The Crime Writer

I eased my car through the packed parking lot of Bonsky Forge and Metalworks, up one row of vehicles, down the next. In the market for a brown Volvo. My tires rattled across the plane of crumbling asphalt, faded back to dirt in patches. Pollution smudged the building's concrete blocks. The only windows were casements set high under the eaves, but from the edge of the lot, through a fence and a rolled-aside warehouse door, I could see the men inside. They labored over blade wheels and soldering torches, curved masks shielding them from sparks fanning up at their faces. The whine of machinery, even at this distance, made my dashboard rattle.

Kaden had been right about one thing: My guesswork did rest on too many assumptions. I needed to gather more facts.

Like, say, whether Frankel's brown Volvo had a dent in the right front wheel well.

I finished my second tour through the lot no Volvos of any color then drove the surrounding blocks to see if Frankel had parked off site. No better luck there. Maybe he'd left the state. Maybe he'd burned his car to eliminate evidence. Maybe he'd sold his Volvo four months ago to his poker buddy, the Zodiac Killer.

I could walk into the factory under a ruse and see whether I could spot Frankel. But there were two problems: the welding masks and the fact that if he was my guy, he'd recognize me as much as I would him. And if there was one thing I didn't want, it was Morton Frankel with the pointy sideburns knowing I was sniffing his trail.

I called information and had them put me through to the factory office.

"This is FedEx," I said. "I have a delivery for a Mortie Frankel that I need him to sign for. Is he in today?"

Gruff voice "Hang on. Lemme check the board." Rustling. Screeching machinery. "Yeah, he's here."

"I'm stuck in traffic in Burbank. How late will he be there today?"

"They knock off at three." He hung up before I could thank him for providing excellent service.

A genuine lunch whistle split the air. I drove back to the parking lot and watched the men spilling out into the weedy side yard to eat. They sat on cable spools and rusted machinery and had metal lunch pails with thermoses. I watched more emerge from the gloomy interior, lifting their face shields to reveal red, shiny faces. I was losing hope when a thick form stepped out into the midday glare. He was facing away, but the vibe off him was electric, and I wasn't surprised when he turned. He swiped a palm across that hard brow and flicked a spray of sweat to the dirt. Flapping the front of his blue overalls to move air through them, he exchanged a few words with another worker.

There was maybe fifty yards between us parking lot, fence, brief throw of yard but I felt as though we existed in separate bubbles, he with his tools, beat-up overalls, and sparks, I with my leather driver's seat, notepad, and tinted windows. Suddenly sweating in my air-conditioned Highlander, I stared at him. Had this man stood in the dark of my bedroom the night of January 21, watching me sleep? Had he drugged me, taken my blood, and plucked a hair to leave beneath the cold, dead fingernail of Kasey Broach? And if so, why?

There was something fascinating about Frankel looking at him was unsettling, but I couldn't take my eyes off him.

Please be a killer so I'm not.

It dawned on me that Kaden had been right about something else. Frankel was mine. He was my suspect, and he would be until he wasn't.

I watched those teeth tear into a sandwich, watched his jaw flex as he chewed. See you later.

Chapter 26

Chic staggered beneath the pop-up hit by his eldest son, Jeremiah, screaming, "I got it! I got it!" to call off his various children wielding mitts of all sizes.

He snared the ball in a basket catch, then let it flop free. His brood groaned and hurled gloves at him and piled on as he laughed at his self-parody, rolling on the grass of his extended front lawn and covering his head protectively. Grabbing ankles and wrists, I pulled the kids off him, calling them by all the wrong names.

Angela came out, her glare sending the children and almost me scrambling to wash up for lunch. She bore a tray of drinks for the workers who were lazily assembling a high-end play structure to the left of the baseball diamond. Complete with corkscrew slide, rope ladder, and mini rock-climbing wall, and topped with a fake tree house, the contraption made the play set at Hope House look like a heap of scrap metal.

Angela served the workers, then turned to her husband. "Baby, take Drew on down to the truck and get me some queso blanco."

"We having soul comida?" I asked.

She nodded. "And, baby, pick up a gift for Asia's lil' friend from camp. They brought her the Polly Pockets when they dropped by, 'member?"