The apartment block where the two old men lived wasn’t as high-rise as the name suggested. Hayes Tower was only six storeys tall. In the unpretentious residential area of Potrero Hill, it was an unremarkable building, surrounded by others equally commonplace. It did look clean and utilitarian, and I guessed that’s all the elderly men required these days. Rink parked his dad’s car in a side street that dead-ended at the warehouse-style doors of a Christian book depository. If the car was going to be safe, I couldn’t think of a more apt place to leave it than under the watchful eye of the Almighty.
Rink had rung ahead. He’d asked that both men meet us at one apartment, and found that his request was redundant. Since hearing of Jed Newmark’s murder both men had spent little time apart, the less able-bodied Faulks seeking solace — and a spare bed — in Parnell’s apartment. It made sense for both guys to watch each other’s backs, and made them a more difficult target for the killer. Then again, if he was ballsy enough, the killer could take them both out at the same time.
Parnell lived on the uppermost floor of the tower. I’ve never been a fan of elevators: not from any sense of claustrophobia but because I saw them as deathtraps for the unwary for anyone in my business. Back when I was hunting terrorists, quite a number of men had died as the doors of an elevator slid open to find me waiting for them with gun or knife in hand. For that reason I took to the stairs, and Rink joined me without comment. He came from the same school of thought.
We went up the stairs, pushing through fire doors at each level, all the way to the top. The building was designed to make the most of the balmy weather, with the access corridors, open to the elements, running along the back of the building. At the front the rooms came with small patio-type balconies, and on arrival I’d noted that some residents had capitalised on the sunshine and planted them to gardens.
On the way up we didn’t relax our guard. The chances of the killer making an attempt on Parnell and Faulks so soon after the events at Takumi’s house were slim, though you never could tell. But we made it to the top floor without incident and followed the corridor along the sunless side of the tower. Parnell’s apartment was the second from last at the northern end of the building. Rink leaned on the doorbell, but then didn’t wait before rapping loudly on the door. A soft scuff of shoes on tiles answered.
‘Who is it?’
The voice was Parnell’s, and it held a gruff edge. Perhaps he thought by acting tough he would frighten off the killer. There was little chance of that, but at least the old guy had enough sense to take precautions.
‘It’s Rink and Hunter. Open up.’
There was a rattle of chains, then the click of a deadbolt. The door swung inward and Parnell peered out at us, his gaze as watery as the first time I met him. After he nodded us in he leaned past us, searching back along the corridor. ‘Your mom didn’t come with you, Jared?’
‘My mom’s safe where she is,’ Rink assured him. Before coming to collect me from the coffee shop he’d dropped Yukiko at one of her friend’s, and she was currently surrounded by enough family members to deter the killer from trying for her there. Rink caught Parnell by the elbow and tugged him inside. ‘Lock the door again, Lawrence.’
‘You don’t think the bastard’s out there do you?’
‘He’s somewhere,’ Rink said. ‘Could be closer than any of us thinks.’
The entry vestibule was short and opened directly into the living room. The space was tastefully decorated, but there was also an edge of neglect about it, with grit and fluff on the carpets, and dust motes dancing in a slash of light coming through the front window. On the right I could see a pair of stockinged feet sticking out at the base of a settee, a coffee table with a cup on top directly in front. As I moved into the room, Rodney Faulks began to struggle out of the settee, his face fearful. He was holding an empty plate, dotted with crumbs, and he almost dropped it in his haste. I waved him back down again. Recognising me, and Rink following, he relaxed a little. He slumped back down, settling the plate on the coffee table. Evidently he needed to be doing something to occupy his mind. He reached for his cup and brought it to his lips. He watched us over its rim, waiting while we positioned ourselves in the room. There was one other easy chair, in which Parnell sat, but we didn’t feel like squeezing up alongside Faulks on the settee so stood in the middle of the room, looking down at the old men. Faulks placed his cup down, and I thought he’d barely wet his lips. I recognised the movement as a nervous reaction: Faulks was probably unaware he’d even picked the cup up.
Checking on Parnell, I saw he was much steadier than his friend. In fact, he looked positively defensive. Not surprisingly: he was aware that we knew what had happened to Charles Peterson, and their part in his slaying. He was possibly ordering an argument in his mind to convince us that what they did was correct. If Charles Peterson were guilty as charged, then he’d find no disapproval from me. There was only one guy out the bunch I’d have taken umbrage with and he was already dead… paid back in kind so to speak.
‘Before we go any further,’ I said, ‘let’s not get hung up on the past. We don’t care who did what to whom; all we’re interested in is stopping the latest murders. We’ve been on the back foot for too long and that’s going to change.’
A look of consternation crossed Faulks’s features and he grabbed at his cup again. Colour flooded his features, and swept up and over his bald pate, causing the faint scars to stand out like ridges on his scalp. I wasn’t sure if it was through shame that we’d learned his secret, or because the disclosure would bring him further danger. Once I’d credited the old man with more strength, but now I could tell he was almost folding under the stress. Parnell, in contrast, simply looked resigned, and bowed his head over his folded hands.
‘We were worried that you’d think the worst of us,’ he sighed.
‘How could we do that without thinking bad of my parents?’ Rink asked. He didn’t have to add that such a notion was unspeakable to him.
‘Who is it? Who is the killer?’
‘We don’t know. That’s the God’s honest truth. We haven’t got a clue.’ Parnell waved a hand, taking in the room, but his gesture was more all-encompassing than that. ‘Could be anyone.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘He has to have a vested interest in this. These killings aren’t down to chance; they’re pinpointed, directed at the men who executed Charles Peterson. The killer is personally avenging his death, or working on behalf of someone intent on doing so. You guys investigated Peterson before you hunted him down to his trailer, you must have looked into his background, his family, those kinds of things. Is there anyone there that could be responsible?’
‘You’re asking us to remember details from over forty years ago.’
‘It’s a small ask in return for your lives,’ I said.
‘Give us some names,’ Rink put in. ‘I have a friend I can put on to them, who’ll check them out and — if they’re there — find the leads we need to identify the killer.’