Shame by Alan Russell Page A

lots of times she was too busy bringing food to tables to be able to talk with him. And he could tell Wally wasn’t any too pleased to have him visiting there. It was almost as if Wally knew he was the one who’d put the Condemned by the Health Department sign on the front window. Even before all this business with his daddy, Wally had watched him close. He wasn’t anybody you wanted to rile. Wally had big eyebrows that looked like fat, white caterpillars, and a chest as big as a gorilla’s, and he was always holding acleaver or a spatula and looking like he’d turn and use it on you without much cause.
    Wally looked like a killer, Gray thought. Acted like one, too. Maybe there’d been some mistake. His father sure didn’t look like a killer. He was a handsome man. On that, everyone agreed. And he was smart, always was studying something or other.
    The train slowed down as it approached downtown San Diego’s Santa Fe depot. As Caleb nervously gathered his bag, he wondered which biography scared him more—his own or his father’s.

12

    T HE BODY HAD been found on holy ground, just outside the Presidio in Old Town. The killer had found his shrine. The mission’s founder, Junípero Serra, was even being considered for sainthood by the Roman Catholic Church.
    The victim still hadn’t been identified. She was a young woman, believed to be no more than twenty, marked and posed like the others.
    As if all that weren’t bad enough for the Sheriff’s Office, Caleb Parker still hadn’t shown up at his home.
    Promises to keep, thought Elizabeth, taking her leave of homicide headquarters.
    “We got a situation here,” said Detective Holt, calling from his car phone.
    Lieutenant Borman wiped the sweat off his face. It had been his decision to let Parker walk. It was the right call. In a homicide investigation, you had only one opportunity to do things right. If he had prematurely arrested Parker, it would have jeopardized the whole case. No one had thought he was a risk to run. But now two hours had passed since Parker’s departure. It should have taken him only half an hour to get home, which meant he was ninety minutes tardy. Parker still could be shopping, or at a bar, or talking with a friend, but Borman had a bad feeling that he’dskipped. A “Pick Up Or Check” directive had been sent out to all law enforcement, with a description of Gray Caleb Parker and his truck. The Sheriff’s Office, SDPD, the feds, the Border Patrol, and the FBI all had that directive. That still hadn’t produced Parker.
    “What now?” Borman asked Holt.
    “That writer just pulled up in her car. She’s making for the front door right now. You want us to intercept her?”
    “Shit,” Borman said. Another decision. Something else for him to be second-guessed on. But his ass was covered on this one. The sheriff himself had given permission for that Line woman not only to circulate freely among them but to be allowed access to their investigation. The boss probably wanted a chapter devoted to him in her next book, a really complimentary one.
    “Don’t try and stop her,” Borman said.
    Anna recognized the woman from the night before. She wished the house looked a little better, but with both her and Cal working, and two active children, it was a moral victory that it was as presentable as it was. For a moment, Anna wondered if Cal was having an affair with this woman. She was older than Anna but still very attractive. Maybe that explained Caleb’s behavior and this woman’s showing up at their house two nights in a row. She had announced herself at the door by saying she had a message from Caleb. Though not dressed for company, Anna had still invited her inside.
    Self-consciously, Anna ran her hand along the collar of her bathrobe. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “There’s some coffee I brewed earlier.”
    “No, thank you,” Elizabeth said.
    They went to the living room, Anna using her hand to tidy her hair