In the next message, Dray let him know that Marshal Tannino had called again-apparently for the second time this week-concerned about Tim and wanting to check in on him. Ananberg had called the Nextel last night around 3:00 A.M. Her message simply said, “Tim. Jenna.”
He was pleased that the rest of the Commission hadn’t bothered him, as he’d requested. Having Robert and Mitchell out of the way for the time being was a relief. He replayed Dray’s first message twice, looking for places where her voice cracked around the edges, indicating want or longing.
He sat at his small desk, studying his wallet-worn photo of Ginny, feeling his thoughts percolate, blur, disregard their boundaries. Later he tried to sleep but failed. He was on his belly, watching the alarm clock when it clicked to 5:30 and emitted its galling buzz.
He sat the stakeout straight through the day, leaving only to piss twice and grab a burrito from a stand up the street. His head, displeased at its lack of stimuli, swam in hangover haze. The air felt more exhaust than oxygen, and the sea breathed no hint that it was hitting sand ten blocks away.
At the stoplight ahead, a vendor of dubious naturalization was selling tiny U.S. flags for ten bucks a pop. America-land of ironic opportunity.
Afternoon eased into dusk, dusk to night. When 11:15 rolled around, Tim loosened his weight belt one notch, letting the cramping tighten his lower back and push him to alertness. Twenty minutes later he was still sitting upright, eyes trained on the store entrance. At 11:45 he started cursing. Midnight came, and he turned over the engine and threw the car into gear.
He was just pulling out when Bowrick rounded the corner.
29
BOWRICK SPENT A good forty minutes on the 7-Eleven phone before emerging, spitting once on the sidewalk and walking back up Palms. Tim had pulled the car over on Palms in anticipation of Bowrick’s heading back in the direction from which he’d arrived. He’d assumed Bowrick would show up on foot due to his history without a car; his new residence couldn’t be far away.
Bowrick walked with a distinctive slouch, shoulders humped, hips tucked slightly like a spanked dog’s, favoring his right leg. His black-and-white flannel hung open, fringing his thighs like a skirt. Tim waited for him to turn the corner onto Penmar before following on foot. Two blocks down, Bowrick lifted the latch on a waist-high fence and slipped into a ragged front yard with an oval of dirt that used to be a lawn. The house itself, a prefab with tract-home simplicity, sat slightly crooked on the lot, its Ty-D-Bol turquoise clapboards water-warped and misaligned. By the time Tim strolled past, Bowrick had disappeared through the front door.
Tim retrieved his car, parking a few houses up from Bowrick’s, and sat pretending to study a map. After about five minutes a tricked-out Escalade pulled up and honked despite the late hour. Bowrick emerged holding a small duffel bag and hopped into the car. As it passed Tim, he caught a glimpse of the driver-a Hispanic kid in a wife-beater tank top with orange fire tattoos on his shoulders and neck.
Probably off to do a late-night drop.
Tim waited until the sound of the engine faded, then grabbed the camera from his backseat and approached the house. He searched the front yard for dog shit and, not noticing any, hopped the fence. Six strides, then he flattened himself against the side wall and pulled on latex gloves. The neighboring houses were a good thirty feet away, not because the yards were ample but because Bowrick’s house was so small it couldn’t fill even its modest plot. Tim edged over and peered through the window. The house, basically a single large room, recalled Tim’s apartment in its bare functionality. A desk, a flimsy bureau, twin bed, sheets thrown back. Tim made his way to the rear and peeked through the bathroom window to ensure that the house was empty. The back door housed a mean Schlage and two dead bolts, so Tim returned to the bathroom window, popped the screen, and wormed his way through, coming down with his hands on the fortunately closed toilet seat.
No toothbrush in the toothbrush holder. No toothpaste.
Tim slipped into the main room. Two folded shirts and a pair of socks waited on the bed, as if Bowrick had set them there to be packed, then decided against them.
Bowrick was clearly gone for an overnight, probably longer.
Tim pulled the chair out from the desk, placed it in the middle of the room, and stood on it. It took eight Polaroid shots to provide panoramic documentation of the interior. Tim set the hazy white photos on the bed to resolve, crossed to the desk, and began rifling through the drawers. Bills and a checkbook belonging to David Smith. Five twenties hidden under a paper tray in the top drawer said Bowrick wasn’t gone for good.
A tacky shrine had been set up on an overturned crate in the corner. Fake gold cross, a miniature oil painting of Jesus wearing the crown of thorns, a few burned-down candles. Its presence in Bowrick’s house served only to reinforce Tim’s distrust of men who turned their moral compass over to a God who tolerated Joe Mengele and Serb death squads. He cut short his condemnatory thoughts, recognizing he’d come to the case with prejudice. He refocused on taking in information before filtering it.
Tim searched the closets, drawers, mattress, cupboards beneath the sink. Two hard hats-one cracked-and Carhartt overalls were mounded on the closet floor. The carpet curled up from the wall seams, and he pulled it back farther to see if it hid a gun safe embedded in the floor. No weapons in the house. Largest blade was a steak knife on the brief run of counter tile that passed for a kitchen. Two doors, two windows-great kill zone.
He meticulously replaced everything to its original position. He smoothed his footprints out of the carpet, left the second desk drawer halfway open as it had been, adjusted the bottom right corner of the comforter so it drooped to touch the ground just so.
The Polaroids had dried on the bed, and he checked the room against them. He’d replaced the sole Bic pen too close to the edge of the desk. The top sheet needed to be folded over just under the pillows. A Car and Driver magazine on the bureau required a quarter rotation to the right. He retouched and reskewed until everything in the room perfectly matched the photographs again.
Then he slid out the bathroom window, replaced the screen, and eased back out onto the sidewalk. He contemplated calling the Stork, but the man’s distinctive looks made for dangerous stakeout material. He called Mitchell from the car, but Mitchell kept his cell phone turned off even when unnecessary, as was the habit of any smart EOD bomb tech. He reached Robert with his next call and had him hand the phone off to his brother, which he did angrily.
“I’ve just left Bowrick’s place.”
“Holy shit, you found him alrea-”
“Listen to me. He lives at 2116 Penmar, but I believe he headed out for a few nights. I’ve been on it for the past three days, and I need to sleep. I want you to head down here and keep an eye on the house-very low-profile. Just you. Alone. Do not get spotted. And don’t bring weapons. Do you understand me? No pistol, no nothing. Just sit on the house and alert me if he returns. I’ll be back at nine hundred tomorrow to take over for you. Can you do that?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll keep the Nextel on.”
Tim felt slightly euphoric, as he always did on the trail. To celebrate he debated allowing himself the indulgence of returning Dray’s call, the thought calling forth a crisp picture of his daughter’s room waiting still furnished across the hall. With the image came the bristling of imbedded thorns, a sudden crashing return from the salve of numbness. Now that he was off task, his thoughts became his enemies again; it was as if, finding nothing else on which to teethe, they turned cannibalistic. His mind nosed around his vulnerabilities, moving deliberately from Ginny to Dray to Robert to all other things that had recently spun from his grasp. When he emerged from his thoughts, he was a few blocks from his building. He anticipated stepping into the apartment’s empty embrace and how different it would feel from his house, which would smell of wood and lingering barbecue and ketchup-stained paper plates in the trash can. Thoughts of the myriad compelling security and safety concerns managed to put a pretty good damper on his yearning for a spontaneous visit.