bath and deck overlooking the Pacific. The rich red curtains were drawn. His bed was made up and turned down. It was amazing to McMichael how little remained of the possessions Johnny'd had just a year ago, when they broke up their household: a few wooden boxes from Libertad, a trunk of balls and gloves, a Batman poster, a little bookshelf CD player, a basketball trophy and a soccer team picture. They looked smaller here. McMichael thought of Victor Braga's quarters in the Horton Grand, of what it would be like to stay ten years old- or seven- forever.
"Mom almost killed me when I told her what happened."
"I knew she would."
McMichael had delivered his wounded and unhappy son to Dr. Blass on Sunday evening while Steffy was in the shower.
"I got this crystal radio kit but I can't figure it out. Will you help me?"
Half an hour later McMichael was finally finished winding the wire. It was exacting and slow but Johnny held the spool on a pencil and watched every turn, correcting his father when a loop was loose or crooked or kinked. They talked about school: handball, when to fight and when to walk, how hard cursive writing was going to be. McMichael saw the blood coming through the holes of his knuckle dressings.
They were about to attach the crystal when Stephanie came in and said it was time for bed.
"Quarter to nine," she said with a weak smile. "Go to bed now, John. I'll come back and tuck you in."
"Dad's going to."
"After that, I mean."
Later Stephanie guided McMichael to the family library and sat him in front of a panoramic view of the black Pacific. Clay Blass came in to say hello and offer him a drink, which McMichael declined. Blass was fiftyish, trim and tan, with curly gray hair and a thoughtful face. He wore round, wire-rimmed glasses. His fingers were surgeon's fingers- long, slender and somehow intelligent. He labored through some small talk, then excused himself, pecked his wife on the cheek, and shut the door quietly behind him.
"That was a stupid thing to do, Tom- just throw a new woman at him like that."
"I didn't throw her, Steffy. We had lunch."
"And Johnny almost got killed."
"He's never done anything like that."
"Neither have you," said Stephanie. "This is all new to him. That's the point. Tom, I'm all for you dating, I am totally for that. But you've got your son to consider. You had to know his reaction was going to be strong."
"I had no idea that would happen."
"You should have talked to me about it first," she said. "I could have told you how I introduced Clay into-"
"It's none of your business how I introduce my son to my friends."
She looked at him hard. "How could you let him into the street?"
"He ran into the street when I wasn't looking at him. You cannot watch a person every second of the day, waiting for them to run into the street. You might think you could, but you can't. So get off your high horse. You look wrong on it."
"I'm on the high horse? You can't even admit you made a mistake that almost killed your son. I'd have never let that happen."
McMichael couldn't see the logic in her argument and he couldn't muster himself for a fight. In the twelve years he'd known Stephanie he'd never actually won one.
She shook her head in disbelief at McMichael's negligence, then put her hands on her hips, straightened her back and sighed. Her dismissals had always hurt and infuriated him, but he did his best to ignore it. At this moment he was extremely pleased not to be married to her.
"I know you didn't mean to hurt him, Tom."
"You've got that right."
"Just remember you have a son to consider."
"That would be hard to forget," said McMichael.
"Sarcastic as ever, I see."
"Good night."
He turned to go but she stepped in front of him. "Bullet holes?"
"Someone shot her. It was eight years ago."
"Okay. I know that's none of my business. But keep in mind, Tom, that you're not just looking for a good time. You're looking for a stepmother for John."
"I'm not looking for either."
"Maybe you should be. How old is she?"
"Twenty-eight."
"And no children?"
McMichael shook his head.
"Where did you meet her?"
"At work."
"Well, good luck. And next Wednesday is bad for you and Johnny," she said.
McMichael had become amazed at the new decisiveness with which his ex-wife organized his life.
"Clay has a function," she said. "He wants all of us there. Sorry. I know that makes two weeks in a row."
"Saturday, then," he said. "Don't break that one on me."
"No. I promise."
She walked him to the front door. "You look different," she said.
"Same old guy."
"Your son loves you more than anything in the world," said Stephanie. "You're the hero. You can do no wrong. Somehow he's got it in his head that I wanted you out, and he resents me for it."
"You did want me out."
"I wanted a husband who liked me as much as his job. And we both agreed it was best."
"You know the truth, Steffy. So do I and so does Johnny. Good night."
McMichael cruised the Gaslamp Quarter looking for working girls, spotted one of his old Metro/Vice ladies crossing Fourth at J Street. Ellie, the surfer girl from Ocean Beach. She'd changed her hair from blonde to red. He pulled over and waved. She made the plainwrap immediately, went the other way.
He got out and trotted after her. "Ellie! Tom McMichael here. We have to talk."
She turned a corner. When McMichael rounded it a moment later she had one black boot resting against the bricks, one on the sidewalk and the rest of herself wrapped in a pea coat. She was lighting a smoke.
"Haven't seen you in a while," she said.
"I'm on Homicide now."
"Big leagues. No more hassling the girls."
"Seen Angel around?"
"Not for a while. That creep retard was stalking her."
"So I hear."
She looked him over. "What do you want Angel for?"
"Conversation."
"She's gone. It's too bad."
"What's wrong with being gone?"
"No whore ever disappeared because something good happened to her."
McMichael nodded. "When was the last time you saw her?"
She puffed and watched the smoke hang in the cold air. "Couple weeks."
He waited while Ellie took another puff. "Must have been a Monday. Yeah, Monday I saw her at the Cooler. It's two-for-one night."
"What's the word on her, then- gone two weeks? People must be talking."
She dropped the cigarette and ground it out with her boot. "There's no word. She had the old retard after her and she disappeared. The girls see Victor coming, we just clear out."
"Has he been around much?"
"He's around too much. Walks more than we do."
"Ever date his old man?" asked McMichael.
"He was Angel's."
"Penny still working out of the Palms?"
Ellie shrugged.
It took him half an hour to find Penny. Her john came from the Palms lobby first, looked furtively in both directions before crossing the street and ducking into a Mexican restaurant. He looked like a man running through rain but it wasn't raining.
Five minutes later Penny came strolling out in a faux python miniskirt with matching boots, and a long leather coat with a fur collar. She was tall, with a toothy smile and pretty eyes. The wig shined vehemently in the streetlights.
"I'm clean, not holding and not working," she said.
"I believe all that."
"Come on, McMan."
"I want to talk."
"Not here."
They walked to a parking lot on Sixth. She led him to the back where nobody would see them.
"All right," she said. "I could sure use forty bucks for the collection plate on Sunday."
McMichael gave her twenty. "I heard you and Pete Braga were dating."
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Once or twice."
"When was the last time?"
"A few days before he died. I think it was a Sunday. His place out on the point."
"See anybody there?"
"Just him. Alone."
"Pete worried, say anything to get you thinking?"
She thought a moment, popped a breath mint. "He said they were going to name a church after him. Which was weird, considering what we were doing."
"You lift anything?"
She screwed her face into an attempted mask of innocence. "Shit, McMan, what do you think I am?"
"What did you lift, Penny?"
"Scout's honor, nothing," she said. "Pete tipped me a hundred on a hundred, got the taxi both ways, everything. Had some nurse hanging around, watched me coming and going. Made me nervous. Why would I steal from him?"
"What did you make of the nurse?"
Penny shook her head, pulled the coat tighter around her chin. "Looked like she'd seen it all."
"Explain that."
"It's just a look. We understood each other, you know what I'm saying? I wondered why she wasn't doing him for two hundred and no travel. It's hard work, though, a guy who's eighty-something."
"You know Victor?"
"Everybody knows Victor. I stay away from him. Always have."
"Why's that?"
"Look what happened to Angel."
"What did happen to Angel?"
"Gone for two weeks? No word to anyone? Nothing good, I can tell you that much."
"You see anything else interesting?"
"Possibly."
McMichael gave her another twenty.
"Actually, I saw Angel the last night she was on the street. Day after New Year's. Thursday. Angel was there on Broadway, down from the Grant about a block. Car pulls up and Angel gets in."
"Tell me about that car."
"One of those big SUVs that all look the same. The color of wine. Red wine."
"What time?"
"About midnight."
"Get a look at the driver?"
"No. Wrong angle, too dark. But the SUV had Pete Braga Ford plates on it- brand-new. Went down Broadway toward Harbor Drive with Angel inside. That's gotta be worth something."
"See you in church," he said.
"Remember not to stare."
She snatched another bill and disappeared into the alley behind the lot.