“Kate,” I said, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Her name is Fran. She lost her daughter, the woman I was going to marry. In fact, she lives not too far away.”
“I’d like that, Ty. Does she need to talk to someone?”
“I think maybe you both do,” I said.
“It’s true. I don’t think you ever really get over losing a child. You have a scar and you learn to live with it. There’s a verse in the Bible about how God comforts us in our sorrows, so we can comfort others. So yes, Ty, I’d like to meet her.”
She had no idea what was coming next, but she must have seen something in my eyes. Because her face changed. “What is it, Ty? Is it about Eric?”
I searched for the right words.
“What’s happened?” she said. “Where is he?”
“Kate, Eric and Fayette are in custody.”
“But why? Did they have a fight? Did he hit her? Did she hit him?”
“Nothing like that,” I said. “Let me say this quickly…” I still couldn’t get started. I could not become the hammer that smashed her last hopes. But I knew I would be before the night was over.
She studied my face and a look of resignation came to her own. “Oh no,” she said. “He did it, didn’t he? He really did kill Carl.”
I said nothing, but nodded slowly.
She stood and put her hand on her chest.
“Kate, I’m so sorry. I wish—”
“No. I think I knew it could be true, deep down. I just didn’t want to admit it. I just…”
I got up, went to her, held her. For a long time. Then we sat and talked until she said she’d like to go to bed. I offered to sleep on the couch, in case she needed me around. She said she’d be all right.
I kissed her cheek and said good night. I went out and got in my car and drove. Just drove. Around the city. Wondering where Sister Mary was and if I’d ever see her again. Wondering if I should go spit on somebody’s grave, somebody who died preaching that the law is a fine and noble thing, and lawyers purveyors of justice and all things good. I drove the streets past hustlers and gangbangers and kids who were in between. Past old men and drunk men and about ten different ethnicities, people sitting on bus benches or walking fast, before their fears or doubts or somebody with a knife caught up to them.
I just drove, my own fears and doubts sitting in the backseat, playing tag team. Playing for keeps.
172
I CAME TO in a parking lot in Hermosa Beach.
I’d pulled in late the night before and fell asleep in my car. I was stiff all over, sore underneath, and my mouth tasted like old salami. I uprighted my seat and looked at myself in the rearview. Scary.
Which didn’t concern me. I didn’t have anyplace I needed to be, or wanted to be, or cared about being. Who cared what I looked like? Who cared if I went down to the beach and walked up and down, people avoiding looking at me for fear I’d ask them for spare change. Or some kid could point and say, “What’s wrong with that man, Mama?”
And I’d bend over to the little tyke and say, “People in this life use you, sonny. And they leave without saying good-bye and don’t tell you where they’re going. So don’t invest in anybody, junior. Make a lot of money and hoard it and tell the world what it can do with itself. How’s that? Oh yeah, and you got any spare change?”
I fired up the car and found a Denny’s on the way back to the freeway. I went to their bathroom and freshened up, as they say, and came out feeling like three bucks. I ordered up a French Toast Slam and downed four cups of coffee, and started to feel like five bucks.
And then I got mad.
I headed up the 405 then took the 10 west. I got off at Lincoln and drove to the Blumberg Building. I got there at 8:57.
The security guard recognized me, though he did a triple take. And was tentative in announcing me. But then he got the word and buzzed me in.
I took the elevator to the top floor, and B-2 was waiting for me as the doors opened. His eyebrows went up.