Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,28
kind of shocking news that—given how Evan had arrived at his doorstep—wasn’t shocking at all.
The impound lot’s security footage had been conveniently knocked out for seven minutes around the time of the attack, which had taken place at 3:09 A.M. In the wake of the killing, the city had begun to shutter the lot after six at night, a precautionary response to stave off potential lawsuits. The Los Angeles Times suggested that the murder might have been an inside job.
Duran was wanted for questioning in connection with the death of Jake Hargreave, but law enforcement had failed to locate him. Evan had perused the reports and the crime-scene photos. Hargreave’s body had wound up sprawled on the asphalt, eyes open in an unnerving stare. As he’d fallen, his wrist had snapped under his weight, the hand swan-necked down as if Hargreave were displaying his fingernails. A bulky guy, air force, lots of gym muscle. A cross pendant had snagged on the collar of his shirt, caught in a nest of thin gold chain. One pant leg was hiked up, revealing the smooth-shaved calf of a triathlete. More blood had leaked from the gash in his neck than seemed possible, darkness spread beneath his body like a blanket.
A BOLO had been issued for Duran through multiple agencies, but nothing had trickled in. Evan had also checked his credit cards, banks, and cell-phone number, but Duran had done a fine job keeping invisible.
Or he was already dead.
The cops had presumably checked his house already, but Evan wanted to nose around himself.
He paused at the end of the walkway now, staring at the path of stones leading to the front door. So many questions.
Why had Jake Hargreave been killed?
Had Andrew Duran killed him?
Or had Duran witnessed the murder and fled Hargreave’s killers?
And the big question resting beneath the others: Who was Andrew Duran to Veronica?
Starting up the front walk, Evan reminded himself that he was just looking into the matter informally. He’d not done anything except fly to Buenos Aires and have a conversation with a long-lost relative. He’d yet to cross any lines that would put him back on anyone’s radar and void his presidential pardon.
Like, say, breaking and entering at the house of a murder suspect in a high-profile case.
Reconsidering the consequences, he veered off from the front door to the side of the house. He’d just check the backyard, peek in a few windows, nothing invasive.
Blackout shades protected the panes, giving up nothing. The small backyard was a work in progress, too, the crumbling patio replaced at one corner with new tiles. The remaining tiles waited in a lowboy dumpster puddled with rainwater. A jungle gym, half assembled by the rear fence, collected spiderwebs. As with the rain gutters, these projects had been halted abruptly sometime ago—certainly well before Duran had disappeared. What had caused him to abandon the home repairs? And the jungle gym, clearly purchased with eleven-year-old Sofia in mind?
A yellowed newspaper fluttered beneath an unlit citronella candle on the patio table. It was written in a foreign alphabet rich with circles and right-angle strokes. Korean.
Was Duran dating a Korean woman?
Did he have a Korean houseguest?
Keeping an eye on the drawn shades of the back windows, Evan stepped beneath the lattice roof of the porch and slid the newspaper free. The date at the top was rendered in both Hangul and English. Five weeks old. Beneath the paper was a junk flyer with a yellow post-office sticker forwarding the mail of Chang-Hoon Baek to this address.
Evan assembled a theory. In need of money, Duran had sublet his house to Mr. Baek, abandoning his home-improvement projects when he moved out. Judging from the take-out menus accruing on the front porch and the five-week-old newspaper, Mr. Baek had been out of town since before Duran went underground.
The cops would’ve already searched the house for Duran, figuring out what Evan was only now learning: that they were in the wrong place.
Evan paused abruptly, sensing something amiss. Was someone watching him from the darkness at the yard’s edge?
He looked for a crack of light beneath the drawn shades. A breeze picked up, whispering through the yellow leaves gathered at the base of the porch. They silenced.
He heard it then, a telltale buzz branded into the memory center of his brain.
You never forgot that sound.
Not even here, wildly out of context, eight thousand miles and an ocean away.