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I wasn’t angry with Robin. I did fight to keep my throat from closing off.
“There’s a lot about my sister that you don’t understand,” she said.
It ate me up, but I had to admit she was right.
Another pickup pulled in and another white guy got out, walking with a wide stride into the store. “Anyway,” she went on, “You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to fall in love with you.” Her hand left mine. “Which doesn’t mean I don’t like you. I do. I love the feeling of your body against mine. I just don’t intend to get under your spell. That would be trouble.” In a different tone, she said, “Check this out.”
The long black Chevy Suburban bumped loudly from the street into the lot and drove straight to the front of the gun shop. It didn’t use a parking space but pulled up just ahead of the door. Two muscular Hispanic men got out. They weren’t bangers. Both wore suits without ties. The driver did a subtle scan of the surroundings and then they both went inside. They moved with a limber, professional gait. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were cops.
Another half hour passed, enough time for the other customer to leave. Soon after, the driver came out and opened the back of the Suburban—it had double doors. Then my new pal Barney wheeled out a cart stacked with long, thin boxes. The three men hefted them into the SUV. The operation took ten minutes at the most, but it was enough for three loads on Barney’s cart. The three men shook hands and the Hispanics sped away. Unless they were buying ammunition for local law enforcement, they were definitely not cops. At least not friendly ones.
11
I took another chance that evening following cocktails. After getting Robin in the guest room and setting the alarm, I walked around the corner to a bungalow on Encanto Boulevard. It belonged to a neighbor who we had over for dinner parties, when we used to have them, and saw at Central Church on Palm Lane, before Lindsey had decided that if God really did exist she hated him. The door opened after the first knock and Amy Preston invited me inside.
She was fair-haired and attractive, in a girl-next-door way, wearing her mid-thirties well. As usual, she was dressed in a conservative pants suit. If asked where she worked, she would say, “the Department of Justice.” But she really worked for what I kidded her was the “fun agency”: The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. The joke had been spoiled somewhat when the feds added “explosives” to the title.
I met her when she first moved into the neighborhood and had stopped by to ask if a homeless person was camping behind our house. The answer was no—the camper had temporarily bedded down behind the overgrown back yard of a nearby house, owned by an elderly couple whose kids I had gone to school with. But that was how we met. It took a long time to realize that her businesslike restraint was not just because she was the supervisor of an elite federal law-enforcement unit, but also because she was shy.
“David. My God, are you all right?”
I told her I was and took a seat on one of the mission-style chairs in her perfect Pottery Barn living room.
“I guess not completely, since you’re packing.”
I had the Python under my windbreaker. I said, “An armed society is a polite society.”
“Yeah, yeah. I read about what happened. Did you know this…person? The story only said it was an unidentified male.”
“It was Robin’s boyfriend. You never met him.” I turned down her offer of wine. “He claimed to teach at NYU and was in town writing about sustainability. It’s the latest fad in academia.” I paused. “Unfortunately, it all seems to have been a scam.” I continued: Now the cops had an entirely different assumption, all based on the man’s ring that I had found in the death house. I described the design.
“El Verdugo.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “He’s been on the radar for several years.” She added, “If he’s real. Some analysts think he’s an amalgamation of different hired killers, but the myth is more powerful to the cartel.”
“The bogeyman.”
Her eyes were still. “Something like that.”
Amy was circumspect, even though we both worked in law enforcement. At one time, I would have been inclined to think: typical fed. Now I was more willing to accept that she had secrets she had to keep. We didn’t talk shop and I had never asked her for a professional favor.
“Are you still staying at home?” she said. “I’m surprised. Robin might be a target—I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. PPD’s providing protection, I assume.”
“I don’t count on it. The lead investigator is Kate Vare.”
“Ah, Ms. Professional Jealousy. Surely she wouldn’t let that get in the way.”
“I wish I could say that.”
The talk stoked my anxiety about Robin. But she knew the drill: if the alarm went off, she would immediately get in the safe space behind the steel plate, with the Chief’s Special, and dial 911. “Tell the dispatcher,” I had drilled her, “it’s a break-in that is in progress. They respond to those words, ‘in progress.’ ”
Amy sipped from the glass of white wine on the table beside her chair. The calm normality I felt in her house was so at odds with the intensity of our lives on Cypress that it broke my stride, diverted me from my mission. Then I heard Bruce Springsteen’s “Tunnel of Love” album softly playing in the background. Just the kind of thing I had banned from my life lately. The Boss sang “Cautious Man” and the weights on my heart swelled. “Weights” was probably the wrong word. They were compartments in which I had placed recent disasters and sorrows — stuffed them full and heavy and tried every waking moment to keep the lids on. It was a learned skill and I was still learning. Fortunately she filled the silence.
“How do you like working for the new sheriff?”
“I’m not going to stay.”
I lied. I bent the truth. For the moment, there was no reason for Amy to think I didn’t still carry a badge. It was a useful fiction and I could use it for a few more days without getting caught; paperwork traveled slowly down on Jefferson Street. I had used my name and badge number that afternoon to run my scumbag through the NCIC. His wallet had two stolen credit cards and fifteen dollars cash, but his California driver’s license was true. And he was a member of La Familia—on parole after doing time for assault and weapons possession, the latest in a long and violent sheet.
“Here’s a gift for lighting your backyard grill.” I reached into my windbreaker pocket and tossed Amy the yellow book of matches. She studied it all of five seconds.
