"For a multiple offender."
"And the woman in charge of him? Ms. Caroline. He lucky to have her."
"She might be too smart for her own good."
"I know, baby." Angela shifted her attention to Jamaal. "Tell your daddy what you wanted to tell him."
Jamaal said, "Okay okay oka-oka-oka-oka "
"Deep breath," Chic said.
"I want to go out for the team next year."
"Nuthin' wrong with that."
"Soccer. Not baseball."
Chic dropped his fork.
"And the scars," I added quietly, to Angela. "I'm not sure I could get used to them."
"I know, baby." Angela's eyes didn't leave her husband.
Chic looked over at her, and she nodded once, slowly. With admiration I watched him gather his composure, his jaw grinding left, right, and then he said, through a strained smile, "Nuthin' wrong with that either."
Jamaal came around the table and hugged him from the side, and Chic got him in a headlock and pretended to smack his head into the picnic table. Angela stood to clear.
I said, "I think I might ask her out."
Angela rested a hand on my shoulder. "I know, baby."
Chic walked me to my car. I rolled down the window, and he leaned in. His eyes snagged on Frankel's booking photo on the passenger seat. "Careful on this next move, y'hear?"
I rested my hands on the steering wheel, studied my thumbs. "Kaden was right I think like a writer. But this is the real world."
Chic patted my forearm, drawing himself up. "It's all the real world, Drew-Drew."
Chapter 27
"Hi, Big Brother."
"Hello, Junior," I said for the fifteenth time.
You mind if I turn on the radio, Big Brother?"
I finally caved. "Would you stop calling me that?"
Clapping, Junior fell against my passenger door, weak with laughter. He wore a sweatshirt with the hood raised over his baseball cap in case we needed to pull over and rob a 7-Eleven.
"Just look at the damn printouts before we get to court."
I'd zipped home after lunch at Chic's to feed Xena scrambled eggs with diced bell peppers. She'd shown her appreciation by crapping on my hearth. Once I'd cleaned up after her, I'd hopped on the Internet and printed out pictures of Volvo wagons through the years. Junior's attention was a scarce commodity, but we'd already determined that what he'd seen was clearly not one of the recent not-your-mama's Volvos. He couldn't distinguish between the 200s, the 700s, and the 800s, but he was pretty sure it hadn't been a 900 series, with the rounded corners, introduced in '91. Though it spanned too many years to be particularly helpful, the range of models he liked included Morton Frankel's 760.
"I tole you, homes, all this suburban shit look the same to me. Now, if it had some rims" bouncing in his seat "yeah, boy, then I tell you who, what, where, when, and why."
"And you're sure the cops haven't called you yet?"
"Hayell yeah, I'm sure. You think Ms. Caroline gonna lose the message if the LAPD come callin' for my ass?"
She hadn't been there when I'd picked him up. "Will she be back when I drop you?" After he shrugged, I cleared my throat. "She's… Do you know what happened to her? Her face, I mean?"
"What happened to yours?"
Fair enough.
"Course I know." Junior studied me with his smooth brown eyes. "Oh, homes. Oh, homes!" Now with the elbows-out dance bump. "Big Brother and Ms. Caroline sittin' in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage "
I screeched into a parking space and hopped out before the baby carriage's arrival. We were, thankfully, on time, but Judge Celemin wasn't. Or at least he pretended to be running late, his occasional glances an indication that he was taking pleasure in making me and Junior wait on the uncomfortable bench in the rear of the courthouse.
I checked my watch again 2:15. Forty-five minutes to quittin' time for Morton Frankel. I assumed he'd come home for a post-work shower, and I wanted to be parked by his apartment to see what he drove up in.
The judge bumped a few more hearings ahead of ours and then dragged through some paperwork. By the time he called Junior up the public defender materializing as though he'd been summoned electronically and tacked three more months onto his probation, it was ten till.
I hurried Junior back to the car. He seemed pleased about the ruling. "I don't never want to leave Ms. Caroline. She the shiznit." He eyed me. "Ain't she?"
Frankel's place was close to the courthouse. I wouldn't have time to take Junior back and get there in time. I drove quickly, letting Junior distract himself by working my radio like a video game. The ploy only lasted so long.
"Where we going?"
"I'm having you neutered." I slowed in front of a run-down three-story complex on a street spotted with fabric stores and taqueri'as. Five black teenagers squatted on the strip of brown lawn next door, hugging their knees and rolling dice. In the brief parking lot, the space corresponding to Frankel's apartment number was empty. I cruised the neighboring blocks looking for a Volvo.
Not the ride of choice in Lincoln Heights.
At ten past I cruised up to the curb opposite the complex and threw a few quarters into the meter. The air smelled of car exhaust and boiling hot dogs from the cart parked up the sidewalk beside a bus stop. I was concerned that the teenagers might spot us after a while, but they seemed engrossed in their game.
"This that guy's pad, ain't it, homes?"
A pickup truck rolled to the front of the complex. Morton Frankel tapped the driver a worker I recognized from the yard on the shoulder and climbed out. Junior noted my rigid posture but didn't say anything. Frankel walked up the unenclosed staircase, reappearing on the second floor. He swung open his door, threw his jacket and lunch pail inside, and headed back down. Reaching ground level, he started walking toward us.
Before my heart rate could get up a good head of steam, Frankel cut left up the street. Junior blew out his breath. I reminded myself that fourteen-year-olds, no matter how nefarious, also get scared. Stalking a rapist with my juvenile delinquent, I guessed, would knock me from contention for Big Brother of the Year.
Once Frankel was up the block, I pulled out after him.
"Where's his fucking car?"
"That's what I'm wondering. Maybe he's taking the bus."
"This L.A., homes. Nobody take the bus."
"Not everybody has a Huffy."
"Stay further back, homes. Don't you watch no T.J. Hooker?"
"I was watching T.J. Hooker before you boosted your first car."
"Boosted? The word, Grampa, is 'jacked.' "
And so on.
We followed Frankel another few blocks before he turned in to a body shop. I parked across the street by a rental-car lot plenty of vehicles for the Guiltmobile to blend into. Mort disappeared into the office, a prefab shack. He emerged a few seconds later, rolled a cigarette, and smoked it.
One of the garage doors slid up, and out coasted a brown Volvo wagon.
For an older car, it was in great condition. A few cracks in the paint, but perfectly clean. Clearly Frankel took a lot of pride in his 760. Or he was taking care to keep it free of evidence.
A mechanic with arm-sleeve tattoos hopped out, and Mort gave him a handshake and a shoulder bump. You keep an old car looking that good, you'd better be friends with your mechanic. The guy walked Mort to the right front wheel well and ran his hand over the perfect curve. Mort followed suit, then nodded, impressed with the work.
Why fix the dent? Because he loved his car? Because he wanted to eliminate a potential identifier? Because he'd dented it dragging Kasey Broach's corpse inside?
He pulled a checkbook from his back pocket, leaned over the hood, and signed.
With his left hand.
A hundred eighty-five pounds, left-handed, diabolical gleam in the eyes. Just like me, but with a better gleam.