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Catherine gave her a quick hug, but she couldn’t respond, not when the man she loved hadn’t even wished her a good day.
Chapter Eighteen
Ford Dolan had never had any respect for housework, and with Violet gone from their dingy apartment, dirty dishes had piled up in the sink and filthy clothes lay strewn across the floor. He cursed Violet every time he tripped over something he’d left in his own way, but as he saw it, it was her fault for running out on him.
“Ungrateful slut,” he muttered. He tightened his hold on his empty beer can to crush it and tossed it onto the heap of fast-food wrappers littering the cab of his truck. He pulled into a parking place in front of his apartment building and carried the rest of the six-pack and box of fried chicken he’d bought for dinner up to the door.
The light was burned out in the hallway again, but he made his way to his unit without careening into the walls too many times. He’d just unlocked his door when he felt someone move up behind him. Expecting one of his nosy neighbors, he sneered as he looked over his shoulder.
The blonde smiled and took another step closer. “Something smells awfully good, honey. Why don’t you invite me in for supper?”
Ford’s mouth fell agape. The woman’s red dress barely concealed what appeared to be a gorgeous figure, and while he wanted desperately to invite her in, he feared she might take one look at the mess and run right out again on her spiked heels.
“Sure,” he mumbled. “Just give me a minute to tidy up a bit.”
The blonde edged closer still. “Sorry, your time’s run out.”
“Huh?” Ford had left a light on, and he caught the bright gleam of her knife in the second before it entered his belly. He tried to scream as the blade tore through his flesh, but no sound came out of his parted lips. Warm blood poured down his pants, and he died thinking he would finally have to go to the Laundromat.
Saturday morning, Rafael stood out on the sidewalk studying the mural with Catherine, but he hung his head in disgust. “I can hardly stand to look at it now that Nick’s dead.”
Catherine understood his despair but refused to be trapped by it. “When Dave and I first discussed the possibility of a mural, I suggested including a panel where people could write the names of their own angels. Somehow I failed to mention it to you, but it’s still a lovely thought. We’ll have to ask Toby’s permission, but what would you say to dedicating the mural to Nick’s memory?”
Rafael had gotten an early start that morning to paint the angel he’d based on Nick. He’d created not only a perfect likeness of his slain friend, but in one of Nick’s characteristic poses, the angel was looking back over his shoulder and laughing at some private joke.
“It’s a nice idea, but it wouldn’t stop the hurt,” Rafael answered. “Even when good things happen, like this mural, they’re always followed by something incredibly bad.”
“That’s no excuse to quit,” Catherine argued.
“What’s the use when there’s no point in anything? I’m not going to get a scholarship from Art Center. You know I’m not.”
Rafael had been so broken up by Nick’s death that all trace of his former arrogance had vanished. He was as frightened as the rest of them, Catherine realized, and she would get him the scholarship he deserved even if she had to put up the money herself.
“Keep working on your portfolio. The scholarship will come through,” she promised. “Now let’s talk to Toby about adding a memorial panel.”
Unable
to focus on his work, Toby was sitting on the porch. He nodded as Catherine explained her idea for adding names. “Sure, I’ll put some permanent markers out, but I’ll anchor them on cords so that no one draws a mustache on one of the angels.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Catherine cried.
“Plenty of people,” Rafael offered with a rude snort. “For guys who’d shoot someone they don’t even know, drawing a mustache would be nothing.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Catherine conceded. She turned to find Detectives Salzman and Garcia approaching. They were both rather severely dressed in navy blue that day, and neither offered a friendly smile.
After a brief greeting, Garcia got right to their news. “We checked out the license number of the green convertible. It belongs to a retired sheriff’s deputy. On Wednesday night, he had it on display over at a Bob’s Big Boy restaurant for their classic car night. So he’s in the clear. The slugs we dug out of the house don’t match any we’ve gathered at any other crime scene, so for now, all we have is dead ends.”
Disappointed not to have supplied a crucial lead, Catherine chewed her lower lip. “Whoever shot Nick, must have driven by here before that night, and he’ll probably drive by again. Could we set up a camera to photograph traffic?”
Garcia turned to Salzman and rolled his eyes. “Sure, but drivers tend to use the same routes to work or to run errands and back. All we’d have is a lot of license plate numbers rather than viable suspects, and we sure as hell don’t have the time to check hundreds of alibis.”
Toby stood and stretched. “You know what kind of cars gangbangers drive. There’d be no reason to check up on little old ladies in Toyotas.”
“Everyone’s a detective,” Salzman murmured under her breath. “You’re here every day. Have you seen any cars, other than the green convertible, that seemed out of place?”
“No,” Toby admitted, “but it’s difficult to believe no one saw anything that night.”
“It had just gotten dark,” Garcia reminded him. “People were turning on their headlights and hurrying home. The patrons heading into the bar were already tasting their first drink. No one was on the lookout for a shooting.”
