murdered a state representative, he’s not naïve. What evidence do you have on him?”
“Nothing,” Barnes answered.
Decker smiled. “Well, that’s not good. We need some excuse beyond unpaid parking tickets to bring him in for questioning.”
“Bledsoe’s head of the White Tower Radicals,” Amanda said. “Two days before Davida Grayson’s murder, two White boys egged her on the steps of the state capitol. We think Bledsoe gave that order and maybe more.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” said Decker. “Those two are locked up, right? Have they implicated Bledsoe?”
“No, but Bledsoe doesn’t need to know that,” Barnes said. “Maybe if we scare him enough, we can pry something out of him.”
Marge Dunn came back in with the coffees. “No truck in the driveway.”
Decker said, “Anything else besides Bledsoe on your agenda?”
“One other interview,” Barnes said. “Some bigot named Harry Modell, heads a group called Families Under God. We found three very nasty letters that he wrote to Grayson.”
Amanda said, “If you want us to wait for Bledsoe first before we interview Modell, we can do that. We’ll work around you.”
Decker said, “Someone from West Valley should make the arrest, and if I’m going to give up a detective, you might as well interview Modell and make good use of your time.” He turned to Marge. “How’s your schedule looking?”
“Holiday light,” Marge answered. “I can wait around until he shows. Just need my thermos and my iPod.”
Harry Modell’s address was a trailer park nestled in the oaks of the foothills among miles of unspoiled landscape. Not a hint of a dug-in structure could be seen anywhere. “Happy Wandering Mobile Community” consisted of fifty slots, all occupied, with generators going full blast.
Modell’s slice of LA real estate was Space 34. His TravelRancher was sided in yellow vinyl with white trim. Perched on a flat roof, a dish aimed south. As Barnes and Amanda climbed a makeshift plywood ramp to the front door, they saw TV images blinking through a stingy front window. Barnes knocked on the door, waited an appropriate amount of time, got no answer and knocked again.
A voice from inside told him to go away.
“Police,” Barnes yelled. “We need to speak with you, Mr. Modell.”
The voice, louder, creaky, told him to fuck himself.
Barnes blew out air and looked at his partner. “We can’t force our way inside.”
“The guy sounds old,” Amanda said. “We’re worried for his safety.”
“That’s not going to—” Abruptly the door swung open. The man in the wheelchair was ancient with a cue-ball head, sunken, jaundiced eyes and ill-fitting dentures that clacked as he rotated his mandible. Small-jawed face once round, now sagging in the middle like a bell pepper. Grainy complexion, more wrinkles than smooth flesh. Stick legs, but his arms were surprisingly muscled. Probably from wheeling around.
“Mr. Modell?”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“To talk to you.”
“What the fuck about?”
“May we come inside?” Amanda asked.
Modell eyed Amanda. “You can, he can’t.”
“We’re a team, sir.”
“Then go play a fucking game.” But Modell didn’t wheel back into the trailer and Amanda saw something in his eyes other than hostility.
A faint longing.
She smiled.
Modell said, “Ahh, why the fuck not, I’m bored.” He propelled the chair to the side so they could enter.
They walked into a hothouse. The temperature must have been hovering in the nineties. Three humidifiers filled the cramped, dim space with mist. The upside of the oppressive micro-climate was tables of flora—bromeliads, African violets, wild beautiful blooms Amanda didn’t recognize.
She began to sweat and glanced at Will. He took off his jacket. His shirt was sodden.
Modell ignored them and wheeled to the only surface devoid of plant life—a rickety card table that hosted bottles of pills, an
“Nothing,” Barnes answered.
Decker smiled. “Well, that’s not good. We need some excuse beyond unpaid parking tickets to bring him in for questioning.”
“Bledsoe’s head of the White Tower Radicals,” Amanda said. “Two days before Davida Grayson’s murder, two White boys egged her on the steps of the state capitol. We think Bledsoe gave that order and maybe more.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” said Decker. “Those two are locked up, right? Have they implicated Bledsoe?”
“No, but Bledsoe doesn’t need to know that,” Barnes said. “Maybe if we scare him enough, we can pry something out of him.”
Marge Dunn came back in with the coffees. “No truck in the driveway.”
Decker said, “Anything else besides Bledsoe on your agenda?”
“One other interview,” Barnes said. “Some bigot named Harry Modell, heads a group called Families Under God. We found three very nasty letters that he wrote to Grayson.”
Amanda said, “If you want us to wait for Bledsoe first before we interview Modell, we can do that. We’ll work around you.”
Decker said, “Someone from West Valley should make the arrest, and if I’m going to give up a detective, you might as well interview Modell and make good use of your time.” He turned to Marge. “How’s your schedule looking?”
“Holiday light,” Marge answered. “I can wait around until he shows. Just need my thermos and my iPod.”
Harry Modell’s address was a trailer park nestled in the oaks of the foothills among miles of unspoiled landscape. Not a hint of a dug-in structure could be seen anywhere. “Happy Wandering Mobile Community” consisted of fifty slots, all occupied, with generators going full blast.
Modell’s slice of LA real estate was Space 34. His TravelRancher was sided in yellow vinyl with white trim. Perched on a flat roof, a dish aimed south. As Barnes and Amanda climbed a makeshift plywood ramp to the front door, they saw TV images blinking through a stingy front window. Barnes knocked on the door, waited an appropriate amount of time, got no answer and knocked again.
A voice from inside told him to go away.
“Police,” Barnes yelled. “We need to speak with you, Mr. Modell.”
The voice, louder, creaky, told him to fuck himself.
Barnes blew out air and looked at his partner. “We can’t force our way inside.”
“The guy sounds old,” Amanda said. “We’re worried for his safety.”
“That’s not going to—” Abruptly the door swung open. The man in the wheelchair was ancient with a cue-ball head, sunken, jaundiced eyes and ill-fitting dentures that clacked as he rotated his mandible. Small-jawed face once round, now sagging in the middle like a bell pepper. Grainy complexion, more wrinkles than smooth flesh. Stick legs, but his arms were surprisingly muscled. Probably from wheeling around.
“Mr. Modell?”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“To talk to you.”
“What the fuck about?”
“May we come inside?” Amanda asked.
Modell eyed Amanda. “You can, he can’t.”
“We’re a team, sir.”
“Then go play a fucking game.” But Modell didn’t wheel back into the trailer and Amanda saw something in his eyes other than hostility.
A faint longing.
She smiled.
Modell said, “Ahh, why the fuck not, I’m bored.” He propelled the chair to the side so they could enter.
They walked into a hothouse. The temperature must have been hovering in the nineties. Three humidifiers filled the cramped, dim space with mist. The upside of the oppressive micro-climate was tables of flora—bromeliads, African violets, wild beautiful blooms Amanda didn’t recognize.
She began to sweat and glanced at Will. He took off his jacket. His shirt was sodden.
Modell ignored them and wheeled to the only surface devoid of plant life—a rickety card table that hosted bottles of pills, an
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